Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [14]
“So true. It always does.”
“And there’s Mrs. Nicoletis, too. I really don’t know what attitude she’ll take up. One never does know with her.”
“It will be interesting to find out.”
“Naturally we can’t call in the police unless she agrees—oh, who’s that now?”
There had been a sharp authoritative tap on the door. It was repeated and almost before Mrs. Hubbard had called an irritable “Come in,” the door opened and Colin McNabb, his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth and a scowl on his face, entered the room.
Removing the pipe, and closing the door behind him, he said:
“You’ll excuse me, but I was anxious to just have a word with M. Poirot here.”
“With me?” Poirot turned his head in innocent surprise.
“Ay, with you.” Colin spoke grimly.
He drew up a rather uncomfortable chair and sat squarely on it facing Hercule Poirot.
“You’ve given us an amusing talk tonight,” he said indulgently. “And I’ll not deny that you’re a man who’s had a varied and lengthy experience, but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, your methods and your ideas are both equally antiquated.”
“Really, Colin,” said Mrs. Hubbard, colouring. “You’re extremely rude.”
“I’m not meaning to give offence, but I’ve got to make things clear. Crime and Punishment, M. Poirot—that’s as far as your horizon stretches.”
“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 cognisant of the newest and most up-to-date theories of what causes crime. It is the causes that are important, M. Poirot.”
“But there,” cried Poirot, “to speak in your new-fashioned phrase, I could not agree with you more!”
“Then you’ve got to consider the cause of what has been happening in this house—you’ve got to find out why these things have been done.”
“But I am still agreeing with you—yes, that is most important.”
“Because there always is a reason, and it may be, to the person concerned, a very good reason.”
At this point Mrs. Hubbard, unable to contain herself, interjected sharply, “Rubbish.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Colin, turning slightly towards her. “You’ve got to take into account the psychological background.”
“Psychological balderdash,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “I’ve no patience with all that sort of talk!”
“That’s because you know precisely nothing about it,” said Colin, in a gravely rebuking fashion. He returned his gaze to Poirot.
“I’m interested in these subjects. I am at present taking a post-graduate course in psychiatry and psychology. We come across the most involved and astounding cases and what I’m pointing out to you, M. Poirot, is that you can’t just dismiss the criminal with a doctrine of original sin, or wilful disregard of the laws of the land. You’ve got to have an understanding of the root of the trouble if you’re ever to effect a cure of the young delinquent. These ideas were not known or thought of in your day and I’ve no doubt you find them hard to accept—”
“Stealing’s stealing,” put in Mrs. Hubbard stubbornly.
Colin frowned impatiently.
Poirot said meekly:
“My ideas are doubtless old-fashioned, but I am perfectly prepared to listen to you, Mr. McNabb.”
Colin looked agreeably surprised.
“That’s very fairly said, M. Poirot. Now I’ll try to make this matter clear to you, using very simple terms.”
“Thank you,” said Poirot meekly.
“For convenience’s sake, I’ll start with the pair of shoes you brought with you tonight and returned to Sally Finch. If you remember, one shoe was stolen. Only one.”
“I remember being struck by the fact,” said Poirot.
Colin McNabb leaned forward; his dour but handsome features were lit up by eagerness.
“Ah, but you didn’t see the significance of it. It’s one of the prettiest and most satisfying examples anyone could wish to come across. We have here, very definitely, a Cinderella complex. You are maybe acquainted with the Cinderella fairy story.”
“Of French origin—mais oui.”
“Cinderella, the unpaid drudge, sits by the fire; her sisters, dressed in their finery, go