Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [15]
“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.”
Colin’s pipe had long since gone out. He waved it now with mounting enthusiasm.
“And now we’ll take a few of the other happenings. A magpie acquiring of pretty things—all things associated with attractive femininity. A powder compact, lipsticks, earrings, a bracelet, a ring—there is a two-fold significance here. The girl wants to be noticed. She wants, even, to be punished—as is frequently the case with very young juvenile delinquents. These things are none of them what you could call ordinary criminal thefts. It is not the value of these things that is wanted. In just such a way do well-to-do women go into department stores and steal things they could perfectly well afford to pay for.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Hubbard belligerently. “Some people are just plain dishonest, that’s all there is to it.”
“Yet a diamond ring of some value was amongst the things stolen,” said Poirot, ignoring Mrs. Hubbard’s interpolation.
“That was returned.”
“And surely, Mr. McNabb, you would not say that a stethoscope is a feminine pretty pretty?”
“That had a deeper significance. Women who feel they are deficient in feminine attraction can find sublimation in the pursuit of a career.”
“And the cookery book?”
“A symbol of home life, husband and family.”
“And boracic powder?”
Colin said irritably:
“My dear M. Poirot. Nobody would steal boracic powder! Why should they?”
“This is what I have asked myself. I must admit, M. McNabb, that you seem to have an answer for everything. Explain to me, then, the significance of the disappearance of an old pair of flannel trousers—your flannel trousers, I understand.”
For the first time Colin appeared ill at ease. He blushed and cleared his throat.
“I could explain that—but it would be somewhat involved, and perhaps—er well, rather embarrassing.”
“Ah, you spare my blushes.”
Suddenly Poirot leaned forward and tapped the young man on the knee.
“And the ink that is spilt over another student’s papers, the silk scarf that is cut and slashed. Do these things cause you no disquietude?”
The complacence and superiority of Colin’s manner underwent a sudden and not unlikeable change.
“They do,” he said. “Believe me, they do. It’s serious. She ought to have treatment—at once. But medical treatment, that’s the point. It’s not a case for the police. She’s all tied up in knots. If I. . . .”
Poirot interrupted him.
“You know then who she is?”
“Well, I have a very strong suspicion.”
Poirot murmured with the air of one who is recapitulating:
“A girl who is not outstandingly successful with the other sex. A shy girl. An affectionate girl. A girl whose brain is inclined to be slow in its reactions. A girl who feels frustrated and lonely. A girl. . . .”
There was a tap on the door. Poirot broke off. The tap was repeated.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
The door opened and Celia Austin came in.
“Ah,” said Poirot, nodding his head. “Exactly. Miss Celia Austin.”
Celia looked at Colin with agonised eyes.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said breathlessly. “I came—I came. . . .”
She took a deep breath and rushed to Mrs. Hubbard.
“Please, please don’t send for the police. It’s me. I’ve been taking those things. I don’t know why. I can’t imagine. I didn’t want to. It just—it just came over me.” She whirled