HICKORY DICKORY DEATH [065-di]
BY AGATHA CHRISTIE
HERCULE POIROT FROWNED.
"Miss Lemon," he said.
"Yes, Mr. 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 crumpers 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, 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 business in
Singapore, so that the Miss Lemons of this world could
devote themselves with machine-like efficiency to their
employers" 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 quite a reasonable rent-was
(of course Miss Lemon would manage to do just
that almost impossible thing.)
"She is reasonably off-Sough 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 roomy house-in
Hickory Road, if you know where that is" Poirot
did not. "It used to be quite a superior
neighbourhood once, and the houses are well
built. My sister was to have very 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
formerly a salaried position
with 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 comthem, and having lived in the East
so long she understands racial differences and people's
susceptibilities. Because these students at the
Hostel were of all nationalities; mostly English,
but some of them actually are black, I believe."
"Naturally," said Hercule Poirot.
"Half the nurses in our hospitals seem
to be black nowadays," 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 coma 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
adventures 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, Mr. Poirot, she
doesn't like the things that are going on."
"There are students there of both sexes?"
Poirot inquired delicately.
"Oh no, Mr. 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 is 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, Mr. 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 Cortes'
men upon
the peak of Darien.
"Not ordinary petty thieving.? A
kleptomaniac, perhaps?"
"I do not think so. I read up 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, Do doubt, with the Adventures,
to say nothing of the Exploits, of Sherlock
Holmes."
"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 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, Mr. 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.
Miss LEMON'S SISTER whose name was Mrs.
Hubbard had a definite resemblance to her sister.
She was a good deal yellower of skin, she was
plumper, her hair was more frivolously
done, and she was less brisk in manner, but the eyes
that looked out of a round and amiable countenance were the same
shrewd eyes that gleamed through Miss Lemon's.
"This is very kind of you, I'm sure, Mr.
Poirot," she said. "Very kind. And such a
delicious tea, too. I'm sure I've eaten
far more than I should-well perhaps just one more
sandwich-tea? Well, just half a cup."
"First," said Poirot, "we make the repast-and
afterwards we get down to business."
He smiled at her amiably and twirled his
moustaches,
and Mrs. Hubbard said,
"You know, you're exactly like I pictured you from
Felicity's description."
After a moment's startled realization that Felicity
was the severe Miss Lemon's Christian name,
Poirot replied that he should have expected no
less, given Miss Lemon's efficiency.
"Of course," said Mrs. Hubbard absently
taking a second sandwich, "Felicity has never
cared for people. I do. That's why I'm so worried."
"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, 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
Ear-rings
Cigarette lighter
Old flannel trousers
Electric light bulbs
Box of chocolates
Silk scarf (found cut to pieces)
Rucksack (ditto)
Boracie 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, Mr. Poirot?"
"I congratulate you on having such a unique and
beautiful problem."
"Well, perhaps it makes sense to you, Mr.
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-legged
table and a Muscovy duck were, I remember, some
of the items. The difficulty of the memorization lay,
of course, in the totally unrelated nature of the
objects-the lack of sequence, so to speak. As in the
list you have just shown me. By the time that, say, twelve
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, 'l, a one homed
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, Mr. 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, andwitha 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 gate-legged table!-and so
on.
Mrs. Hubbard said respectfully,
"Perhaps you could do the same thing with comthe 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 it is not that that
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 wrapped
attention of a small boy watching a conjuror,
waiting hopefully for a rabbit or at least streams
of coloured ribbons to appear. Miss Lemon,
unimpressed, withdrew inffconsideration of the finer points
of her filing 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 say exactly, Mr.
Poirot. It was a solitaire diamond, was 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
will leave the questions. I am engaged now on
classifying these thefts, and I am taking the ring first.
Who is this Miss Lane from whom it was
stolen?"
"Patricia Lane? She's a very nice girl.
Going in for a what-do-you-call-it, a diploma in
...
PanavPaul