Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Death

by Hickory Dickory Death (lit)

  "I suppose that's because she'd taken to drinking on the quiet-they found a lot of bottles and things in her room, didn't they?" :, Yes," Mrs. Hubbard hesitated, then burst out, 'I do blame myself-letting her go off home alone last ni lit-she was afraid of something, you know." "Afraid?" Poirot and Valerie said it in unison.

  Mrs. Hubbard nodded unhappily.

  Her mild round face was troubled.

  "Yes. She kept saying she wasn't safe.

  I asked her to tell me what she was afraid of-and she snubbed me. And one never knew with her, of course, how much was exaggeration-But now-I wonder-was Valerie said, "You don't think that she-that she, too-that she was-was She broke off with a look of horror in her eyes.

  Poirot asked, "What did they say was the cause of death?" Mrs. Hubbard said unhappily, "They-they didn't say- There's to be an inquest comon Tuesday-was IN A QUIET ROOM at New Scotland Yard, four men were sitting round a table.

  Presiding over the conference was Superintendent Wilding of the Narcotics squad. Next to him was Sergeant Bell, a young man of great energy and optimiswho looked rather like an eager greyhound.

  Leaning back in his chair, quiet and alert, was Inspector Sharpe. The fourth man was Hercule Poirot. On the table was a rucksack.

  Superintendent Wilding stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  "It's an interesting idea, Mr. Poirot," he said cautiously. "Yes, it's an interesting idea." "It is, as I say, simply an idea," said Poirot.

  Wilding nodded.

  "We've outlined the general position," he said.

  "Smuggling goes on all the time, of course, in one form or another. We clear up one lot of operators and after a due interval things start again somewhere else. Speaking for my own branch, there's been a good lot of the stuff coming into this country in the last year and a half. Heroin mostly-a fair amount of coke. There are various depots dotted here and there on the continent. The French police have got a lead or two as to how it comes into France-they're less certain how it goes out again." "Would I be right in saying," Poirot asked, "that your problem could be divided roughly under three heads.

  There is the problem of distribution, there is the problem of how the consi innents enter the country, and there is the problem of who really runs the business and takes the main profits?" "Roughly I'd say that's quite right. We know a fair amount about the small distributors and how the stuff is distributed. Some of the distributors we pull in, some we leave alone hoping that they may lead us to the big fish. It's distributed in a lot of different ways, night clubs, pubs, drugstores, an odd doctor or so, fashionable women's dressmakers and hairdressers. It's handed over on race courses, and in antique dealers", sometimes in a crowded multiple store.

  But I needn't tell you all this. It's not that side of it that's important. We can keep pace with all that fairly well. And we've got certain very shrewd suspicions as to what I've called the big fish.

  One or two very respectable wealthy gentlemen against whom there's never a breath of suspicion. Very careful they are; they never handle the stuff themselves, and the little fry don't even know who they are. But every now and again, one of them makes a slip-and then-we get him." "That is all very much as I supposed. The line in which I am interested is the second line-how do the consignments come into the country?" "Ah. We're an island. The most usual way is the good old fashioned way of the sea. Running a cargo. Quiet landing somewhere on the East coast, or a little cove down South, by a motor boat that's slipped quietly across the Channel. That succeeds for a bit but sooner or later we get a line on the particular fellow who owns the boat and once he's under suspicion his opportunity's gone. Once or twice lately the stuff's come in on one of the air liners. There's big money offered, and occasionally one of the stewards or one of the crew proves to be only too human. And then there are the commercial importers. Respectable firms that import grand pianos or what have you!

  They have quite a good run for a bit, but we usually get wise to them in the end." "You would agree that it is one of the chief difficulties when you are running an illicit trade-the entry from abroad into this country?" "Decidedly. And I'll say more. For some time now, we've been worried. More stuff is coming in than we can keep pace with." "And what about other things, such as gems?" Sergeant Bell spoke.

  "There's a good deal of it going on, sir.

  Illicit diamonds and other stones are coming out of South Africa and Australia, some from the Far East.

  They're coming into this country in a steady stream, and we don't know how. The other day a young woman, an ordinary tourist, in France, was asked by a casual acquaintance If she'd take a pair of shoes across the Channel. Not new ones, nothing dutiable, just some shoes someone had left behind. She agreed quite unsuspiciously. We happened to be on to that. The heels of the shoes turned out to be hollow and packed with uncut diamonds." SuperinterWent Wilding said, "But look here, Mr. Poirot, what is it you're on the track of, dope or smuggled gems?" "Either. Anything, in fact, of high value and small bulk. There is an opening, it seems to me, for what you might call a freight service, conveying goods such as I have described to and from across the Channel. Stolen jewelry, the stones removed from their settings, could be taken out of England, illicit stones and drugs brought in. It could be a small independent agency, unconnected with distribution, that carried stuff on a commission basis. And the profits might be high." "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 air liner 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, hardworking student. Badly off, travelling about with no more luggage than 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 are 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 of 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 saleprobably in more comthan 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 those 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 probabl
y 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, Mr.

  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 has 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 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 the moment there is in the house a rucksack just brought back from abroad containingor 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 closer examination or analysis. So the rucksack must be destroyed. You agree that that is possible?" "It's an idea, as I said before," said Superintendent Wilding.

  "It also seems Possible comt 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. Nicoletisbut there again I suspect her of being only a figurehead." "Hm," 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 there ever was one." He described his experiences with 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 hzffppened to her? Hooked it-his" "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, Mr. 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 removin,,,, the false bottom from the rucksack without reafisin, 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" 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 migtit be wrong.

  Yes-I might be wrong!" "HJCKORY, DICKORY, DOCK," said Nigel, "the mouse ran up the clock. The police said "Boo," I wonder who, Win 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 bonny Jean," said Nigel.

  "Moi, je n'aime pas It's tics," said Ren6, offering his contribution to the discussion.<
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  "Tell what?" Leonard Bateson asked again.

  "The things we know," said Nigel. "About each other, I mean," he added helpfully. His glance swept round the breakfast room table with a malicious Team.

  "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 thinos no business of the police it all," said Mr. Ahmed Ali. He spoke hotly, with a injured remembrance of the Inspector's sharp remarks about his collection of postcards.

  "T 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 Niel, turning his gaze back to Miss Tomlinson.