“But if it was something as serious as that. . . .”
Sally interrupted him.
“I’d say that she had no idea how serious it was. She wasn’t bright, you know. She was pretty dumb. She’d got hold of something but she’d no idea that the something she’d got hold of was dangerous. Anyway, that’s my hunch for what it’s worth.”
“I see. Thank you . . . Now the last time you saw Celia Austin was in the common room after dinner last night, is that right?”
“That’s right. At least, actually, I saw her after that.”
“You saw her after that? Where? In her room?”
“No. When I went up to bed she was going out of the front door just as I came out of the common room.”
“Going out of the front door? Out of the house, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rather surprising. Nobody else has suggested that.”
“I dare say they didn’t know. She certainly said good night and that she was going up to bed, and if I hadn’t seen her I would have assumed that she had gone up to bed.”
“Whereas actually she went upstairs, put on some outdoor things and then left the house. Is that right?”
Sally nodded.
“And I think she was going to meet someone.”
“I see. Someone from outside. Or could it have been one of the students?”
“Well, it’s my hunch that it would be one of the students. You see, if she wanted to speak to somebody privately, there was nowhere very well she could do it in the house. Someone might have suggested that she should come out and meet them somewhere outside.”
“Have you any idea when she got in again?”
“No idea whatever.”
“Would Geronimo know, the manservant?”
“He’d know if she came in after eleven o’clock because that’s the time he bolts and chains the door. Up to that time anyone can get in with their own key.”
“Do you know exactly what time it was when you saw her going out of the house?”
“I’d say it was about—ten. Perhaps a little past ten, but not much.”
“I see. Thank you, Miss Finch, for what you’ve told me.”
Last of all the inspector talked to Elizabeth Johnston. He was at once impressed with the quiet capability of the girl. She answered his questions with intelligent decision and then waited for him to proceed.
“Celia Austin,” he said, “protested vehemently that it was not she who damaged your papers, Miss Johnston. Do you believe her?”
“I do not think Celia did that. No.”
“You don’t know who did?”
“The obvious answer is Nigel Chapman. But it seems to me a little too obvious. Nigel is intelligent. He would not use his own ink.”
“And if not Nigel, who then?”
“That is more difficult. But I think Celia knew who it was—or at least guessed.”
“Did she tell you so?”
“Not in so many words; but she came to my room on the evening of the day she died, before going down to dinner. She came to tell me that though she was responsible for the thefts she had not sabotaged my work. I told her that I accepted that assurance. I asked her if she knew who had done so.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said”—Elizabeth paused a moment, as though to be sure of the accuracy of what she was about to say—“she said, ‘I can’t really be sure, because I don’t see why . . . It might have been a mistake or an accident . . . I’m sure whoever did it is very unhappy about it, and would really like to own up.’ Celia went on, ‘There are some things I don’t understand, like the electric lightbulbs the day the police came.’ ”
Sharpe interrupted.
“What’s this about the police and electric lightbulbs?”
“I don’t know. All Celia said was: ‘I didn’t take them out.’ And then she said: ‘I wondered if it had anything to do with the passport?’ I said, ‘What passport are you talking about?’ And she said: ‘I think someone might have a forged passport.’ ”
The inspector was silent for a moment or two.
Here at last some vague pattern seemed to be taking shape. A passport. . . .
He asked, “What more did she say?”
“Nothing more. She just said: ‘Anyway I shall know more about it tomorrow.’ ”
“She said that, did she? I shall know more about it tomorrow. That’s a very significant remark, Miss Johnston.”
“Yes.”
The inspector was again silent as he reflected.
Something about a passport—and a visit from the police . . . Before coming to Hickory Road, he had carefully looked up the files. A fairly close eye was kept on hostels which housed foreign students. 26 Hickory Road had a good record. Such details as there were, were meagre and unsuggestive. A West African student wanted by the Sheffield police for living on a woman’s earnings; the student in question had been at Hickory Road for a few days and had then gone elsewhere, and had in due course been gathered in and since deported. There had been a routine check of all hostels and boardinghouses for a Eurasian “wanted to assist the police” in the investigation of the murder of a publican’s wife near Cambridge. That had been cleared up when the young man in question had walked into the police station at Hull and had given himself up for the crime. There had been an inquiry into a student’s distribution of subversive pamphlets. All these occurrences had taken place some time ago and could not possibly have any connection with the death of Celia Austin.
He sighed and looked up to find Elizabeth Johnston’s dark intelligent eyes watching him.
On an impulse, he said, “Tell me, Miss Johnston, have you ever had a feeling—an impression—of something wrong about this place?”
She looked surprised.
“In what way—wrong?”
“I couldn’t really say. I’m thinking of something Miss Sally Finch said to me.”
“Oh—Sally Finch!”
There was an intonation in her voice which he found hard to place. He felt interested and went on:
“Miss Finch seemed to me a good observer, both shrewd and practical. She was very insistent on there being something—odd, about this place—though she found it difficult to define just what it was.”
Elizabeth said sharply:
“That is her American way of thought. They are all the same, these Americans, nervous, apprehensive, suspecting every kind of foolish thing! Look at the fools they make of themselves with their witch hunts, their hysterical spy mania, their obsession over communism. Sally Finch is typical.”
The inspector’s interest grew. So Elizabeth disliked Sally Finch. Why? Because Sally was an American? Or did Elizabeth dislike Americans merely because Sally Finch was an American, and had she some reason of her own for disliking the attractive redhead? Perhaps it was just simple female jealousy.
He resolved to try a line of approach that he had sometimes found useful. He said smoothly:
“As you may appreciate, Miss Johnston, in an establishment like this, the level of intelligence varies a great deal. Some people—most people—we just ask for facts. But when we come across someone with a high level of intelligence—”
He paused. The inference was flattering. Would she respond?
After a brief pause, she did.
“I think I understand what you mean, Inspector. The intellectual level here is not, as you say, very high. Nigel Chapman has a certain quickness of intellect, but his mind is shallow. Leonard Bateson is a plodder—no more. Valerie Hobhouse has a good quality of mind, but her outlook is commercial, and she’s too lazy to use her brains on anything worthwhile. What you want is the detachment of a trained mind.”
“Such as yours, Miss Johnston.”
She accepted the tribute without a protest. He realised, with some interest, that behind her modest pleasant manner, here was a young woman who was positively arrogant in her appraisement of her own qualities.
“I’m inclined
to agree with your estimate of your fellow students, Miss Hobhouse. Chapman is clever but childish. Valerie Hobhouse has brains but a blasé attitude to life. You, as you say, have a trained mind. That’s why I’d value your views—the views of a powerful detached intellect.”
For a moment he was afraid he had overdone it, but he need have had no fears.
“There is nothing wrong about this place, Inspector. Pay no attention to Sally Finch. This is a decent well-run hostel. I am certain that you will find no trace here of any subversive activities.”
Inspector Sharpe felt a little surprised.
“It wasn’t really subversive activities I was thinking about.”
“Oh—I see—” She was a little taken aback. “I was linking up what Celia said about a passport. But looking at it impartially and weighing up all the evidence, it seems quite certain to me that the reason for Celia’s death was what I should express as a private one—some sex complication, perhaps. I’m sure it had nothing to do with what I might call the hostel as a hostel, or anything ‘going on’ here. Nothing, I am sure, is going on. I should be aware of the fact if it were so, my perceptions are very keen.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Miss Johnston. You’ve been very kind and helpful.”
Elizabeth Johnston went out. Inspector Sharpe sat staring at the closed door and Sergeant Cobb had to speak to him twice before he roused himself.
“Eh?”
“I said that’s the lot, sir.”
“Yes, and what have we got? Precious little. But I’ll tell you one thing, Cobb. I’m coming back here tomorrow with a search warrant. We’ll go away talking pretty now and they’ll think it’s all over. But there’s something going on in this place. Tomorrow I’ll turn it upside down—not so easy when you don’t know what you’re looking for, but there’s a chance that I’ll find something to give me a clue. That’s a very interesting girl who just went out. She’s got the ego of a Napoleon, and I strongly suspect that she knows something.”
Chapter Twelve
I
Hercule Poirot, at work upon his correspondence, paused in the middle of a sentence that he was dictating. Miss Lemon looked up questioningly.
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
“My mind wanders!” Poirot waved a hand. “After all, this letter is not important. Be so kind, Miss Lemon, as to get me your sister upon the telephone.”
“Yes, M. Poirot.”
A few moments later Poirot crossed the room and took the receiver from his secretary’s hand.
“’Allo!” he said.
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
Mrs. Hubbard sounded rather breathless.
“I trust, Mrs. Hubbard, that I am not disturbing you?”
“I’m past being disturbed,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“There have been agitations, yes?” Poirot asked delicately.
“That’s a very nice way of putting it, M. Poirot. That’s exactly what they have been. Inspector Sharpe finished questioning all the students yesterday, and then he came back with a search warrant today and I’ve got Mrs. Nicoletis on my hands with raving hysterics.”
Poirot clucked his tongue sympathetically.
Then he said, “It is just a little question I have to ask. You sent me a list of those things that had disappeared—and other queer happenings—what I have to ask is this, did you write that list in chronological order?”
“You mean?”
“I mean, were the things written down exactly in the order of their disappearance?”
“No, they weren’t. I’m sorry—I just put them down as I thought of them. I’m so sorry if I misled you.”
“I should have asked you before,” said Poirot. “But it did not strike me then as important. I have your list here. One evening shoe, bracelet, diamond ring, powder compact, lipstick, stethoscope, and so on. But you say that was not the order of disappearance?”
“No.”
“Can you remember now, or would it be too difficult for you, what was the proper order?”
“Well, I’m not sure if I could now, M. Poirot. You see it’s all some time ago. I should have to think it out. Actually, after I had talked with my sister and knew I was coming to see you, I made a list, and I should say that I put it down in the order of things as I remembered them. I mean, the evening shoe because it was so peculiar; and then the bracelet and the powder compact and the cigarette lighter and the diamond ring because they were all rather important things and looked as though we had a genuine thief at work; and then I remembered the other more unimportant things later and added them. I mean the boracic and the electric lightbulbs and the rucksack. They weren’t really important and I only really thought of them as a kind of afterthought.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Yes, I see . . . Now what I would ask of you, madame, is to sit down now, when you have the leisure, that is. . . .”
“I dare say when I’ve got Mrs. Nicoletis to bed with a sedative and calmed down Geronimo and Maria, I shall have a little time. What is it you want me to do?”
“Sit down and try to put down, as nearly as you can, the chronological order in which the various incidents occurred.”
“Certainly, M. Poirot. The rucksack, I believe, was the first, and the electric light bulbs—which I really didn’t think had any connection with the other things—and then the bracelet and the compact, no—the evening shoe. But there, you don’t want to hear me speculate about it. I’ll put them down as best I can.”
“Thank you, madame, I shall be much obliged to you.”
Poirot hung up the phone.
“I am vexed with myself,” he said to Miss Lemon. “I have departed from the principles of order and method. I should have made quite sure from the start, the exact order in which these thefts occurred.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Lemon mechanically. “Are you going to finish these letters now, M. Poirot?”
But once again Poirot waved her indignantly away.
II
On arrival back at Hickory Road with a search warrant on Saturday morning, Inspector Sharpe had demanded an interview with Mrs. Nicoletis, who always came on Saturdays to do accounts with Mrs. Hubbard. He had explained what he was about to do.
Mrs. Nicoletis protested with vigour.
“But it is an insult, that! My students they will leave—they will all leave. I shall be ruined. . . .”
“No, no, madam. I’m sure they will be sensible. After all, this is a case of murder.”
“It is not murder—it is suicide.”
“And I’m sure once I’ve explained, no one will object. . . .”
Mrs. Hubbard put in a soothing word.
“I’m sure,” she said, “everyone will be sensible—except,” she added thoughtfully, “perhaps Mr. Achmed Ali and Mr. Chandra Lal.”
“Pah!” said Mrs. Nicoletis. “Who cares about them?”
“Thank you, madam,” said the inspector. “Then I’ll make a start here, in your sitting room.”
An immediate and violent protest came from Mrs. Nicoletis at the suggestion.
“You search where you please,” she said, “but here, no! I refuse.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Nicoletis, but I have to go through the house from top to bottom.”
“That is right, yes, but not in my room. I am above the law.”
“No one’s above the law. I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to stand aside.”
“It is an outrage,” Mrs. Nicoletis screamed with fury. “You are officious busybodies. I will write to everyone. I will write to my member of Parliament. I will write to the papers.”
“Write to anyone you please, madam,” said Inspector Sharpe. “I’m going to search this room.”
He started straight away upon the bureau. A large carton of confectionery, a mass of papers, and a large variety of assorted junk rewarded his search. He moved from there to a cupboard in the corner of the room.
“This is locked. Can I have the key, please?”
“Never!” screamed
Mrs. Nicoletis. “Never, never, never shall you have the key! Beast and pig of a policeman, I spit at you. I spit! I spit! I spit!”
“You might just as well give me the key,” said Inspector Sharpe. “If not, I shall simply prise the door open.”
“I will not give you the key! You will have to tear my clothes off me before you get the key! And that—that will be a scandal.”
“Get a chisel, Cobb,” said Inspector Sharpe resignedly.
Mrs. Nicoletis uttered a scream of fury. Inspector Sharpe paid no attention. The chisel was brought. Two sharp cracks and the door of the cupboard came open. As it swung forward a large consignment of empty brandy bottles poured out of the cupboard.
“Beast! Pig! Devil!” screamed Mrs. Nicoletis.
“Thank you, madam,” said the inspector politely. “We’ve finished in here.”
Mrs. Hubbard tactfully replaced the bottles while Mrs. Nicoletis had hysterics.
One mystery, the mystery of Mrs. Nicoletis’s tempers, was now cleared up.
III
Poirot’s telephone call came through just as Mrs. Hubbard was pouring out an appropriate dose of sedative from the private medicine cupboard in her sitting room. After replacing the receiver she went back to Mrs. Nicoletis whom she had left screaming and kicking her heels on the sofa in her own sitting room.
“Now you drink this,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “And you’ll feel better.”
“Gestapo!” said Mrs. Nicoletis, who was now quiet but sullen.
“I shouldn’t think any more about it if I were you,” said Mrs. Hubbard soothingly.
“Gestapo!” said Mrs. Nicoletis again. “Gestapo! That is what they are!”
“They have to do their duty, you know,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“Is it their duty to pry into my private cupboards? I say to them, ‘That is not for you.’ I lock it. I put the key down my bosom. If you had not been there as a witness they would have torn my clothes off me without shame.”
“Oh no, I don’t think they would have done that,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“That is what you say! Instead they get a chisel and they force my door. That is structural damage to the house for which I shall be responsible.”
“Well, you see, if you wouldn’t give them the key. . . .”
Hickory Dickory Dock: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 11
