Hickory Dickory Dock

by Agatha Christie

  “I’ll say you’re right there! You can pack ten or twenty thousand pounds’ worth of heroin in a very small space and the same goes for uncut stones of high quality.”

  “You see,” said Poirot, “the weakness of the smuggler is always the human element. Sooner or later you suspect a person, an airline steward, a yachting enthusiast with a small cabin cruiser, the woman who travels to and fro to France too often, the importer who seems to be making more money than is reasonable, the man who lives well without visible means of support. But if the stuff is brought into this country by an innocent person, and what is more, by a different person each time, then the difficulties of spotting the cargoes are enormously increased.”

  Wilding pushed a finger towards the rucksack. “And that’s your suggestion?”

  “Yes. Who is the person who is least vulnerable to suspicion these days? The student. The earnest, hard-working student. Badly off, travelling about with no more luggage than what he can carry on his back. Hitchhiking his way across Europe. If one particular student were to bring the stuff in all the time, no doubt you’d get wise to him or her, but the whole essence of the arrangement is that the carriers are innocent and that there are a lot of them.”

  Wilding rubbed his jaw.

  “Just how exactly do you think it’s managed, M. Poirot?” he asked.

  Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “As to that it is my guess only. No doubt I am wrong in many details, but I should say that it worked roughly like this: First, a line of rucksacks is placed on the market. They are of the ordinary, conventional type, just like any other rucksack, well and strongly made and suitable for their purpose. When I say ‘just like any other rucksack’ that is not so. The lining at the base is slightly different. As you see, it is quite easily removable and is of a thickness and composition to allow for rouleaux of gems or powder concealed in the corrugations. You would never suspect it unless you were looking for it. Pure heroin or pure cocaine would take up very little room.”

  “Too true,” said Wilding. “Why,” he measured with rapid fingers, “you could bring in stuff worth five or six thousand pounds each time without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Exactly,” said Hercule Poirot. “Alors! The rucksacks are made, put on the market, are on sale—probably in more than one shop. The proprietor of the shop may be in the racket or he may not. It may be that he has just been sold a cheap line which he finds profitable, since his prices will compare favourably with that charged by other camping outfit sellers. There is, of course, a definite organisation in the background; a carefully kept list of students at the medical schools, at London University and at other places. Someone who is himself a student, or posing as a student, is probably at the head of the racket. Students go abroad. At some point in the return journey a duplicate rucksack is exchanged. The student returns to England; customs investigations will be perfunctory. The student arrives back at his or her hostel, unpacks, and the empty rucksack is tossed into a cupboard or into a corner of the room. At this point there will be again an exchange of rucksacks or possibly the false bottom will be neatly extracted and an innocent one replace it.”

  “And you think that’s what happened at Hickory Road?”

  Poirot nodded.

  “That is my suspicion. Yes.”

  “But what put you on to it, M. Poirot—assuming you’re right, that is?”

  “A rucksack was cut to pieces,” said Poirot. “Why? Since the reason is not plain, one has to imagine a reason. There is something queer about the rucksacks that come to Hickory Road. They are too cheap. There have been a series of peculiar happenings at Hickory Road, but the girl responsible for them swore that the destruction of the rucksack was not her doing. Since she has confessed to the other things why should she deny that, unless she was speaking the truth? So there must be another reason for the destruction of the rucksack—and to destroy a rucksack, I may say, is not an easy thing. It was hard work and someone must have been pretty desperate to undertake it. I got my clue when I found that roughly—(only roughly, alas, because people’s memories after a period of some months are not too certain) but roughly—that that rucksack was destroyed at about the date when a police officer called to see the person in charge of the hostel. The actual reason that the police officer called had to do with quite another matter, but I will put it to you like this: You are someone concerned in this smuggling racket. You go home to the house that evening and you are informed that the police have called and are at the moment upstairs with Mrs. Hubbard. Immediately you assume that the police are on to the smuggling racket, that they have come to make an investigation; and let us say that at that moment there is in the house a rucksack just brought back from abroad containing—or which has recently contained—contraband. Now, if the police have a line on what has been going on, they will have come to Hickory Road for the express purpose of examining the rucksacks of the students. You dare not walk out of the house with the rucksack in question because, for all you know, somebody may have been left outside by the police to watch the house with just that object in view, and a rucksack is not an easy thing to conceal or disguise. The only thing you can think of is to rip up the rucksack, and cram the pieces away among the junk in the boiler house. If there is dope or gems on the premises, they can be concealed in bath salts as a temporary measure. But even an empty rucksack, if it had held dope, might yield traces of heroin or cocaine on close examination or analysis. So the rucksack must be destroyed. You agree that that is possible?”

  “It is an idea, as I said before,” said Superintendent Wilding.

  “It also seems possible that a small incident not hitherto regarded as important may be connected with the rucksack. According to the Italian servant, Geronimo, on the day, or one of the days, when the police called, the light in the hall had gone. He went to look for a bulb to replace it; found the spare bulbs, too, were missing. He was quite sure that a day or two previously there had been spare bulbs in the drawer. It seems to me a possibility—this is far-fetched and I would not say that I am sure of it, you understand, it is a mere possibility—that there was someone with a guilty conscience who had been mixed up with a smuggling racket before and who feared that his face might be known to the police if they saw him in a bright light. So he quietly removed the bulb from the hall light and took away the new ones so that it should not be replaced. As a result the hall was illuminated by a candle only. This, as I say, is merely a supposition.”

  “It’s an ingenious idea,” said Wilding.

  “It’s possible, sir,” said Sergeant Bell eagerly. “The more I think of it the more possible I think it is.”

  “But if so,” went on Wilding, “there’s more to it than just Hickory Road?”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Oh yes. The organisation must cover a wide range of students’ clubs and so on.”

  “You have to find a connecting link between them,” said Wilding.

  Inspector Sharpe spoke for the first time.

  “There is such a link, sir,” he said, “or there was. A woman who ran several student clubs and organisations. A woman who was right on the spot at Hickory Road. Mrs. Nicoletis.”

  Wilding flicked a quick glance at Poirot.

  “Yes,” said Poirot. “Mrs. Nicoletis fits the bill. She had a financial interest in all these places though she didn’t run them herself. Her method was to get someone of unimpeachable integrity and antecedents to run the place. My friend Mrs. Hubbard is such a person. The financial backing was supplied by Mrs. Nicoletis—but there again I suspect her of being only a figurehead.”

  “H’m,” said Wilding. “I think it would be interesting to know a little more about Mrs. Nicoletis.”

  Sharpe nodded.

  “We’re investigating her,” he said. “Her background and where she came from. It has to be done carefully. We don’t want to alarm our birds too soon. We’re looking into her financial background, too. My word, that woman was a tartar if ever the
re was one.”

  He described his experiences of Mrs. Nicoletis when confronted with a search warrant.

  “Brandy bottles, eh?” said Wilding. “So she drank? Well, that ought to make it easier. What’s happened to her? Hooked it—”

  “No sir. She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Wilding raised his eyebrows. “Monkey business, do you mean?”

  “We think so—yes. We’ll know for certain after the autopsy. I think myself she’d begun to crack. Maybe she didn’t bargain for murder.”

  “You’re talking about the Celia Austin case. Did the girl know something?”

  “She knew something,” said Poirot, “but if I may so put it, I do not think she knew what it was she knew!”

  “You mean she knew something but didn’t appreciate the implications of it?”

  “Yes. Just that. She was not a clever girl. She would be quite likely to fail to grasp an inference. But having seen something, or heard something, she may have mentioned the fact quite unsuspiciously.”

  “You’ve no idea what she saw or heard, M. Poirot?”

  “I make guesses,” said Poirot. “I cannot do more. There has been mention of a passport. Did someone in the house have a false passport allowing them to go to and fro to the Continent under another name? Would the revelation of that fact be a serious danger to that person? Did she see the rucksack being tampered with or did she, perhaps, one day see someone removing the false bottom from the rucksack without realising what it was that that person was doing? Did she perhaps see the person who removed the light bulbs? And mention the fact to him or her, not realising that it was of any importance? Ah, mon dieu!” said Hercule Poirot with irritation. “Guesses! guesses! guesses! One must know more. Always one must know more!”

  “Well,” said Sharpe, “we can make a start on Mrs. Nicoletis’s antecedents. Something may come up.”

  “She was put out of the way because they thought she might talk? Would she have talked?”

  “She’d been drinking secretly for some time . . . and that means her nerves were shot to pieces,” said Sharpe. “She might have broken down and spilled the whole thing. Turned Queen’s Evidence.”

  “She didn’t really run the racket, I suppose?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “I should not think so, no. She was out in the open, you see. She knew what was going on, of course, but I should not say she was the brains behind it. No.”

  “Any idea who is the brains behind it?”

  “I could make a guess—I might be wrong. Yes—I might be wrong!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I

  “Hickory, dickory, dock,” said Nigel, “the mouse ran up the clock. The police said ‘Boo,’ I wonder who, will eventually stand in the Dock?”

  He added:

  “To tell or not to tell? That is the question!”

  He poured himself out a fresh cup of coffee and brought it back to the breakfast table.

  “Tell what?” asked Len Bateson.

  “Anything one knows,” said Nigel, with an airy wave of the hand.

  Jean Tomlinson said disapprovingly:

  “But of course! If we have any information that may be of use, of course we must tell the police. That would be only right.”

  “And there speaks our bonnie Jean,” said Nigel.

  “Moi je n’aime pas les flics,” said René, offering his contribution to the discussion.

  “Tell what?” Leonard Bateson said again.

  “The things we know,” said Nigel. “About each other, I mean,” he said helpfully. His glance swept round the breakfast table with a malicious gleam.

  “After all,” he said cheerfully, “we all do know lots of things about each other, don’t we? I mean, one’s bound to, living in the same house.”

  “But who is to decide what is important or not? There are many things no business of the police at all,” said Mr. Achmed Ali. He spoke hotly, with an injured remembrance of the inspector’s sharp remarks about his collection of postcards.

  “I hear,” said Nigel, turning towards Mr. Akibombo, “that they found some very interesting things in your room.”

  Owing to his colour, Mr. Akibombo was not able to blush, but his eyelids blinked in a discomfited manner.

  “Very much superstition in my country,” he said. “My grandfather give me things to bring here. I keep out of feeling of piety and respect. I, myself, am modern and scientific; not believe in voodoo, but owing to imperfect command of language I find very difficult to explain to policeman.”

  “Even dear little Jean has her secrets, I expect,” said Nigel, turning his gaze back to Miss Tomlinson.

  Jean said hotly that she wasn’t going to be insulted.

  “I shall leave this place and go to the YWCA,” she said.

  “Come now, Jean,” said Nigel. “Give us another chance.”

  “Oh, cut it out, Nigel!” said Valerie wearily. “The police have to snoop, I suppose, under the circumstances.”

  Colin McNabb cleared his throat, preparatory to making a remark.

  “In my opinion,” he said judicially, “the present position ought to be made clear to us. What exactly was the cause of Mrs. Nick’s death?”

  “We’ll hear at the inquest, I suppose,” said Valerie, impatiently.

  “I very much doubt it,” said Colin. “In my opinion they’ll adjourn the inquest.”

  “I suppose it was her heart, wasn’t it?” said Patricia. “She fell down in the street.”

  “Drunk and incapable,” said Len Bateson. “That’s how she got taken to the police station.”

  “So she did drink,” said Jean. “You know, I always thought so. When the police searched the house they found cupboards full of empty brandy bottles in her room, I believe,” she added.

  “Trust our Jean to know all the dirt,” said Nigel approvingly.

  “Well, that does explain why she was sometimes so odd in her manner,” said Patricia.

  Colin cleared his throat again.

  “Ahem!” he said. “I happened to observe her going into The Queen’s Necklace on Saturday evening, when I was on my way home.”

  “That’s where she got tanked up, I suppose,” said Nigel.

  “I suppose she just died of drink, then?” said Jean.

  Len Bateson shook his head.

  “Cerebral haemorrhage? I rather doubt it.”

  “For goodness’ sake, you don’t think she was murdered too, do you?” said Jean.

  “I bet she was,” said Sally Finch. “Nothing would surprise me less.”

  “Please,” said Mr. Akibombo. “It is thought someone killed her? Is that right?”

  He looked from face to face.

  “We’ve no reason to suppose anything of the sort yet,” said Colin.

  “But who would want to kill her?” demanded Genevieve. “Had she much money to leave? If she was rich it is possible, I suppose.”

  “She was a maddening woman, my dear,” said Nigel. “I’m sure everybody wanted to kill her. I often did,” he added, helping himself happily to marmalade.

  II

  “Please, Miss Sally, may I ask you a question? It is after what was said at breakfast. I have been thinking very much.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t think too much if I were you, Akibombo,” said Sally. “It isn’t healthy.”

  Sally and Akibombo were partaking of an open-air lunch in Regent’s Park. Summer was officially supposed to have come and the restaurant was open.

  “All this morning,” said Akibombo mournfully, “I have been much disturbed. I cannot answer my professor’s questions good at all. He is not pleased at me. He says to me that I copy large bits out of books and do not think for myself. But I am here to acquire wisdom from much books and it seems to me that they say better in the books than the way I put it, because I have not good command of the English. And besides, this morning I find it very hard to think at all except of what goes on at Hickory Road and difficulties there.”


  “I’ll say you’re right about that,” said Sally. “I just couldn’t concentrate myself this morning.”

  “So that is why I ask you please to tell me certain things, because as I say, I have been thinking very much.”

  “Well, let’s hear what you’ve been thinking about, then.”

  “Well, it is this borr—ass—sic.”

  “Borr-ass-ic? Oh, boracic! Yes. What about it?”

  “Well, I do not understand very well. It is an acid, they say? An acid like sulphuric acid?”

  “Not like sulphuric acid, no,” said Sally.

  “It is not something for laboratory experiment only?”

  “I shouldn’t imagine they ever did any experiments in laboratories with it. It’s something quite mild and harmless.”

  “You mean, even you could put it in your eyes?”

  “That’s right. That’s just what one does use it for.”

  “Ah, that explains that then. Mr. Chandra Lal, he have little white bottle with white powder, and he puts powder in hot water and bathes his eyes with it. He keeps it in bathroom and then it is not there one day and he is very angry. That would be the bor-ac-ic, yes?”

  “What is all this about boracic?”

  “I tell you by and by. Please not now. I think some more.”

  “Well, don’t go sticking your neck out,” said Sally. “I don’t want yours to be the next corpse, Akibombo.”

  III

  “Valerie, do you think you could give me some advice?”

  “Of course I could give you advice, Jean, though I don’t know why anyone ever wants advice. They never take it.”

  “It’s really a matter of conscience,” said Jean.

  “Then I’m the last person you ought to ask. I haven’t got any conscience, to speak of.”

  “Oh, Valerie, don’t say things like that!”

  “Well, it’s quite true,” said Valerie. She stubbed out a cigarette as she spoke. “I smuggle clothes in from Paris and tell the most frightful lies about their faces to the hideous women who come to the salon. I even travel on buses without paying my fare when I’m hard up. But come on, tell me. What’s it all about?”