Hickory Dickory Dock: A Hercule Poirot Mystery

by Agatha Christie

  “Patricia Lane? She’s a very nice girl. Going in for a what-do-you-call-it, a diploma in history or archaeology or something.”

  “Well off?”

  “Oh no. She’s got a little money of her own, but she’s very careful always. The ring, as I say, belonged to her mother. She has one or two nice bits of jewellery but she doesn’t have many new clothes, and she’s given up smoking lately.”

  “What is she like? Describe her to me in your own words.”

  “Well, she’s sort of betwixt and between in colouring. Rather washed-out looking. Quiet and ladylike, but not much spirit to her. What you’d call rather a—well, an earnest type of girl.”

  “And the ring turned up again in Miss Hobhouse’s plate of soup. Who is Miss Hobhouse?”

  “Valerie Hobhouse? She’s a clever dark girl with rather a sarcastic way of talking. She works in a beauty parlour. Sabrina Fair—I suppose you have heard of it.”

  “Are these two girls friendly?”

  Mrs. Hubbard considered.

  “I should say so—yes. They don’t have much to do with each other. Patricia gets on well with everybody, I should say, without being particularly popular or anything like that. Valerie Hobhouse has her enemies, her tongue being what it is—but she’s got quite a following too, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I know,” said Poirot.

  So Patricia Lane was nice but dull, and Valerie Hobhouse had personality. He resumed his study of the list of thefts.

  “What is so intriguing is all the different categories represented here. There are the small trifles that would tempt a girl who was both vain and hard up, the lipstick, the costume jewellery, a powder compact—bath salts—the box of chocolates, perhaps. Then we have the stethoscope, a more likely theft for a man who would know just where to sell it or pawn it. Who did it belong to?”

  “It belonged to Mr. Bateson—he’s a big friendly young man.”

  “A medical student?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he very angry?”

  “He was absolutely livid, M. Poirot. He’s got one of those flaring up tempers—say anything at the time, but it’s soon over. He’s not the sort who’d take kindly to having his things pinched.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Well, there’s Mr. Gopal Ram, one of our Indian students. He smiles at everything. He waves his hand and says material possessions do not matter—”

  “Has anything been stolen from him?”

  “No.”

  “Ah! Who did the flannel trousers belong to?”

  “Mr. McNabb. Very old they were, and anyone else would say they were done for, but Mr. McNabb is very attached to his old clothes and he never throws anything away.”

  “So we have come to the things that it would seem were not worth stealing—old flannel trousers, electric lightbulbs, boracic powder, bath salts—a cookery book. They may be important, more likely they are not. The boracic was probably removed by error, someone may have removed a dead bulb and intended to replace it, but forgot—the cookery book may have been borrowed and not returned. Some charwoman may have taken away the trousers.”

  “We employ two very reliable cleaning women. I’m sure they would neither of them have done such a thing without asking first.”

  “You may be right. Then there is the evening shoe, one of a new pair, I understand? Who do they belong to?”

  “Sally Finch. She’s an American girl studying over here on a Fulbright scholarship.”

  “Are you sure that the shoe has not simply been mislaid? I cannot conceive what use one shoe could be to anyone.”

  “It wasn’t mislaid, M. Poirot. We all had a terrific hunt. You see Miss Finch was going out to a party in what she calls ‘formal dress’—evening dress to us—and the shoes were really vital—they were her only evening ones.”

  “It caused her inconvenience—and annoyance—yes . . . yes, I wonder. Perhaps there is something there. . . .”

  He was silent for a moment or two and then went on.

  “And there are two more items—a rucksack cut to pieces and a silk scarf in the same state. Here we have something that is neither vanity, nor profit—instead we have something that is deliberately vindictive. Who did the rucksack belong to?”

  “Nearly all the students have rucksacks—they all hitchhike a lot, you know. And a great many of the rucksacks are alike—bought at the same place, so it’s hard to identify one from the other. But it seems fairly certain that this one belonged to Leonard Bateson or Colin McNabb.”

  “And the silk scarf that was also cut about. To whom did that belong?”

  “To Valerie Hobhouse. She had it as a Christmas present—it was emerald green and really good quality.”

  “Miss Hobhouse . . . I see.”

  Poirot closed his eyes. What he perceived mentally was a kaleidoscope, no more, no less. Pieces of cut-up scarves and rucksacks, cookery books, lipsticks, bath salts; names and thumbnail sketches of odd students. Nowhere was there cohesion or form. Unrelated incidents and people whirled round in space. But Poirot knew quite well that somehow and somewhere there must be a pattern . . . The question was where to start.. . . .

  He opened his eyes.

  “This is a matter that needs some reflection. A good deal of reflection.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it does, M. Poirot,” assented Mrs. Hubbard eagerly. “And I’m sure I didn’t want to trouble you—”

  “You are not troubling me. I am intrigued. But whilst I am reflecting, we might make a start on the practical side. A start . . . The shoe, the evening shoe . . . yes, we might make a start there. Miss Lemon.”

  “Yes, M. Poirot?” Miss Lemon banished filing from her thoughts, sat even more upright, and reached automatically for pad and pencil.

  “Mrs. Hubbard will obtain for you, perhaps, the remaining shoe. Then go to Baker Street Station, to the lost property department. The loss occurred—when?”

  Mrs. Hubbard considered.

  “Well, I can’t remember exactly now, M. Poirot. Perhaps two months ago. I can’t get nearer than that. But I could find out from Sally Finch the date of the party.”

  “Yes. Well——” He turned once more to Miss Lemon. “You can be a little vague. You will say you left a shoe in an Inner Circle train—that is the most likely—or you may have left it in some other train. Or possibly a bus. How many buses serve the neighbourhood of Hickory Road?”

  “Two only, M. Poirot.”

  “Good. If you get no results from Baker Street, try Scotland Yard and say it was left in a taxi.”

  “Lambeth,” corrected Miss Lemon efficiently.

  Poirot waved a hand.

  “You always know these things.”

  “But why do you think—” began Mrs. Hubbard.

  Poirot interrupted her.

  “Let us see first what results we get. Then, if they are negative or positive, you and I, Mrs. Hubbard, must consult again. You will tell me then those things which it is necessary that I should know.”

  “I really think I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “No, no. I disagree. Here we have young people herded together, of varying temperaments, of different sexes. A loves B, but B loves C, and D and E are at daggers drawn because of A perhaps. It is all that I need to know. The interplay of human emotions. The quarrels, the jealousies, the friendships, the malice and all uncharitableness.”

  “I’m sure,” said Mrs. Hubbard uncomfortably, “I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I don’t mix at all. I just run the place and see to the catering and all that.”

  “But you are interested in people. You have told me so. You like young people. You took this post, not because it was of much interest financially, but because it would bring you in contact with human problems. There will be those of the students that you like and some that you do not like so well, or indeed at all, perhaps. You will tell me—yes, you will tell me! Because you are worried—not about what has been happening—you could
go to the police about that—”

  “Mrs. Nicoletis wouldn’t like to have the police in, I assure you.”

  Poirot swept on, disregarding the interruption.

  “No, you are worried about someone—someone who you think may have been responsible or at least mixed up in this. Someone, therefore, that you like.”

  “Really, M. Poirot.”

  “Yes, really. And I think you are right to be worried. For that silk scarf cut to pieces, it is not nice. And the slashed rucksack, that also is not nice. For the rest it seems childishness—and yet—I am not sure. I am not sure at all!”

  Chapter Three

  Hurrying a little as she went up the steps, Mrs. Hubbard inserted her latch key into the door of 26 Hickory Road. Just as the door opened, a big young man with fiery red hair ran up the steps behind her.

  “Hallo, Ma,” he said, for in such a fashion did Len Bateson usually address her. He was a friendly soul, with a Cockney accent and mercifully free from any kind of inferiority complex. “Been out gallivanting?”

  “I’ve been out to tea, Mr. Bateson. Don’t delay me now, I’m late.”

  “I cut up a lovely corpse today,” said Len. “Smashing!”

  “Don’t be so horrid, you nasty boy. A lovely corpse, indeed! The idea. You make me feel quite squeamish.”

  Len Bateson laughed, and the hall echoed the sound in a great ha ha.

  “Nothing to Celia,” he said. “I went along to the Dispensary. ‘Come to tell you about a corpse,’ I said. She went as white as a sheet and I thought she was going to pass out. What do you think of that, Mother Hubbard?”

  “I don’t wonder at it,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “The idea! Celia probably thought you meant a real one.”

  “What do you mean—a real one? What do you think our corpses are? Synthetic?”

  A thin young man with long untidy hair strolled out of a room on the right, and said in a waspish way:

  “Oh, it’s only you. I thought it was at least a posse of strong men. The voice is but the voice of one man, but the volume is as the volume of ten.”

  “Hope it doesn’t get on your nerves, I’m sure.”

  “Not more than usual,” said Nigel Chapman and went back again.

  “Our delicate flower,” said Len.

  “Now don’t you two scrap,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Good temper, that’s what I like, and a bit of give and take.”

  The big young man grinned down at her affectionately.

  “I don’t mind our Nigel, Ma,” he said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Hubbard, Mrs. Nicoletis is in her room and said she would like to see you as soon as you got back.”

  Mrs. Hubbard sighed and started up the stairs. The tall dark girl who had given the message stood against the wall to let her pass.

  Len Bateson, divesting himself of his mackintosh said, “What’s up, Valerie? Complaints of our behaviour to be passed on by Mother Hubbard in due course?”

  The girl shrugged her thin elegant shoulders. She came down the stairs and across the hall. “This place gets more like a madhouse every day,” she said over her shoulder.

  She went through the door at the right as she spoke. She moved with that insolent effortless grace that is common to those who have been professional mannequins.

  Twenty-six Hickory Road was in reality two houses, 24 and 26 semidetached. They had been thrown into one on the ground floor so that there was both a communal sitting room and a large dining room on the ground floor, as well as two cloakrooms and a small office towards the back of the house. Two separate staircases led to the floors above which remained detached. The girls occupied bedrooms in the right-hand side of the house, and the men on the other, the original No. 24.

  Mrs. Hubbard went upstairs loosening the collar of her coat. She sighed as she turned in the direction of Mrs. Nicoletis’s room.

  She tapped on the door and entered.

  “In one of her states again, I suppose,” she muttered.

  Mrs. Nicoletis’s sitting room was kept very hot. The big electric fire had all its bars turned on and the window was tightly shut. Mrs. Nicoletis was sitting smoking on a sofa surrounded by a lot of rather dirty silk and velvet sofa cushions. She was a big dark woman, still good-looking, with a bad-tempered mouth and enormous brown eyes.

  “Ah! So there you are.” Mrs. Nicoletis made it sound like an accusation.

  Mrs. Hubbard, true to her Lemon blood, was unperturbed.

  “Yes,” she said tartly, “I’m here. I was told you wanted to see me specially.”

  “Yes, indeed I do. It is monstrous, no less, monstrous!”

  “What’s monstrous?”

  “These bills! Your accounts!” Mrs. Nicoletis produced a sheaf of papers from beneath a cushion in the manner of a successful conjuror. “What are we feeding these miserable students on? Foie gras and quails? Is this the Ritz? Who do they think they are, these students?”

  “Young people with a healthy appetite,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “They get a good breakfast and a decent evening meal—plain food but nourishing. It all works out very economically.”

  “Economically? Economically? You dare to say that to me? When I am being ruined?”

  “You make a very substantial profit, Mrs. Nicoletis, out of this place. For students, the rates are on the high side.”

  “But am I not always full? Do I ever have a vacancy that is not applied for three times over? Am I not sent students by the British Council, by London University Lodging Board—by the Embassies—by the French Lycée? Are not there always three applications for every vacancy?”

  “That’s very largely because the meals here are appetising and sufficient. Young people must be properly fed.”

  “Bah! These totals are scandalous. It is that Italian cook and her husband. They swindle you over the food.”

  “Oh no, they don’t, Mrs. Nicoletis. I can assure you that no foreigner is going to put anything over on me.”

  “Then it is you yourself—you who are robbing me.”

  Mrs. Hubbard remained unperturbed.

  “I can’t allow you to say things like that,” she said, in the voice an old-fashioned Nanny might have used to a particularly truculent charge. “It isn’t a nice thing to do, and one of these days it will land you in trouble.”

  “Ah!” Mrs. Nicoletis threw the sheaf of bills dramatically up in the air whence they fluttered to the ground in all directions. Mrs. Hubbard bent and picked them up, pursing her lips. “You enrage me,” shouted her employer.

  “I dare say,” said Mrs. Hubbard, “but it’s bad for you, you know, getting all worked up. Tempers are bad for the blood pressure.”

  “You admit that these totals are higher than those of last week?”

  “Of course they are. There’s been some very good cut price stuff going at Lampson’s Stores. I’ve taken advantage of it. Next week’s totals will be below average.”

  Mrs. Nicoletis looked sulky.

  “You explain everything so plausibly.”

  “There.” Mrs. Hubbard put the bills in a neat pile on the table. “Anything else?”

  “The American girl, Sally Finch, she talks of leaving—I do not want her to go. She is a Fulbright scholar. She will bring here other Fulbright scholars. She must not leave.”

  “What’s her reason for leaving?”

  Mrs. Nicoletis humped monumental shoulders.

  “How can I remember? It was not genuine. I could tell that. I always know.”

  Mrs. Hubbard nodded thoughtfully. She was inclined to believe Mrs. Nicoletis on that point.

  “Sally hasn’t said anything to me,” she said.

  “But you will talk to her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And if it is these coloured students, these Indians, these Negresses—then they can all go, you understand? The colour bar, it means everything to these Americans—and for me it is the Americans that matter—as for these coloured ones—scram!”

  She made a dramatic gesture.

 
“Not while I’m in charge,” said Mrs. Hubbard coldly. “And anyway, you’re wrong. There’s no feeling of that sort here amongst the students, and Sally certainly isn’t like that. She and Mr. Akibombo have lunch together quite often, and nobody could be blacker than he is.”

  “Then it is communists—you know what the Americans are about communists. Nigel Chapman now—he is a communist.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Yes, yes. You should have heard what he was saying the other evening.”

  “Nigel will say anything to annoy people. He is very tiresome that way.”

  “You know them all so well. Dear Mrs. Hubbard, you are wonderful! I say to myself again and again—what should I do without Mrs. Hubbard? I rely on you utterly. You are a wonderful, wonderful woman.”

  “After the powder, the jam,” said Mrs. Hubbard.

  “What is that?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do what I can.”

  She left the room, cutting short a gushing speech of thanks.

  Muttering to herself: “Wasting my time—what a maddening woman she is!” she hurried along the passage and into her own sitting room.

  But there was to be no peace for Mrs. Hubbard as yet. A tall figure rose to her feet as Mrs. Hubbard entered and said:

  “I should be glad to speak to you for a few minutes, please.”

  “Of course, Elizabeth.”

  Mrs. Hubbard was rather surprised. Elizabeth Johnston was a girl from the West Indies who was studying law. She was a hard worker, ambitious, who kept very much to herself. She had always seemed particularly well balanced and competent, and Mrs. Hubbard had always regarded her as one of the most satisfactory students in the hostel.

  She was perfectly controlled now, but Mrs. Hubbard caught the slight tremor in her voice although the dark features were quite impassive.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Yes. Will you come with me to my room, please?”

  “Just a moment.” Mrs. Hubbard threw off her coat and gloves and then followed the girl out of the room and up the next flight of stairs. The girl had a room on the top floor. She opened the door and went across to a table near the window.