"I've got it," she said triumphantly.
"Good morning, Mr. Poirot. I've got it, Inspector Sharpe. It came to me quite suddenly.
Whythat suicide note looked wrong, I mean.
Celia couldn't possibly have written it." "Why not, Mrs. Hubbard?" "Because it's written in ordinary blue black ink. And Celia filled her pen with green ink-that ink over there," Mrs. Hubbard nodded towards the shelf, "at breakfast'time yesterday morning." Inspector Sharpe, a somewhat different Inspector Sharpe, came back into the room which he had left abruptly after Mrs. Hubbard's statement.
"Quite right," he said. "I've checked up. The only pen in the girl's room, the one that was by her bed, has green ink in it. Now that green ink" Mrs. Hubbard held up the nearly empty bottle.
Then she explained, clearly and concisely, the scene at the breakfast table.
"I feel sure," she ended, "that the scrap of paper was torn out of the letter she had written to me yesterday-and which I never opened." "What did she do with it? Can you remember?" Mrs. Hubbard shook her head.
"I left her alone in here and went to do my housekeeping. She must, I think, have left it lying somewhere in here, and forgotten about it." "And somebody found it ... and opened it somebody-was He broke off.
"You realize," he said, "what this means? I haven't been very happy about this torn bit of paper all along. There was quite a pile of lecture notepaper in her room commuch more natural to write a suicide note on one of them. This means that somebody saw the possibility of using the opening phrase of her letter to you-to suggest something very different. To suggest suicide-was He paused and then said slowly, "This means-was "Murder," said Hercule Poirot.
THOUGH PERSONALLY DEPRECATING le five o'clock as inhibiting the proper appreciation of the supreme meal of the day, dinner, Poirot was now getting quite accustomed to serving it.
The resourceful George had on this occasion produced large cups, a pot of really strong- Indian tea and, in addition to the hot and buttery square crumpets, bread and jam and a large square of rich plum cake.
All this for the delectation of Inspector Sharpe who was leaning back contentedly sipping his third cup of tea.
"You don't mind my coming along like this, M.
Poirot? I've got an hour to spare until the time when the students will be getting back. I shall want to question them all and, frankly, it's not a business I'm lookin, forward to. You met some of them the other night and I wondered If you could give me any useful dope comon the foreigners, anyway." "You think I am a good judge of foreigners?
But, mon cher, there were no Belgians amongst them." "No Belg- Oh, I see what you mean! You mean that as you're a Belgian, all the other nationalities are as foreign to you as they are to me.
Butthat's not quite true, is it? I mean you probably know more about the Continental types than I do-though not the Indians and the West Africans and that lot." "Your best assistance will probably be from Mrs.
Hubbard. She has been there for some months in intimate association with these young people and she is quite a good judge of human nature." "Yes, thoroughly competent woman. I'm relying on her. I shall have to see the proprietress of the place, too. She wasn't there this morning.
Owns several of these places, I understand, as well as some of the student clubs. Doesn't seem to be much liked." Poirot said nothing for a moment or two, then he asked, "You have been to St. Catherine's?" "Yes. The Chief Pharmacist was most helpful. He was much shocked and distressed by the news." "What did he say of the girl?" "She'd worked there for just over a year and was well liked. He described her as rather slow, but very conscientious." He paused and then added, "The morphia came from there all right." "It did? That is interesting-and rather puzzling." "It was morphine tartrate. Kept in the poison cupboard in the Dispensary. Uppei shelf-among drugs that were not often used. The hypodermic tablets, of course, are what are in general use, and it appears that morphine hydrochloride is more often used than the tartrate. There seems to be a kind of fashion in drugs like everything else. Doctors seem to follow one another in prescribing like a lot of sheep. He didn't say that. It was my own thought. There are some drugs in the upper shelf of that cupboard that were once popular, but haven't been prescribed for years." "So the absence of one small dusty phial would not immediately be noticed?" "That's right. Stock-taking is only done at regular intervals. Nobody remembers any prescription with morphine tartrate in it for a long time. The absence of the bottle wouldn't be noticed until it was wanted-or until they went over stock. The three dispensers all had keys of the poison cupboard and the Dangerous Drug cupboard. The cupboards are opened as needed, and as on a busy day (which is practically every day) someone is going to the cupboard every few minutes, the cupboard is unlocked and remains unlocked till the end of work." "Who had access to it, other than Celia herself?" "The two other women Dispensers, but they have no connection of any kind with Hickory Road. One has been there for four years, the other only came a few weeks ago, was formerly at a Hospital in Devon. Good record. Then there are the three senior pharmacists who have all been at St.
Catherine's for years. Those are the people who have what you might call rightful and normal access to the cupboard. Then there's an old woman who scrubs the floors. She's there between nine and ten in the morning and she could have grabbed a bottle out of the cupboard if the girls were busy at the outpatients' hatches, or attending to the ward baskets, but she's been working for the Hospital for years and it seems very unlikely. The lab attendant comes through with stock bottles and he, too, could help himself to a bottle if he watched his opportunity-but none of these suggestions seem at all probable." "What outsiders come into the Dispensary?" ets' Quite a lot, one way or another. They'd pass through the Dispensary to go to the Chief Pharmacist's office, for instance-or travellers from the big wholesale drug houses would go through it to the manufacturing departments, Then, of course, friends come in occasionally to see one of the dispensers-not a usual thing, but it happens." "That is better. Who came in recently to see Celia Austin?" Sharpe consulted his notebook.
"A girl called Patricia Lane came in on Tuesday of last week. She wanted Celia to come to meet her at the pictures after the Dispensary closed." "Patricia Lane," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"She was only there about five minutes and she did not go near the poison cupboard but remained near the Outpatients windows talking to Celia and another girl. They also remember a coloured girl comingab two weeks ago-a very superior girl, they said. She was interested in the work and asked questions about it and made notes. Spoke perfect English." "That would be Elizabeth Johnston. She was interested, was she?" "It was a Welfare Clinic afternoon. She was interested in the organisation of such things and also in what was prescribed for such ailments as infant diarrhoea and skin infections." Poirot nodded.
"Anyone else?" "Not that can be remembered." "Do doctors come to the Dispensary?" Sharpe grinned.
"All the time. Officially and unofficially.
Sometimes to ask about a particular formula, or to see what is kept in stock." "To see what is kept in stock?" "Yes, I thought of that. Sometimes they ask advice comab a substitute for some preparation that seems to irritate a patient's skin or interfere with digestion unduly. Sometimes a physician just strolls in for a chat comslack moment.
A good many of the young chaps come in for veganin or aspirin when they've got a hangover-and occasionally, I'd say, for a flirtatious word or two with one of the girls if the opportunity arises. Human nature is always human nature. You see how it is. Pretty hopeless." Poirot said, "And if I recollect rightly, one or more of the students at Hickory Road is attached to St. Catherine's-a big red-haired boy-BatesBateman-was "Leonard Bateson. That's right. And Colin Mcationabb is doing a post graduate course there.
Then there's a girl, Jean Tomlinson, who works in the physiotherapy department." "And all of these have probably been quite often in the Dispensary?" "Yes, and what's more, nobody remembers when because they're used to seeing them and know t
hem by sight.
Jean Tomlinson was by way of being a friend of the senior Dispenser-was "It is not easy," said Poircvt.
"I'll say it's not! You see, anyone who was on the staff could take a look in the poison cupboard, say, "Why on earth do you have so much Liquor Arsenicalis" or something like that.
"Didn't know anybody used it nowadays." And nobody would think twice about it or remember it." Sharpe pause (i and then said: "What we are postulating is that someone gave Celia Austin morphia and afterwards put the morphia bottle and the torn out fragment of letter in her room to make it look like suicide. But why, Mr. Poirot, why?" Poirot shook his head. Sharpe went on: "You hinted this morning that someone might have suggested the kleptomania idea to CeHa Austin." Poirot moved uneasily.
"That was only a vague idea of mine. It was just that it seemed doubtful if she would have had the wits to think of it herself." "Then who?" "As far as I know, onlythree of the students would have been capable of thinking out such an idea.
Leonard Bateson would have had the requisite knowledge.
He is aware of Colin's enthusiasm for 'maladjusted personalities." He might have suggested something of the kind to Celia more or less as a joke and coached her in her part. But I cannot really see him conniving at such a thing for month after monthunless, that is, he had an ulterior motive, or is a very different person from what he appears to be. (that is always a thing one must take into account.) Nigel Chapman has a mischievous and slightly malicious turn of mind. He'd think it good fun, and I should imagine, would have no scruples whatever.
He is a kind of grown up 'enfant terrible." The third person I have in mind is a young woman called Valerie Hobhouse. She has brains, is modern in outlook and education, and has probably read enough psychology to judge Colin's probable reartion. If she were fond of Celia, she might think it legitimate fun to make a fool of Colin." "Leonard Bateson, Nigel Chapman, Valerie Hobhouse," said Sharpe writing down the names. "Thanks for the tip. I'll remember when I'm questioning them.
What about the Indians? One of them is a medical student, too." "His mind is entirely occupied with politics and persecution mania," said Poirot. "I don't think he would be interested enough to suggest kleptomania to Celia Austin and I don't think she would have accepted such advice from him." "And that's all the help you can give me, Mr.
Poirot?" said Sharpe, rising to his feet and buttoning away his notebook.
"I fear so. But I consider myself personally interested-that is if you, do not object, my friend?" "Not in the least. Why should I?" "In my own amateurish way I shall do what I can. For me, there is, I think, only one line of action." "And that is?" Poiro-t sighed.
"Conversation, my friend. Conversation and again conversation!
All the murderers I have ever come across enjoyed talking. In my opinion the strong silent man seldom commits a crime-and if he does it is simple, violent and perfectly obvious. But our clever subtle murderer-he is so pleased with himself that sooner or later he says something unfortunate and trips himself up. Talk to these people, mon cher, do not confine yourself to simple interrogation. Encourage their views, demand their help, inquire about their hunches-but, bon Dieu! I do not need to teach you your business. I remember your abilities well enouch." Sharpe smiled gently.
"Yes," he said, "I've always found-well-amiability-a great help." The two men smiled at each other in mutual accord.
Sharpe rose to depart.
"I suppose every single one of them is a possible murderer," he said slowly.
"I should think so," said Poirot nonchalantly.
"Leonard Bateson, for instance, has a temper.
He could lose control. Valerie Hobhouse has brains and could plan cleverly. Nigel Chapman is the childish type that lacks proportion. There is a French girl there who might kill if enough money were involved. Patricia Lane is a maternal type and maternal types are always ruthless. The American girl, Sally Finch, is cheerful and gay, but she could play an assumed part better than most. Jean Tomlinson is very full of sweetness and righteousness, but we have all known killers who attended Sunday school with sincere devotion. The West Indian girl Elizabeth Johnston has probably the best brains of anyone in the Hostel. She has subordinated her emotional life to her brain-Ahat is dangerous. There is a charming young African who might have motives for killing about which we could never guess. We have Colin Mcationabb, the psychologist. How many psychologists does one know to whom it might be said, Physician, heal thyself?" "For heaven's sake, Poirot. You are making my head spin! Is nobody incapable of murder?" "I have often wondered," said Hercule Poirot.
INSPECTOR SHARPE SIGHED, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He had interviewed an indignant and tearful French girl, a supercilious and uncooperative young Frenchman, a stolid and suspicious Dutchman, a voluble and aggressive Egyptian. He had exchanged a few brief remarks with two nervous young Turkish students who did not really understand what he was saying and the same went for a charming young Iraqi. None of these, he was pretty certain, had had anything to do, or could help him in any way, with the death of Celia Austin. He had dismissed them one by one with a few reassuring words and was now preparing to do the same to Mr. Akibombo.
The young West African looked at him with smiling white teeth and childlike rather plaintive eyes.
"I should like to help-yes-please," he said. "She is very nice to me, this Miss Celia. She give me once a box of Edinburgh rock-very nice confection which I do not know before. It seems very sad she should be killed. Is it blood feud, perhaps? Or is it perhaps fathers or uncles who come and kill her because they have heard false stories that she do wrong things?" Inspector Sharpe assured him that none of these things were remotely possible. The young man shook his head sadly.
"Then I do not know why it happened," he said.
"I do not see why anybody here should want to do harm to her. But you give me piece of her hair and nail clippings," he continued, "and I see if I find out by old method. Not scientific, not modern, but very much in use where I come from." "Well, thank you, Mr. Akibombo, but I don't think that will be necessary. We-er-don't do things that way over here." "No, sir, I quite understand. Not modern. Not Atomic Age. Not done at home now by new policemennly old men from bush. I am sure all new methods very superior and sure to achieve complete success." Mr. Akibombo bowed politely and removed himself. Inspector Sharpe murmured to himself, "I sincerely hope we do meet with success-if only to maintain prestige." His next interview was with Nigel Chapman, who was inclined to take the conduct of the conversation into his own hands.
"This is an absolutely extraordinary business, isn't it?" he said. "Mind you, I had an idea that you were barking up the wrong tree when you insisted on suicide. I must say, it's rather gratifying to me to think that the whole thing hinges, really, on her having filled her fountain pen with my green ink. Just the one thing the murderer couldn't possibly foresee. I suppose you've given due consideration as to what can possibly be the motive for this crime?" "I'm asking the questions, Mr. Chapman," said Inspector Sharpe drily.
"Oh, of course, of course," said Nigel, airily waving a kand. "I was trying to make a bit of a short cut of it, that was all. But I suppose we've got to go through with all the red tape as usual. Name, Nigel Chapman. Age, twenty-five. Born, I believe, in Nagasaki-it really seems a most ridiculous place. What my father and mother were doing there at the time I can't imagine. On a world tour, I suppose.
However, it doesn't make me necessarily a Japanese, I understand. I'm talking a diploma at London University in Bronze Age and Mediaeval History. Anything else you want to know?" "What is your home address, Mr.
Chapman?" "No home address, my dear sir. I have a papa, but he and I have quarrelled, and his address is therefore no longer mine. So 26 Hickory Road and Coutts Bank, Leadenhall Street Branch, will always find me as one says to travelling acquaintances whom you hope you will never meet again." Inspector Sharpe displayed no reaction towards Nigel's airy impertinence. H
e had met 'ationigels" before and shrewdly suspected that Nigel's impertinence masked a natural nervousness of being questioned in connection with murder.
"How well did you know Celia Austin?" he asked.
"That's really quite a diffivlt question. I knew her very well in the sense of seeing her practically every day, and being on quite cheerful terms with her, but actually I didn't know her at all. Of course, I wasn't in the least bit interested in her and I comthink she probably disapproved of me, if anything." "Did she disapprove of you for any particular reason?" "Well, she didn't like my sense of humour very much. Then, of course, I wasn't one of those brooding, rude young men like Colin Mcationabb. That kind of rudeness is really the perfect technique for attracting women." "When was the last time you saw Celia Austin?" "At dinner yesterday evening. We'd all given her the big hand, you know. Colin bad got up and hemmed and hahed and finally admitted, in a coy and bashful way, that they were engaged. Then we all ragged him a bit, and that was that." "Was that at dinner or in the Common Room?" "Oh, at dinner. Afterwards, when we went into the Common Room, Colin went off somewhere." "And the rest of you had coffee in the Common Room." "If you call the fluid they serve coffee-yes," said Nigel.
Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Death Page 7
