It's a very good place for all kinds of camping equipment and hikers" outfits. Shorts, sleeping bags, all that sort of thing. And very cheap-much cheaper than any of the big stores." "If I could just see one of these rucksacks, Madame?" Mrs. Hubbard obligingly led him to Colin Mcationabb's room. Colin himself was not there, but Mrs. Hubbard opened the wardrobe, stooped, and picked up a rucksack which she held out to Poirot. was There you are, Mr. Poirot. That's exactly like the one that was missing and that we found all cut up." "It would take some cutting," murmured Poirot, as he fingered the rucksack appreciatively. "One could not snip at this with a little pair of embroidery scissors." "Oh no, it wasn't what you'd expect a-well, a girl to do, for instance. There must have been a certain amount of strength involved, I should say.
Strength and-well-malice, you know." was I know, yes, I know. It is not pleasant.
Not pleasant to think about." "Then, when later that scarf of Valerie's was found, also slashed to pieces, well, it did look-what shall I say-unbalanced." "Ah," said Poirot. "But I think there you are wrong, Madame. I do not think there is anything unbalanced about this business. I think it has aim and purpose and shall we say, method." "Well, I daresay you know more about these things, Mr. Poirot, than I do," said Mrs.
Hubbard. "All I can say is, I don't like it.
As far as I can judge we've got a very nice lot of students here and it would distress me very much to think that one of them is-well, not what I'd like to think he or she is." Poirot had wandered over to the window. He opened it and stepped out on to the old-fashioned balcony.
The room looked out over the back of the house.
Below was a small, sooty garden. can' It is more quiet here than at the front, I expect?" he said.
"In a way. But Hickory Road isn't really a noisy road. And facing this way you get all the cats at night. Yowling, you know, and knocking the lids off the dust bins." Poirot looked down at four large battered ash cans and other assorted back yard junk.
"Where is the boiler house?" "That's the door to it, down there next to the coal house." "see." He gazed down speculatively.
"Who else has rooms facing this way?" so' Nigel Chapman and Len Bateson have the next room to this." "And beyond them?" "Then it's the next house-and the girls' rooms.
First the room Celia had and beyond it Elizabeth Johnston's and then Patricia Lane's.
Valerie and Jean Tomlinson look out to the front." Poirot nodded and came back into the room.
"He is neat, this young man," he murmured, looking round him appreciatively.
"Yes, Colin's room is always very tidy. Some of the boys live in a terrible mess," said Mrs.
Hubbard. "You should see Len Bateson's room." She added indulgently, "But he is a nice boy, Mr. Poirot." "You say that these rucksacks are bought at the shop at the end of the road?" "Yes." "What is the name of that shop?" "Now really, Mr. Poirot, when you ask me like that I can't remember. Mabberley, I tlnk. Or else Kelso.
No, I know they don't sound the same kind of name but they're the same sort of name in my mind.
Really, of course, because I knew some people once called Kelso and some other ones called Mabberley, and they were very alike." "Ah," said Poirot. "That is one of the reasons for things that always fascinate me. The unseen link." He looked once more out of the window and down into the garden, then took his leave of Mrs. Hubbard and left the house.
He walked down Hickory Road until he came to the corner and turned into the main road. He had no difficulty in recognizing the shop of Mrs. Hubbard's description. It displayed in great profusion picnic baskets, rucksacks, thermos flasks, sports equipment of all kinds, shorts, bush shirts, topees, tents, swimming suits, bicycle lamps and torches; in fact all possible needs of young and athletic youth.
The name above the shop, he noted, was neither Mabberley nor Kelso but Hicks. After a careful study of the goods displayed in the window, Poirot entered and represented himself as desirous of purchasing a rucksack for a hypothetical nephew.
"He makes "re camping," you understand," said Poirot at his most foreign. "He goes with other students upon the feet and all he needs he takes with him on his back, and the cars and the lorries that pass, they give him a lift." The proprietor, who was a small, obliging man with sandy hair, replied promptly.
"Ah, hitch-hiking," he said. "They all do it nowadays. Must lose the buses and the railways a lot of money, though. Hitch-hike themselves all over Europe some of these young people do. Now it's a rucksack you're wanting, sir. Just an ordinary rucksack?" "I understand so. Yes. You have a variety then?" "Well, we have one or two extra light ones for ladies, but this is the general article we sell.
Good, stout, stand a lot of wear, and really very cheap though I say it myself." He produced a stout canvas affair which was, as far as Poirot could judge, an exact replica of the one he had been shown in Colin's room. Poirot examined it, asked a few more exotic and unnecessary questions and ended by paying for it then and there.
"Ah yes, we sell a lot of these," said the man as he made it up into a parcel.
"A good many students lodge round here, do they not?" "Yes. This is a neighbourhood with a lot of students." "There is one hostel, I believe, in Hickory Road?" "Oh yes. I've sold several to the young gentlemen there. And the young ladies. They usually come here for any equipment they want before they go off. My prices are cheaper than the big stores, and so I tell them. There you are, sir, and I'm sure your nephew will be delighted with the service he gets out of this." Poirot thanked him and went out with his parcel.
He had only gone a step or two when a hand fell on his shoulder.
It was Inspector Sharpe.
"Just the man I want to see," said Sharpe.
"You have accomplished your search of the house?" "I've searched the house, but I don't know that I've accomplished very much. There's a place along here where you can get a very decent sandwich and a cup of coffee. Come along with me if you're not too busy.
I'd like to talk to you." 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, was "T 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 comthen 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. That's just silly.
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. Ahmed 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 were 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 cucksack." 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." "What do I care?" said Mrs. Nicoletis.
"I shall not be here for 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 light bulbs 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." "Thia was last week," snapped Mrs.
Nicoletis. "Now comx is different. Now I look over my shoulder-and I wonder, 'Who is following me?"" Was her employer dramatising herself, Mrs.
Hubhard 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 relance to place on her statements.
Mrs. Hubbard said doubtfully, "Are you sure you ought to go home by yourself?
Would you tike me to come with you?" "I shall be safer there than here, I can teer you!" "But what is it you are afraid of? If I knew, perhaps I could-was "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-was "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 toward 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 Necklace, 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 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, "Gestapol 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 around. 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?" She wheeled round sharply and then gave a sigh of relief.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "I thought. .
"Who did you think it was? The big bad woer?
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 very 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, deand nitely 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 I 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 .
Police Constable Bott, swinging magnificently down on his beat, was accosted by antimid-looking clerk.
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(l 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." 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 Georgethe day before. 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.
Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Death Page 12
