Hickory Dickory Dock

Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie. Read by Hugh Fraser.

Chapter One.

Hercule Poirot frowned.

Miss Lemon, he said.

Yes, Monsieur Poirot?

There are three mistakes in this letter.

His voice held incredulity, for Miss Lemon, that hideous and efficient woman, never made mistakes. She was never ill, never tired, never upset, never inaccurate.

For all practical purposes, that is to say, she was not a woman at all. She was a machine, the perfect secretary. She knew everything, she coped with everything. She

ran Hercule Poirot's life for him so that it too functioned like a machine. Order and method had been Hercule Poirot's watchwords from many years ago. With George, his perfect

manservant, and Miss Lemon, his perfect secretary, order and method ruled supreme in his life. Now that crumpets were baked square as well as round, he had nothing about which

to complain.

And yet this morning, Miss Lemon had made three mistakes in typing a perfectly simple letter, and moreover, had not even noticed those mistakes. The stars stood still in their

courses.

Hercule Poirot held out the offending document. He was not annoyed, he was merely bewildered.

This was one of the things that could not happen. But it had happened.

Miss Lemon took the letter. She looked at it.

For the first time in his life, Poirot saw her blush. A deep, ugly, unbecoming flush that dyed her face right up to the roots of her strong, grizzled hair.

Oh dear, she said. I can't think how. At least,

I can. It's because of my sister.

Your sister?

Another shock.

Poirot had never conceived of Miss Lemon's having a sister. Or, for that matter, having a father, a mother, or even grandparents.

Miss Lemon somehow was so completely machine-made, a precision instrument, so to speak, that to think of her having affections or anxieties or family worries seemed quite ludicrous. It was

well known that the whole of Miss Lemon's heart and mind was given, when she was not on duty, to the perfection of a new filing system, which was to

be patented and bear her name.

Your sister? Hercule Poirot repeated, therefore with an incredulous note in his voice.

Miss Lemon nodded a vigorous assent. Yes, she said.

I don't think I've ever mentioned her to you. Practically all her life has been spent in Singapore. Her husband was in the rubber business there.

Hercule Poirot nodded understandingly. It seemed to him appropriate that Miss Lemon's sister should have spent most of her life in Singapore. That was what places like Singapore were for.

The sisters of women like Miss Lemon married men in Singapore, so that the Miss Lemons of this world could devote themselves with machine-like efficiency to their employer's affairs, and

of course to the invention of filing systems in their moments of relaxation.

I comprehend, he said. Proceed.

Miss Lemon proceeded. She was left a widow four years ago. No children. I managed to get her fixed up in a very nice little flat at a quite reasonable

rent. Of course, Miss Lemon would manage to do just that almost impossible thing. She's reasonably well off, though money doesn't go as far as it did, but her tastes

aren't expensive, and she has enough to be quite comfortable if she is careful.

Miss Lemon paused, and then continued.

But the truth is, of course, she was lonely. She had never lived in England, and she'd got no old friends or cronies, and of course she had a lot

of time on her hands.

Anyway, she told me about six months ago that she was thinking of taking up this job. Job?

Warden, I think they call it, or matron, of a hostel for students. It was owned by a woman who was partly Greek, and she wanted someone to run it

for her, manage the catering, and see that things went smoothly.

It's an old-fashioned rooming house in Hickory Road, if you know where that is.

Poirot did not. It used to be a superior neighbourhood once, and the houses are well built. My sister was to have nice accommodation, bedroom and sitting room, and a

tiny bath kitchenette of her own. Miss Lemon paused. Poirot made an encouraging noise.

So far, this did not seem at all like a tale of disaster. I wasn't any too sure about it myself, but I saw the force of my sister's arguments.

She's never been one to sit with her hands crossed all day long, and she's a very practical woman, and good at running things, and of course it wasn't as

though she were thinking of putting money into it or anything like that. It was purely a salaried position. Not a high salary, but she didn't need that, and there

was no hard physical work. She's always been fond of young people, and good with them, and having lived in the East so long, she understands racial differences and people's

susceptibilities.

Because these students at the hostel are of all nationalities. Mostly English, but some of them are black, I believe.

Naturally, said Hercule Poirot.

Half the nurses in our hospitals seem to be black these days, said Miss Lemon doubtfully, and I understand much pleasanter and more attentive than the English ones, but that's

neither here nor there. We talked the scheme over, and finally my sister moved in. Neither she nor I cared very much for the proprietress, Mrs. Nicoletis, a woman of

very uncertain temper,

sometimes charming and sometimes,

I'm sorry to say, quite the reverse, and both cheese-paring and impractical. Still, naturally, if she'd been a thoroughly competent woman, she wouldn't have needed any assistance. My sister is

not one to let people's tantrums and vagaries worry her. She can hold her own with anyone, and she never stands any nonsense.

Poirot nodded. He felt a vague resemblance to Miss Lemon showing in this account of Miss Lemon's sister. A Miss Lemon softened, as it were, by marriage and the climate

of Singapore, but a woman with the same hard core of sense.

So your sister took the job? he asked. Yes. She moved into 26 Hickory Road about six months ago. On the whole, she liked her work there and found it

interesting.

Hercule Poirot listened.

So far, the adventure of Miss Lemon's sister had been disappointingly tame.

But for some time now she's been badly worried, very badly worried. Why? Well, you see, Monsieur Poirot, she doesn't like the things that are going on.

There are students there of both sexes? Poirot inquired delicately. Oh, no, Monsieur Poirot. I don't mean that. One is always prepared for difficulties of that kind. One expects them.

No, you see, things have been disappearing. Disappearing?

Yes, and such odd things, and all in rather an unnatural way. When you say things have been disappearing, you mean things have been stolen?

Yes. Have the police been called in? No, not yet. My sister hopes that it may not be necessary. She's fond of these young people, of some of them, that

is, and she would very much prefer to straighten things out by herself. Yes, said Poirot thoughtfully. I can quite see that. But that does not explain, if I may

say so, your own anxiety, which I take to be a reflex of your sister's anxiety. I don't like the situation, Monsieur Poirot. I don't like it at all.

I cannot help feeling that something is going on which I do not understand. No ordinary explanation seems quite to cover the facts, and I really cannot imagine what other

explanation there can be.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Miss Lemon's heel of Achilles had always been her imagination. She had none. On questions of fact, she was invincible. On questions of surmise, she was lost. Not for her

the state of mind of Cortez's men upon the peak of Darien.

Not ordinary petty thieving, eh? A kleptomaniac, perhaps? I do not think so. I read up on the subject, said the conscientious Miss Lemon, in the Encyclopedia Britannica and in

a medical work, but I was not convinced.

Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute and a half.

Did he wish to embroil himself in the troubles of Miss Lemon's sister and the passions and grievances of a polyglot hostel?

But it was very annoying and inconvenient to have Miss Lemon making mistakes in typing his letters. He told himself that if he were to embroil himself in the matter,

that would be the reason. He did not admit to himself that he had been rather bored of late, and that the very triviality of the business attracted him.

The parsley sinking into the butter on a hot day, he murmured to himself. Parsley? Butter? Miss Lemon looked startled. A quotation from one of your classics, he said. You

are acquainted, no doubt, with the adventures, to say nothing of the exploits, of Sherlock Holmes? Oh, you mean these Baker Street societies and all that? said Miss Lemon. Grown

men being so silly. But there, that's men all over. Like the model railways they go on playing with. I can't say I've ever had time to read any of

the stories. When I do get time for reading, which isn't very often, I prefer an improving book.

Hercule Poirot bowed his head gracefully. How would it be, Miss Lemon, if you were to invite your sister here for some suitable refreshment?

Afternoon tea, perhaps? I might be able to be of some slight assistance to her. That's very kind of you, Monsieur Poirot. Really, very kind indeed. My sister is always

free in the afternoons.

Then, shall we say tomorrow, if you can arrange it?

And in due course, the faithful George was instructed to provide a meal of square crumpets, richly buttered, symmetrical sandwiches, and other suitable components of a lavish English afternoon tea.

Chapter 2

Can you explain to me exactly what does worry you? Yes, I can. It would be natural enough for money to be taken, small sums here and there. And if

it were jewelry, that's quite straightforward, too. At least, I don't mean straightforward, um, quite the opposite, but it would fit in with kleptomania or dishonesty. But I'll just read

you a list of the things that have been taken that I've put down on paper.

Mrs. Hubbard opened her bag and took out a small notebook.

Evening shoe, one of a new pair;

bracelet, costume jewelry;

diamond ring, found in plate of soup;

powder compact; lipstick; stethoscope; earrings; cigarette lighter; old flannel trousers;

electric light bulbs; box of chocolates;

silk scarf, found cut to pieces; rucksack, ditto; boracic powder; bath salts; cookery book.

Hercule Poirot drew in a long, deep breath.

"Remarkable," he said, "and quite,

quite fascinating." He was entranced.

He looked from the severe, disapproving face of Miss Lemon to the kindly, distressed face of Mrs. Hubbard.

"I congratulate you," he said warmly to the latter. She looked startled.

"But why, Monsieur Poirot?"

"I congratulate you on having such a unique and beautiful problem."

"Well, perhaps it makes sense to you, Monsieur Poirot, but-" "It does not make sense at all. It reminds me of nothing so much as a round game I was

recently persuaded to play by some young friends during the Christmas season. It was called, I understand, The Three-Horned Lady. Each person in turn uttered the following phrase,

'I went to Paris and bought,' adding some article. The next person repeated that and added a further article, and the object of the game was to memorize in their

proper order the articles thus enumerated. Some of them, I may say, of a most monstrous and ridiculous nature. A piece of soap, a white elephant, a gate-leg table, and

a Muscovy duck were, I remember, some of the items.

The difficulty of memorization lay, of course, in the totally unrelated nature of the objects, the lack of a sequence, so to speak.

As in the list you have just shown me,

by the time that, say, 12 objects had been mentioned, to enumerate them in their proper order became almost impossible. A failure to do so resulted in a paper horn

being handed to the competitor, and he or she had to continue the recitation next time in the terms, 'I, a one-horned lady, went to Paris,' etc.

After three horns had been acquired, retirement was compulsory. The last left in was the winner." "I'm sure you were the winner, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Lemon, with the faith

of a loyal employee. Poirot beamed. "That was, in fact, so," he said. "To even the most haphazard assembly of objects, one can bring order, and with a little ingenuity,

sequence, so to speak. That is, one says to oneself mentally, 'With a piece of soap, I wash the dirt from a large white marble elephant which stands on a

gateleg table,' and so on."

Mrs. Hubbard said respectfully, "Perhaps you could do the same thing with the list of things I've given you."

"Undoubtedly, I could.

A lady with her right shoe on puts a bracelet on her left arm. She then puts on powder and lipstick and goes down to dinner and drops her ring

in the soup, and so on. I could thus commit your list to memory. But that is not what we are seeking.

Why was such a haphazard collection of things stolen?

Is there any system behind it? Some fixed idea of any kind?

We have here primarily a process of analysis.

The first thing to do is to study the list of objects very carefully." There was a silence whilst Poirot applied himself to study.

Mrs. Hubbard watched him with the rapt attention of a small boy watching a conjurer, waiting hopefully for a rabbit, or at least streams of colored ribbons to appear.

Miss Lemon, unimpressed, withdrew into consideration of the finer points of the system.

When Poirot finally spoke, Mrs. Hubbard jumped. "The first thing that strikes me is this," said Poirot. "Of all these things that disappeared, most of them were of small value,

some quite negligible, with the exception of two, a stethoscope and a diamond ring.

Leaving the stethoscope aside for a moment, I should like to concentrate on the ring. You say a valuable ring?

How valuable?" "Well, I couldn't exactly say, Monsieur Poirot. It was a solitaire diamond with a cluster of small diamonds, top and bottom. It had been Miss Lane's mother's engagement

ring, I understand.

She was most upset when it was missing, and we were all relieved when it turned up the same evening in Miss Hobhouse's plate of soup. Just a nasty practical

joke, we thought."

"And so it may have been. But I myself consider that its theft and return are significant.

If a lipstick or a powder compact or a book are missing, it is not sufficient to make you call in the police. But a valuable diamond ring is different.

There is every chance that the police will be called in. So the ring is returned."

"But why take it if you're going to return it?" said Miss Lemon, frowning. "Why indeed?" said Poirot. "But for the moment we would leave the questions."

I am engaged now on classifying these thefts, and I am taking the ring first. Who is this Ms. Lane from whom it was stolen?

Patricia Lane? Oh, she's a very nice girl. Going in for a, a what do you call it? Um, 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 jewelry, 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 coloring,

rather washed-out looking. Quiet and ladylike, but not much spirit to her. What you'd call rather a, well, a, an earnest type of girl.

And the ring turned up again in Ms. Hobhouse's plate of soup.

Who is Ms. Hobhouse?

Valerie Hobhouse, she's a clever, dark girl with rather a sarcastic way of talking. She works in a beauty parlor, Sabrina Fair. I suppose you've 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 jewelry, 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?

Oh, it belonged to Mr. Bateson. He's a big, friendly young man. A medical student? Yes.

Was he very angry? He was absolutely livid, Monsieur 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. 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 light bulbs, 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, Monsieur 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 shoes. 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 were 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? Well, 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 another. 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, Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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, would you please go to Baker Street Station, to the Lost Property Department. The loss occurred when?" Mrs. Hubbard

considered. "Well, I, I can't remember exactly now, Monsieur 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 neighborhood of Hickory Road?" "Two only, Monsieur 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 about 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. Nicolitis 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, Monsieur 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."

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 on 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, twenty-four and twenty-six semi-detached. 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 number twenty-four. Mrs Hubbard went upstairs loosening the collar of her

coat. She sighed as she turned in the direction of Mrs Nicolitis's room.

She tapped on the door and entered.

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

Mrs Nicolitis's sitting room was kept very hot. The big electric fire had all its bars turned on and the window was tightly shut. Mrs Nicolitis 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 Nicolitis 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 Nicolitis produced a sheaf of papers from beneath a cushion in the manner of a successful conjurer. "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 say that to me when

I am being so ruined?" "You make a very substantial profit, Mrs Nicolitis, 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 appetizing 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 Nicolitis. I can

assure you that no foreigner is going to put anything over on me." "Then it is you yourself 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 Nicolitis 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?" "Well, of course they are. There's been some very good cut-price stuff going at Lampson Stores. I've

taken advantage of it. Next week's totals will be below average."

Mrs Nicolitis 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 Nicolitis 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 Nicolitis 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 black students, 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."

"There's no feeling of that sort here amongst the students," said Mrs Hubbard. "And Sally certainly isn't like that. She and Mr Akibombo have lunched together quite often."

"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's 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.

Here are the notes of my work, she said. This represents several months of hard study.

You see what has been done.

Mrs Hubbard caught her breath with a slight gasp.

Ink had been spilled on the table. It had run all over the papers, soaking them through.

Mrs Hubbard touched it with her fingertip. It was still wet. She said, knowing the question to be foolish as she asked it,

You didn't spill the ink yourself? No.

It was done whilst I was out.

Mrs Biggs, do you think? Mrs Biggs was the cleaning woman who looked after the top floor bedrooms.

It was not Mrs Biggs. It was not even my own ink. That is here on the shelf by my bed. It has not been touched.

It was done by someone who brought ink here and did it deliberately.

Mrs Hubbard was shocked. What a very wicked and cruel thing to do.

Yes, it is a bad thing.

The girl spoke quietly, but Mrs Hubbard did not make the mistake of underrating her feelings.

Well, Elizabeth,

I hardly know what to say. I am shocked, badly shocked, and I shall do my utmost to find out who did this wicked, malicious thing.

You've no ideas yourself as to that?

The girl replied at once.

This is green ink. You saw that. Yes, I noticed that.

It is not very common, this green ink. I know one person who uses it.

Nigel Chapman?

Nigel?

Do you think Nigel would do a thing like that?

I should not have thought so, no. But he writes his letters and his notes with green ink.

I shall have to ask a lot of questions. I'm very sorry, Elizabeth, that such a thing should happen in this house, and I can only tell you that I

shall do my best to get to the bottom of it. Thank you, Mrs Hubbard.

There have been other things, have there not? Yes.

Yes.

Mrs Hubbard left the room and started towards the stairs. But she stopped suddenly before proceeding down, and instead went along the passage to a door at the end of

the corridor.

She knocked, and the voice of Miss Sally Finch bade her enter.

The room was a pleasant one, and Sally Finch herself, a cheerful redhead, was a pleasant person. She was writing on a pad and looked up with a bulging cheek.

She held out an open box of sweets and said indistinctly, Candy from home. Have some?

Thank you, Sally. Not just now. I'm rather upset.

She paused.

Have you heard what's happened to Elizabeth Johnston? What's happened to Bess?

The nickname was an affectionate one, and had been accepted as such by the girl herself. Mrs Hubbard described what had happened. Sally showed every sign of sympathetic anger. I'll

say that's a mean thing to do.

I wouldn't believe anyone would do a thing like that to our Bess. Everybody likes her. She's quiet and doesn't get around much or join in, but I'm sure there's

no one who dislikes her.

That's what I should have said. Well, it's all of a piece, isn't it, with the other things. That's why

That's why what? Mrs Hubbard asked as the girl stopped abruptly. Sally said slowly,

That's why I'm getting out of here.

Did Mrs Nick tell you?

Yes. She was very upset about it.

Seemed to think you hadn't given her the real reason. Well, I didn't. No point in making her go up in smoke. You know what she's like. But that's the

reason, right enough. I just don't like what's going on here. It was odd losing my shoe, and then Valerie's scarf being all cut to bits, and Len's rucksack. It

wasn't so much the things being pinched. After all, that may happen any time. It's not nice, but it's roughly normal. But this other isn't.

She paused for a moment, smiling, and then suddenly grinned. Aggie Bombo's scared, she said. He's always very superior and civilised, but there's a good old West African belief in

magic very close to the surface. Tuh, said Mrs Hubbard crossly. I've no patience with superstitious nonsense. It's just some ordinary human being making a nuisance of themselves. That's all

there is to it.

Sally's mouth curved up in a wide cat-like grin. The emphasis, she said, is on ordinary. I've a sort of feeling that there's a person in this house who isn't

ordinary.

Mrs Hubbard went on down the stairs. She turned into the students' common room on the ground floor. There were four people in the room. Valerie Hobhouse, prone on a

sofa with her narrow, elegant feet stuck up over the arm of it. Nigel Chapman, sitting at a table with a heavy book open in front of him. Patricia Lane,

leaning against the mantelpiece. And a girl in a mackintosh who had just come in, and who was pulling off a woolly cap as Mrs Hubbard entered.

She was a stocky, fair girl with brown eyes set wide apart, and a mouth that was usually just a little open, so that she seemed perpetually startled.

Valerie, removing a cigarette from her mouth, said in a lazy, drawling voice,

Hello, Ma. Have you administered soothing syrup to the old devil, our revered proprietress?

Patricia Lane said, Has she been on the warpath?

And how, said Valerie, and chuckled.

Something very unpleasant has happened, said Mrs. Hubbard.

Nigel, I want you to help me.

Me, Ma? Nigel looked at her and shut his book. His thin, malicious face was suddenly illuminated by a mischievous but surprisingly sweet smile. What have I done?

Nothing, I hope, said Mrs. Hubbard. But ink has been deliberately and maliciously spilled all over Elizabeth Johnston's notes.

And it's green ink. Do you write with green ink, Nigel?

He stared at her, his smile disappearing.

Yes.

I use green ink?

Horrid stuff, said Patricia. I wish you wouldn't, Nigel. I've always told you I think it's horribly affected of you.

I like being affected, said Nigel. Lilac ink would be even better, I think. I must try and get some.

But are you serious, Ma? About the sabotage, I mean? Yes, I am serious. Was it your doing, Nigel? No, of course not.

I like annoying people, as you know. But I'd never do a filthy trick like that. And certainly not to Bess, who minds her own business in a way that's

an example to some people I could mention.

Where is that ink of mine? I filled my pen yesterday evening, I remember. I usually keep it on the shelf over there. He sprang up and went across the

room.

Well, you're right. The bottle's nearly empty. It should be practically full.

The girl in the mackintosh gave a little gasp. Oh dear, she said.

Oh dear, I don't like it.

Nigel wheeled at her accusingly. Have you got an alibi, Celia? he said menacingly. The girl gave a gasp. I didn't do it. I really didn't do it. Anyway, I've

been at the hospital all day. I couldn't. Now, Nigel, said Mrs. Hubbard, don't tease Celia. Patricia Lane said angrily,

I don't see why Nigel should be suspected. Just because his ink was taken? Valerie said cattishly, That's right, darling. Defend your young. But it's so unfair. But really, I

didn't have anything to do with it, Celia protested earnestly.

Nobody thinks you did, infant, said Valerie impatiently. All the same, you know. Her eyes met Mrs. Hubbard's and exchanged a glance.

All this is getting beyond a joke.

Something will have to be done about it.

Something is going to be done about it, said Mrs. Hubbard grimly.

Chapter 4

Here you are, Monsieur Poirot.

Miss Lemon laid a small brown paper parcel before Poirot.

He removed the paper and looked appraisingly at a well-cut silver evening shoe.

It was at Baker Street, just as you said.

That has saved us trouble, said Poirot. Also, it confirms my ideas. Quite, said Miss Lemon, who was sublimely incurious by nature.

She was, however, susceptible to the claims of family affection. She said,

If it is not troubling you too much, Monsieur Poirot, I received a letter from my sister. There have been some new developments.

You permit that I read it?

She handed it to him, and after reading it, he directed Miss Lemon to get her sister on the telephone.

Presently, Miss Lemon indicated that the connection had been obtained. Poirot took the receiver.

Mrs Hubbard?

Oh yes, Monsieur Poirot. So kind of you to ring me up so promptly. I was really very Poirot interrupted her. Where are you speaking from? Why, from 26 Hickory

Road, of course.

Oh, I see what you mean. I'm in my own sitting room. There is an extension? This is the extension. The main phone is downstairs in the hall.

Who is in the house who might listen in?

All the students are out at this time of day. The cook is out marketing. Geronimo, her husband, understands very little English. There is a cleaning woman, but she is

deaf, and I'm quite sure wouldn't bother to listen in.

Very good, then. I can speak freely.

Do you occasionally have lectures in the evening? Or films? Entertainments of some kind?

We do have lectures occasionally. Miss Baltrout, the explorer, came not long ago with her coloured transparencies. And we had an appeal for Far Eastern missions, though I'm afraid that

quite a lot of the students went out that night. Ah.

Then, this evening, you will have prevailed on Monsieur Hercule Poirot, the employer of your sister, to come and discourse to your students on the more interesting of his cases.

That will be very nice, I'm sure. But do you think It is not a question of thinking. I am sure.

That evening, students entering the common room found a notice tacked up on the board which stood just inside the door. Monsieur Hercule Poirot, the celebrated private detective, has kindly

consented to give a talk this evening on the theory and practice of successful detection, with an account of certain celebrated criminal cases. Returning students made varied comments on this.

Who's this private eye? Never heard of him. Oh, I have. There was a man condemned to death for the murder of a charwoman, and this detective got him off

at the last moment by finding the real person. Sounds crummy to me. I think it might be rather fun. Colin ought to enjoy it. He's mad on criminal psychology.

I would not put it precisely like that, but I'll not deny that a man who's been closely acquainted with criminals might be interesting to interrogate.

Dinner was at seven-thirty, and most of the students were already seated when Mrs Hubbard came down from her sitting room, where sherry had been served to the distinguished guest,

followed by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair and a moustache of ferocious proportions which he twirled continuously.

These are some of our students, Monsieur Poirot. This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot, who is kindly going to talk to us after dinner.

Salutations were exchanged, and Poirot sat down by Mrs Hubbard and busied himself with keeping his moustaches out of the excellent minestrone which was served by a small, active Italian

manservant from a big tureen. This was followed by a piping hot dish of spaghetti and meatballs, and it was then that a girl sitting on Poirot's right spoke shyly

to him.

Does Mrs Hubbard's sister really work for you? Poirot turned to her. But yes, indeed. Miss Lemon has been my secretary for many years. She is the most efficient woman

that ever lived. I am sometimes afraid of her. Oh, I see.

I wondered.

Now, what did you wonder, Mademoiselle?

He smiled upon her in paternal fashion, making a mental note as he did so. Pretty, worried, not too quick mentally, frightened. He said, May I know your name and

what it is you are studying?

Celia Austin. I don't study. I'm a dispenser at St Catherine's Hospital. Ah, that is interesting work.

Well, I don't know.

Perhaps it is.

She sounded rather uncertain.

And these others, can you tell me something about them, perhaps?

I understood this was a home for foreign students, but these seem mostly to be English.

Some of the foreign ones are out. Mr Chandra Lal and Mr Gopal Ram, they're Indians. And Miss Rangier, who's Dutch. And Mr Ahmed Ali, who's Egyptian and frightfully political.

And those who are here?

Tell me about these.

Well, sitting on Mrs Hubbard's left is Nigel Chapman. He's studying medieval history and Italian at London University. Then there's Patricia Lane next to him, with the spectacles. She's taking

a diploma in archaeology.

The big red-headed boy is Len Bateson. He's medical. And the dark girl is Valerie Hobhouse. She's in a beauty shop. Next to her is Colin McNab. He's doing a

postgraduate course in psychiatry.

There was a faint change in her voice as she described Colin.

Poirot glanced keenly at her and saw that the colour had come up in her face.

He said to himself, So, she is in love, and she cannot easily conceal the fact.

He noticed that young McNab never seemed to look at her across the table, being far too much taken up with his conversation with a laughing red-headed girl beside him.

That's Sally Finch. She's American. Over here on a Fulbright.

Then there's Genevieve Marico. She's doing English. And so is Renée Halley, who sits next to her. The small fair girl is Jean Tomlinson. She's at St Catherine's too. She's

a physiotherapist. The black man is Akipombo. He comes from West Africa, and he's frightfully nice.

Then there's Elizabeth Johnston. She's from Jamaica, and she's studying law.

Next to us on my right are two Turkish students who came about a week ago. They know hardly any English.

Thank you.

And do you all get on well together, or do you have quarrels?

The lightness of his tone robbed the words of seriousness.

Celia said,

Oh, we're all too busy really to have fights.

Although

Although what, Miss Austin?

Well,

Nigel, next to Mrs Hubbard, he likes stirring people up and making them angry. And Len Bateson gets angry. He gets wild with rage sometimes.

But he's very sweet really.

And Colin McNab, does he too get annoyed? Oh no. Colin just raises his eyebrows and looks amused.

I see.

And the young ladies, do you have your quarrels? Oh no, we all get on very well. Genevieve has feelings sometimes. I think French people are inclined to be touchy.

Oh, I mean,

I'm sorry.

Celia was the picture of confusion. Me, I am Belgian, said Poirot solemnly.

He went on quickly before Celia could recover control of herself.

What did you mean just now, Miss Austin, when you said that you wondered?

You wondered what?

She crumbled her bread nervously.

Oh, that.

Nothing.

Nothing really.

Just

There have been some silly practical jokes lately. I thought Mrs Hubbard But really it was silly of me. I didn't mean anything.

Poirot did not press her. He turned away to Mrs Hubbard and was presently engaged in a three-cornered conversation with her and Nigel Chapman, who introduced the controversial challenge that

crime was a form of creative art and that the misfits of society were really the police who only entered that profession because of their secret sadism.

Poirot was amused to note that the anxious-looking young woman in spectacles who sat beside him tried desperately to explain away his remarks as fast as he made them. Nigel,

however, took absolutely no notice of her. Mrs Hubbard looked benignly amused.

All you young people nowadays think of nothing but politics and psychology, she said. When I was a girl we were much more light-hearted. We danced. If you rolled back

the carpet in the common room there's quite a good floor and you could dance to the wireless. But you never do.

Celia laughed and said with a tinge of malice,

But you used to dance, Nigel. I've danced with you myself once, though I don't expect you remember.

You've danced with me? said Nigel incredulously. Where?

At Cambridge, in May week. Oh, May week. Nigel waved away the follies of youth. One goes through that adolescent phase. Mercifully, it soon passes.

Nigel was clearly not much more than twenty-five now. Poirot concealed a smile in his moustache.

Patricia Lane said earnestly,

You see, Mrs Hubbard,

there is so much study to be done. With lectures to attend and one's notes to write up, there's really not time for anything but what is really worthwhile. Well,

my dear, one's only young once, said Mrs Hubbard. A chocolate pudding succeeded the spaghetti, and afterwards they all went into the common room and helped themselves to coffee from

an urn that stood on a table. Poirot was then invited to begin his discourse. The two Turks politely excused themselves. The rest seated themselves and looked expectant.

Poirot rose to his feet and spoke with his usual aplomb. The sound of his own voice was always pleasant to him, and he spoke for three-quarters of an hour

in a light and amusing fashion, recalling those of his experiences that lent themselves to an agreeable exaggeration. If he managed to suggest in a subtle fashion that he was,

perhaps, something of a mountebank, it was not too obviously contrived. And so, you see, he finished, I say to this city gentleman that I am reminded of a soap

manufacturer I knew in Liège who poisoned his wife in order to marry a beautiful blonde secretary. I say it very lightly, but at once I get a reaction. He

presses upon me the stolen money I had just recovered for him. He goes pale, and there is fear in his eyes.

I will give this money, I say, to a deserving charity.

Do anything you like with it, he says. And I say to him then, and I say it very significantly, it will be advisable, monsieur, to be very careful.

He nods, speechless, and as I go out, I see that he wipes his forehead.

He has had a big fright, and I, I have saved his life. For though he is infatuated with his blonde secretary, he will not now try and poison his

stupid and disagreeable wife. Prevention always is better than cure. We want to prevent murders, not wait until they have been committed. 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 McNab 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. Then Patricia said reproachfully, Colin.

Well, we can guess, can't we? He looked round scornfully. Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur Poirot has to say about our trouble.

Mrs Hubbard said, I've given Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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 Russia, 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 to do so. 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 Monsieur 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. Nicolitis rather, should call in the police at once. No time should be lost."

Chapter 5 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 Monsieur 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, Monsieur Poirot." Then, as she sat down opposite him, she said, after a momentary hesitation, "I dare say you're

quite right, Monsieur 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 round. It always does." "So true. It always does."

"And there's Mrs. Nicolitis, too.

I really don't know what attitude she'll take up. One never does know with her." "It would be interesting to find out." "Well, 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 McNab, 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 Monsieur Poirot here."

"With me?"

Poirot turned his head in innocent surprise. "Aye, 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, coloring, "you're extremely rude." "I'm not meaning to give offense, but I've got

to make things clear. Crime and punishment, Monsieur Poirot,

that's as far as your horizon stretches."

"They seem to me a natural sequence," said Poirot.

"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 cognizant of the newest

and most up-to-date theories of what causes crime. It is the causes that are important, Monsieur Poirot." "But there," cried Poirot, "to speak in your new-fashioned phrase, I could not

agree with you more." Well then, you've got to consider the cause of what's 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 is always 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 is 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'm at present taking a postgraduate course in psychiatry and psychology. We come across the most involved and astounding

cases. And what I'm pointing out to you, Monsieur Poirot, is that you can't just dismiss the criminal with a doctrine of original sin or willful 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 is 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. McNab.

Colin looked agreeably surprised. Well, that's very fairly said, Monsieur 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 McNab 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're 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.

End of disc one.