Hickory Dickory Dock

by Agatha Christie

  The sandwich bar was almost empty. The two men carried their plates and cups to a small table in a corner.

  Here Sharpe recounted the results of his questioning of the students.

  “The only person we’ve got any evidence against is young Chapman,” he said. “And there we’ve got too much. Three lots of poison through his hands! But there’s no reason to believe he’d any animus against Celia Austin, and I doubt if he’d have been as frank about his activities if he was really guilty.”

  “It opens out other possibilities, though.”

  “Yes—all that stuff knocking about in a drawer. Silly young ass!”

  He went on to Elizabeth Johnston and her account of what Celia had said to her.

  “If what she said is true, it’s significant.”

  “Very significant,” Poirot agreed.

  The inspector quoted:

  “ ‘I shall know more about it tomorrow.’ ”

  “And so—tomorrow never came for that poor girl. Your search of the house—did it accomplish anything?”

  “There were one or two things that were—what shall I say?—unexpected, perhaps.”

  “Such as?”

  “Elizabeth Johnston is a member of the Communist Party. We found her Party card.”

  “Yes,” said Poirot, thoughtfully. “That is interesting.”

  “You wouldn’t have expected it,” said Inspector Sharpe. “I didn’t until I questioned her yesterday. She’s got a lot of personality, that girl.”

  “I should think she was a valuable recruit to the Party,” said Hercule Poirot. “She is a young woman of quite unusual intelligence, I should say.”

  “It was interesting to me,” said Inspector Sharpe, “because she has never paraded those sympathies, apparently. She’s kept very quiet about it at Hickory Road. I don’t see that it has any significance in connection with the case of Celia Austin, I mean—but it’s a thing to bear in mind.”

  “What else did you find?”

  Inspector Sharpe shrugged his shoulders.

  “Miss Patricia Lane, in her drawer, had a handkerchief rather extensively stained with green ink.”

  Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

  “Green ink? Patricia Lane! So it may have been she who took the ink and spilled it over Elizabeth Johnston’s papers and then wiped her hands afterwards. But surely. . . .”

  “Surely she wouldn’t want her dear Nigel to be suspected,” Sharpe finished for him.

  “One would not have thought so. Of course, someone else might have put the handkerchief in her drawer.”

  “Likely enough.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well,” Sharpe reflected for a moment. “It seems Leonard Bateson’s father is in Longwith Vale Mental Hospital, a certified patient. I don’t suppose it’s of any particular interest, but. . . .”

  “But Len Bateson’s father is insane. Probably without significance, as you say, but it is a fact to be stored away in the memory. It would even be interesting to know what particular form his mania takes.”

  “Bateson’s a nice young fellow,” said Sharpe, “but of course his temper is a bit, well, uncontrolled.”

  Poirot nodded. Suddenly, vividly, he remembered Celia Austin saying, “Of course, I wouldn’t cut up a rucksack. Anyway that was only temper.” How did she know it was temper? Had she seen Len Bateson hacking at that rucksack? He came back to the present to hear Sharpe say, with a grin:

  “. . . and Mr. Achmed Ali has some extremely pornographic literature and postcards which explains why he went up in the air over the search.”

  “There were many protests, no doubt?”

  “I should say there were. A French girl practically had hysterics and an Indian, Mr. Chandra Lal, threatened to make an international incident of it. There were a few subversive pamphlets amongst his belongings—the usual half-baked stuff—and one of the West Africans had some rather fearsome souvenirs and fetishes. Yes, a search warrant certainly shows you the peculiar side of human nature. You heard about Mrs. Nicoletis and her private cupboard?”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  Inspector Sharpe grinned.

  “Never seen so many empty brandy bottles in my life! And was she mad at us!”

  He laughed, and then, abruptly, became serious.

  “But we didn’t find what we went after,” he said. “No passports except strictly legitimate ones.”

  “You can hardly expect such a thing as a false passport to be left about for you to find, mon ami. You never had occasion, did you, to make an official visit to 26 Hickory Road in connection with a passport? Say, in the last six months?”

  “No. I’ll tell you the only occasions on which we did call round—within the times you mention.”

  He detailed them carefully.

  Poirot listened with a frown.

  “All that, it does not make sense,” he said.

  He shook his head.

  “Things will only make sense if we begin at the beginning.”

  “What do you call the beginning, Poirot?”

  “The rucksack, my friend,” said Poirot softly. “The rucksack. All this began with a rucksack.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I

  Mrs. Nicoletis came up the stairs from the basement, where she had just succeeded in thoroughly infuriating both Geronimo and the temperamental Maria.

  “Liars and thieves,” said Mrs. Nicoletis, in a loud triumphant voice. “All Italians are liars and thieves!”

  Mrs. Hubbard, who was just descending the stairs, gave a short vexed sigh.

  “It’s a pity,” she said, “to upset them just while they’re cooking the supper.”

  Mrs. Hubbard suppressed the retort that rose to her lips.

  “I shall come in as usual on Monday,” said Mrs. Nicoletis.

  “Yes, Mrs. Nicoletis.”

  “And please get someone to repair my cupboard door first thing Monday morning. The bill for repairing it will go to the police, do you understand? To the police.”

  Mrs. Hubbard looked dubious.

  “And I want fresh electric lightbulbs put in the dark passages—stronger ones. The passages are too dark.”

  “You said especially that you wanted low power bulbs in the passages—for economy.”

  “That was last week,” snapped Mrs. Nicoletis. “Now—it is different. Now I look over my shoulder—and I wonder ‘Who is following me?’ ”

  Was her employer dramatising herself, Mrs. Hubbard wondered, or was she really afraid of something or someone? Mrs. Nicoletis had such a habit of exaggerating everything that it was always hard to know how much reliance to place on her statements.

  Mrs. Hubbard said doubtfully:

  “Are you sure you ought to go home by yourself? Would you like me to come with you?”

  “I shall be safer there than here, I can tell you!”

  “But what is it you are afraid of? If I knew, perhaps I could—”

  “It is not your business. I tell you nothing. I find it insupportable the way you continually ask me questions.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure—”

  “Now you are offended.” Mrs. Nicoletis gave her a beaming smile. “I am bad tempered and rude—yes. But I have much to worry me. And remember I trust you and rely on you. What I should do without you, dear Mrs. Hubbard, I really do not know. See, I kiss my hand to you. Have a pleasant weekend. Good night.”

  Mrs. Hubbard watched her as she went out through the front door and pulled it to behind her. Relieving her feelings with a rather inadequate “Well, really!” Mrs. Hubbard turned towards the kitchen stairs.

  Mrs. Nicoletis went down the front steps, out through the gate and turned to the left. Hickory Road was a fairly broad road. The houses in it were set back a little in their gardens. At the end of the road, a few minutes’ walk from number 26, was one of London’s main thoroughfares, down which buses were roaring. There were traffic lights at the end of the road and a public house, The Queen’s Nec
klace, at the corner. Mrs. Nicoletis walked in the middle of the pavement and from time to time sent a nervous glance over her shoulder, but there was no one in sight. Hickory Road appeared to be unusually deserted this evening. She quickened her steps a little as she drew near The Queen’s Necklace. Taking another hasty glance round she slipped rather guiltily through into the saloon bar.

  Sipping the double brandy that she had asked for, her spirits revived. She no longer looked the frightened and uneasy woman that she had a short time previously. Her animosity against the police, however, was not lessened. She murmured under her breath, “Gestapo! I shall make them pay. Yes, they shall pay!” and finished off her drink. She ordered another and brooded over recent happenings. Unfortunate, extremely unfortunate, that the police should have been so tactless as to discover her secret hoard, and too much to hope that word would not get around amongst the students and the rest of them. Mrs. Hubbard would be discreet, perhaps, or again perhaps not, because really, could one trust anyone? These things always did get round. Geronimo knew. He had probably already told his wife, and she would tell the cleaning women and so it would go on until—she started violently as a voice behind her said:

  “Why, Mrs. Nick, I didn’t know this was a haunt of yours?”

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought. . . .”

  “Who did you think it was? The big bad wolf? What are you drinking? Have another on me.”

  “It is all the worry,” Mrs. Nicoletis explained with dignity. “These policemen searching my house, upsetting everyone. My poor heart. I have to be careful with my heart. I do not care for drink, but really I felt quite faint outside. I thought a little brandy. . . .”

  “Nothing like brandy. Here you are.”

  Mrs. Nicoletis left The Queen’s Necklace a short while later feeling revived and positively happy. She would not take a bus, she decided. It was such a fine night and the air would be good for her. Yes, definitely, the air would be good for her. She felt not exactly unsteady on her feet but just a little bit uncertain. One brandy less, perhaps, would have been wise, but the air would soon clear her head. After all, why shouldn’t a lady have a quiet drink in her own room from time to time? What was there wrong with it? It was not as though she had ever allowed herself to be seen intoxicated. Intoxicated? Of course, she was never intoxicated. And anyway, if they didn’t like it; if they ticked her off, she’d soon tell them where they got off! She knew a thing or two, didn’t she? If she liked to shoot off her mouth! Mrs. Nicoletis tossed her head in a bellicose manner and swerved abruptly to avoid a pillar-box which had advanced upon her in a menacing manner. No doubt, her head was swimming a little. Perhaps if she just leant against the wall here for a little? If she closed her eyes for a moment or two. . . .

  II

  Police Constable Bott, swinging magnificently down on his beat, was accosted by a timid-looking clerk.

  “There’s a woman here, Officer. I really—she seems to have been taken ill or something. She’s lying in a heap.”

  Police Constable Bott bent his energetic steps that way, and stooped over the recumbent form. A strong aroma of brandy confirmed his suspicions.

  “Passed out,” he said. “Drunk. Ah well, don’t worry, sir, we’ll see to it.”

  III

  Hercule Poirot, having finished his Sunday breakfast, wiped his moustaches carefully free from all traces of his breakfast cup of chocolate and passed into his sitting room.

  Neatly arranged on the table were four rucksacks, each with its bill attached—the result of instructions given to George. Poirot took the rucksack he had purchased the day before from its wrapping, and added it to the others. The result was interesting. The rucksack he had bought from Mr. Hicks did not seem inferior in any way that he could see, to the articles purchased by George from various other establishments. But it was very decidedly cheaper.

  “Interesting,” said Hercule Poirot.

  He stared at the rucksacks.

  Then he examined them in detail. Inside and outside, turning them upside down, feeling the seams, the pockets, the handles. Then he rose, went into the bathroom and came back with a small sharp corn knife. Turning the rucksack he had bought at Mr. Hicks’s store inside out, he attacked the bottom of it with the knife. Between the inner lining and the bottom there was a heavy piece of corrugated stiffening, rather resembling in appearance corrugated paper. Poirot looked at the dismembered rucksack with a great deal of interest.

  Then he proceeded to attack the other rucksacks.

  He sat back finally and surveyed the amount of destruction he had just accomplished.

  Then he drew the telephone towards him and after a short delay managed to get through to Inspector Sharpe.

  “Ecoutez, mon cher,” he said. “I want to know just two things.”

  Something in the nature of a guffaw came from Inspector Sharpe.

  “I know two things about the horse,

  And one of them is rather coarse,” he observed.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Hercule Poirot, surprised.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Just a rhyme I used to know. What are the two things you want to know?”

  “You mentioned yesterday certain police inquiries at Hickory Road made during the last three months. Can you tell me the dates of them and also the time of day they were made?”

  “Yes—well—that should be easy. It’ll be in the files. Just wait and I’ll look it up.”

  It was not long before the inspector returned to the phone. “First inquiry as to Indian student disseminating subversive propaganda, 18th December last—3:30 p.m.”

  “That is too long ago.”

  “Inquiry re Montague Jones, Eurasian, wanted in connection with murder of Mrs. Alice Combe of Cambridge—February 24th—5:30 p.m. Inquiry re William Robinson—native West Africa, wanted by Sheffield police—March 6th, 11 a.m.”

  “Ah! I thank you.”

  “But if you think that either of those cases could have any connection with—”

  Poirot interrupted him.

  “No, they have no connection. I am interested only in the time of day they were made.”

  “What are you up to, Poirot?”

  “I dissect rucksacks, my friend. It is very interesting.”

  Gently he replaced the receiver.

  He took from his pocketbook the amended list that Mrs. Hubbard had handed him the day before. It ran as follows:

  Rucksack (Len Bateson’s)

  Electric light bulbs

  Bracelet (Genevieve’s)

  Diamond ring (Patricia’s)

  Powder compact (Genevieve’s)

  Evening shoe (Sally’s)

  Lipstick (Elizabeth Johnston’s)

  Earrings (Valerie’s)

  Stethoscope (Len Bateson’s)

  Bath salts (?)

  Scarf cut in pieces (Valerie’s)

  Trousers (Colin’s)

  Cookery book (?)

  Boracic (Chandra Lal’s)

  Costume brooch (Sally’s)

  Ink spilled on Elizabeth’s notes.

  (This is the best I can do. It’s not absolutely accurate. L Hubbard.)

  Poirot looked at it a long time.

  He sighed and murmured to himself, “Yes . . . decidedly . . . we have to eliminate the things that do not matter. . . .”

  He had an idea as to who could help him to do that. It was Sunday. Most of the students would probably be at home.

  He dialled the number of 26 Hickory Road and asked to speak to Miss Valerie Hobhouse. A thick rather guttural voice seemed rather doubtful as to whether she was up yet, but said it would go and see.

  Presently he heard a low husky voice:

  “Valerie Hobhouse speaking.”

  “It is Hercule Poirot. You remember me?”

  “Of course, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?”

  “I would like, if I may, to have a short conversation with you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I may come round, then, t
o Hickory Road?”

  “Yes. I’ll be expecting you. I’ll tell Geronimo to bring you up to my room. There’s not much privacy here on a Sunday.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hobhouse. I am most grateful.”

  Geronimo opened the door to Poirot with a flourish, then bending forward he spoke with his usual conspiratorial air.

  “I take you up to Miss Valerie very quietly. Hush sh sh.”

  Placing a finger on his lips, he led the way upstairs and into a good sized room overlooking Hickory Road. It was furnished with taste and a reasonable amount of luxury as a bed-sitting room. The divan bed was covered with a worn but beautiful Persian rug, and there was an attractive Queen Anne walnut bureau which Poirot judged hardly likely to be one of the original furnishings of 26 Hickory Road.

  Valerie Hobhouse was standing ready to greet him. She looked tired, he thought, and there were dark circles round her eyes.

  “Mais vous êtes très bien ici,” said Poirot, as he greeted her. “It is chic. It has an air.”

  Valerie smiled.

  “I’ve been here a good time,” she said. “Two and a half years. Nearly three. I’ve dug myself in more or less and I’ve got some of my own things.”

  “You are not a student, are you, mademoiselle?”

  “Oh no. Purely commercial. I’ve got a job.”

  “In a—cosmetic firm, was it?”

  “Yes. I’m one of the buyers for Sabrina Fair—it’s a beauty salon. Actually I have a small share in the business. We run a certain amount of sidelines besides beauty treatment. Accessories, that type of thing. Small Parisian novelties. And that’s my department.”

  “You go over then fairly often to Paris and to the Continent?”

  “Oh yes, about once a month, sometimes oftener.”

  “You must forgive me,” said Poirot, “if I seem to be displaying curiosity. . . .”

  “Why not?” She cut him short. “In the circumstances in which we find ourselves we must all put up with curiosity. I’ve answered a good many questions yesterday from Inspector Sharpe. You look as though you would like an upright chair, M. Poirot, rather than a low armchair.”

  “You display the perspicacity, mademoiselle.” Poirot sat down carefully and squarely in a high-backed chair with arms to it.