Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [10]
“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, M. 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, M. 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 am 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 am afraid that quite a lot of the students went out that night.”
“Ah. Then this evening you will have prevailed on M. 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.
M. 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 has 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, M. Poirot. This is M. 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 meat balls 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?