He bowed and spread out his hands.
“There, I have wearied you long enough.”
The students clapped him vigorously. Poirot bowed. And then, as he was about to sit down, Colin McNabb took his pipe from between his teeth and observed:
“And now, perhaps, you’ll talk about what you’re really here for!”
There was a momentary silence and then Patricia said reproachfully, “Colin.”
“Well, we can guess, can’t we?” He looked round scornfully. “M. Poirot’s given us a very amusing little talk, but that’s not what he came here for. He’s on the job. You don’t really think, M. Poirot, that we’re not wise to that?”
“You speak for yourself, Colin,” said Sally.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” said Colin.
Again Poirot spread out his hands in a graceful acknowledging gesture.
“I will admit,” he said, “that my kind hostess has confided to me that certain events have caused her—worry.”
Len Bateson got up, his face heavy and truculent.
“Look here,” he said, “what’s all this? Has this been planted on us?”
“Have you really only just tumbled to that, Bateson?” asked Nigel sweetly.
Celia gave a frightened gasp and said: Then I was right!”
Mrs. Hubbard spoke with decisive authority.
“I asked M. Poirot to give us a talk, but I also wanted to ask his advice about various things that have happened lately. Something’s got to be done and it seemed to me that the only other alternative is—the police.”
At once a violent altercation broke out. Genevieve burst into heated French. “It was a disgrace, shameful, to go to the police!” Other voices chimed in, for or against. In a final lull Leonard Bateson’s voice was raised with decision.
“Let’s hear what M. Poirot has to say about our trouble.”
Mrs. Hubbard said:
“I’ve given M. Poirot all the facts. If he wants to ask any questions, I’m sure none of you will object.”
Poirot bowed to her.
“Thank you.” With the air of a conjurer he brought out a pair of evening shoes and handed them to Sally Finch.
“Your shoes, mademoiselle?”
“Why—yes—both of them? Where did the missing one come from?”
“From the Lost Property Office at Baker Street Station.”
“But what made you think it might be there, M. Poirot?”
“A very simple process of deduction. Someone takes a shoe from your room. Why? Not to wear and not to sell. And since the house will be searched by everyone to try and find it, then the shoe must be got out of the house, or destroyed. But it is not so easy to destroy a shoe. The easiest way is to take it in a bus or train in a parcel in the rush hour and leave it thrust down under a seat. That was my first guess and it proved right—so I knew that I was on safe ground—the shoe was taken, as your poet says, ‘to annoy, because he knows it teases.’ ”
Valerie gave a short laugh.
“That points to you, Nigel, my love, with an unerring finger.”
Nigel said, smirking a little, “If the shoe fits, wear it.”
“Nonsense,” said Sally. “Nigel didn’t take my shoe.”
“Of course he didn’t,” said Patricia angrily. “It’s the most absurd idea.”
“I don’t know about absurd,” said Nigel. “Actually I didn’t do anything of the kind—as no doubt we shall all say.”
It was as though Poirot had been waiting for just those words as an actor waits for his cue. His eyes rested thoughtfully on Len Bateson’s flushed face, then they swept inquiringly over the rest of the students.
He said, using his hands in a deliberately foreign gesture:
“My position is delicate. I am a guest here. I have come at the invitation of Mrs. Hubbard—to spend a pleasant evening, that is all. And also, of course, to return a very charming pair of shoes to mademoiselle. For anything further—” he paused. “Monsieur—Bateson? yes, Bateson—has asked me to say what I myself think of this—trouble. But it would be an impertinence for me to speak unless I were invited so to do not by one person alone, but by you all.”
Mr. Akibombo was seen to nod his black curled head in vigorous asseveration.
“That is very correct procedure, yes,” he said. “True democratic proceeding is to put matter to the voting of all present.”
The voice of Sally Finch rose impatiently.
“Oh, shucks,” she said. “This is a kind of party, all friends together. Let’s hear what M. Poirot advises without any more fuss.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Sally,” said Nigel.
Poirot bowed his head.
“Very well,” he said. “Since you all ask me this question, I reply that my advice is quite simple. Mrs. Hubbard—or Mrs. Nicoletis rather—should call in the police at once. No time should be lost.”
Chapter Five
There was no doubt that Poirot’s statement was unexpected. It caused not a ripple of protest or comment, but a sudden and uncomfortable silence.
Under cover of that momentary paralysis, Poirot was taken by Mrs. Hubbard up to her own sitting room, with only a quick polite “Good night to you all,” to herald his departure.
Mrs. Hubbard switched on the light, closed the door, and begged M. Poirot to take the armchair by the fireplace. Her nice good-humoured face was puckered with doubt and anxiety. She offered her guest a cigarette, but Poirot refused politely, explaining that he preferred his own. He offered her one, but she refused, saying in an abstracted tone: “I don’t smoke, M. Poirot.”
Then, as she sat down opposite him, she said, after a momentary hesitation:
“I dare say you’re right, M. Poirot. Perhaps we should get the police in on this—especially after this malicious ink business. But I rather wish you hadn’t said so—right out like that.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, as he lit one of his tiny cigarettes and watched the smoke ascend. “You think I should have dissembled?”
“Well, I suppose it’s nice to be fair and above board about things—but it seems to me it might have been better to keep quiet, and just ask an officer to come round and explain things privately to him. What I mean is, whoever’s been doing these stupid things—well, that person’s warned now.”
“Perhaps, yes.”
“I should say quite certainly,” said Mrs. Hubbard, rather sharply. “No perhaps about it! Even if he’s one of the servants or a student who wasn’t here this evening, the word will get around. It always does.”
“So true. It always does.”
“And there’s Mrs. Nicoletis, too. I really don’t know what attitude she’ll take up. One never does know with her.”
“It will be interesting to find out.”
“Naturally we can’t call in the police unless she agrees—oh, who’s that now?”
There had been a sharp authoritative tap on the door. It was repeated and almost before Mrs. Hubbard had called an irritable “Come in,” the door opened and Colin McNabb, his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth and a scowl on his face, entered the room.
Removing the pipe, and closing the door behind him, he said:
“You’ll excuse me, but I was anxious to just have a word with M. Poirot here.”
“With me?” Poirot turned his head in innocent surprise.
“Ay, with you.” Colin spoke grimly.
He drew up a rather uncomfortable chair and sat squarely on it facing Hercule Poirot.
“You’ve given us an amusing talk tonight,” he said indulgently. “And I’ll not deny that you’re a man who’s had a varied and lengthy experience, but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, your methods and your ideas are both equally antiquated.”
“Really, Colin,” said Mrs. Hubbard, colouring. “You’re extremely rude.”
“I’m not meaning to give offence, but I’ve got to make things clear. Crime and Punishment, M. Poirot—that’s as far as your horizon stretches.”
“You take the narrow view of the Law—and what’s more, of the Law at its most old-fashioned. Nowadays, even the Law has to keep itself cognisant of the newest and most up-to-date theories of what causes crime. It is the causes that are important, M. Poirot.”
“But there,” cried Poirot, “to speak in your new-fashioned phrase, I could not agree with you more!”
“Then you’ve got to consider the cause of what has been happening in this house—you’ve got to find out why these things have been done.”
“But I am still agreeing with you—yes, that is most important.”
“Because there always is a reason, and it may be, to the person concerned, a very good reason.”
At this point Mrs. Hubbard, unable to contain herself, interjected sharply, “Rubbish.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Colin, turning slightly towards her. “You’ve got to take into account the psychological background.”
“Psychological balderdash,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “I’ve no patience with all that sort of talk!”
“That’s because you know precisely nothing about it,” said Colin, in a gravely rebuking fashion. He returned his gaze to Poirot.
“I’m interested in these subjects. I am at present taking a post-graduate course in psychiatry and psychology. We come across the most involved and astounding cases and what I’m pointing out to you, M. Poirot, is that you can’t just dismiss the criminal with a doctrine of original sin, or wilful disregard of the laws of the land. You’ve got to have an understanding of the root of the trouble if you’re ever to effect a cure of the young delinquent. These ideas were not known or thought of in your day and I’ve no doubt you find them hard to accept—”
“Stealing’s stealing,” put in Mrs. Hubbard stubbornly.
Colin frowned impatiently.
Poirot said meekly:
“My ideas are doubtless old-fashioned, but I am perfectly prepared to listen to you, Mr. McNabb.”
Colin looked agreeably surprised.
“That’s very fairly said, M. Poirot. Now I’ll try to make this matter clear to you, using very simple terms.”
“Thank you,” said Poirot meekly.
“For convenience’s sake, I’ll start with the pair of shoes you brought with you tonight and returned to Sally Finch. If you remember, one shoe was stolen. Only one.”
“I remember being struck by the fact,” said Poirot.
Colin McNabb leaned forward; his dour but handsome features were lit up by eagerness.
“Ah, but you didn’t see the significance of it. It’s one of the prettiest and most satisfying examples anyone could wish to come across. We have here, very definitely, a Cinderella complex. You are maybe acquainted with the Cinderella fairy story.”
“Of French origin—mais oui.”
“Cinderella, the unpaid drudge, sits by the fire; her sisters, dressed in their finery, go to the Prince’s ball. A Fairy Godmother sends Cinderella too, to that ball. At the stroke of midnight, her finery turns back to rags—she escapes hurriedly, leaving behind her one slipper. So here we have a mind that compares itself to Cinderella (unconsciously, of course). Here we have frustration, envy, the sense of inferiority. The girl steals a slipper. Why?”
“A girl?”
“But naturally, a girl. That,” said Colin reprovingly, “should be clear to the meanest intelligence.”
“Really, Colin!” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“Pray continue,” said Poirot courteously.
“Probably she herself does not know why she does it—but the inner wish is clear. She wants to be the Princess, to be identified by the Prince and claimed by him. Another significant fact, the slipper is stolen from an attractive girl who is going to a ball.”
Colin’s pipe had long since gone out. He waved it now with mounting enthusiasm.
“And now we’ll take a few of the other happenings. A magpie acquiring of pretty things—all things associated with attractive femininity. A powder compact, lipsticks, earrings, a bracelet, a ring—there is a two-fold significance here. The girl wants to be noticed. She wants, even, to be punished—as is frequently the case with very young juvenile delinquents. These things are none of them what you could call ordinary criminal thefts. It is not the value of these things that is wanted. In just such a way do well-to-do women go into department stores and steal things they could perfectly well afford to pay for.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Hubbard belligerently. “Some people are just plain dishonest, that’s all there is to it.”
“Yet a diamond ring of some value was amongst the things stolen,” said Poirot, ignoring Mrs. Hubbard’s interpolation.
“That was returned.”
“And surely, Mr. McNabb, you would not say that a stethoscope is a feminine pretty pretty?”
“That had a deeper significance. Women who feel they are deficient in feminine attraction can find sublimation in the pursuit of a career.”
“And the cookery book?”
“A symbol of home life, husband and family.”
“And boracic powder?”
Colin said irritably:
“My dear M. Poirot. Nobody would steal boracic powder! Why should they?”
“This is what I have asked myself. I must admit, M. McNabb, that you seem to have an answer for everything. Explain to me, then, the significance of the disappearance of an old pair of flannel trousers—your flannel trousers, I understand.”
For the first time Colin appeared ill at ease. He blushed and cleared his throat.
“I could explain that—but it would be somewhat involved, and perhaps—er well, rather embarrassing.”
“Ah, you spare my blushes.”
Suddenly Poirot leaned forward and tapped the young man on the knee.
“And the ink that is spilt over another student’s papers, the silk scarf that is cut and slashed. Do these things cause you no disquietude?”
The complacence and superiority of Colin’s manner underwent a sudden and not unlikeable change.
“They do,” he said. “Believe me, they do. It’s serious. She ought to have treatment—at once. But medical treatment, that’s the point. It’s not a case for the police. She’s all tied up in knots. If I. . . .”
Poirot interrupted him.
“You know then who she is?”
“Well, I have a very strong suspicion.”
Poirot murmured with the air of one who is recapitulating:
“A girl who is not outstandingly successful with the other sex. A shy girl. An affectionate girl. A girl whose brain is inclined to be slow in its reactions. A girl who feels frustrated and lonely. A girl. . . .”
There was a tap on the door. Poirot broke off. The tap was repeated.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
The door opened and Celia Austin came in.
“Ah,” said Poirot, nodding his head. “Exactly. Miss Celia Austin.”
Celia looked at Colin with agonised eyes.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said breathlessly. “I came—I came. . . .”
She took a deep breath and rushed to Mrs. Hubbard.
“Please, please don’t send for the police. It’s me. I’ve been taking those things. I don’t know why. I can’t imagine. I didn’t want to. It just—it just came over me.” She whirled round on Colin. “So now you know what I’m like . . . and I suppose you’ll never speak to me again. I know I’m awful. . . .”
“Och! not a bit of it,” said Colin. His rich voice was warm and friendly. “You’re just a bit mixed up, that’s all. It’s just a kind of illness you’ve had, from not looking at things clearly. If you’ll trust me, Celia, I’ll soon be able to put you right.”
“Oh Colin—really?”
Celia looked at him with unconcealed adoration.
“I’ve been so dreadfully worried.”
He took her hand in a slightly avuncular manner.
&
nbsp; “Well, there’s no need to worry any more.” Rising to his feet he drew Celia’s hand through his arm and looked sternly at Mrs. Hubbard.
“I hope now,” he said, “that there’ll be no more foolish talk of calling in the police. Nothing’s been stolen of any real worth, and what has been taken Celia will return.”
“I can’t return the bracelet and the powder compact,” said Celia anxiously. “I pushed them down a gutter. But I’ll buy new ones.”
“And the stethoscope?” said Poirot. “Where did you put that?”
Celia flushed.
“I never took any stethoscope. What should I want with a silly old stethoscope?” Her flush deepened. “And it wasn’t me who spilt ink all over Elizabeth’s papers. I’d never do a—malicious thing like that.”
“Yet you cut and slashed Miss Hobhouse’s scarf, mademoiselle.”
Celia looked uncomfortable. She said rather uncertainly:
“That was different. I mean—Valerie didn’t mind.”
“And the rucksack?”
“Oh, I didn’t cut that up. That was just temper.”
Poirot took out the list he had copied from Mrs. Hubbard’s little book.
“Tell me,” he said, “and this time it must be the truth. What are you or are you not responsible for of these happenings?”
Celia glanced down the list and her answer came at once.
“I don’t know anything about the rucksack, or the electric lightbulbs, or boracic or bath salts, and the ring was just a mistake. When I realised it was valuable I returned it.”
“I see.”
“Because really I didn’t mean to be dishonest. It was only—”
Hickory Dickory Dock: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 4
