Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [21]
“Now then, Mrs. Nicoletis, you can’t talk to me like that.”
“Oh no. Certainly not! It is I who am wrong. Not you. Always me. Everything you do is perfect. Police in my respectable hostel.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Mrs. Hubbard, recalling various unpleasant incidents. “There was that West Indian student who was wanted for living on immoral earnings and the notorious young Communist agitator who came here under a false name—and—”
“Ah! You throw that in my teeth? Is it my fault that people come here and lie to me and have forged papers and are wanted to assist the police in murder cases? And you reproach me for what I have suffered!”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind. I only point out that it wouldn’t be exactly a novelty to have the police here—I dare say it’s inevitable with a mixed lot of students. But the fact is that no one has ‘called in the police.’ A private detective with a big reputation happened to dine here as my guest last night. He gave a very interesting talk on criminology to the students.”
“As if there were any need to talk about criminology to our students! They know quite enough already. Enough to steal and destroy and sabotage as they like! And nothing is done about it—nothing!”
“I have done something about it.”
“Yes, you have told this friend of yours all about our most intimate affair. That is a gross breach of confidence.”
“Not at all. I’m responsible for running this place. I’m glad to tell you the matter is now cleared up. One of the students has confessed that she has been responsible for most of these happenings.”
“Dirty little cat,” said Mrs. Nicoletis. “Throw her into the street.”
“She is ready to leave of her own accord and she is making full reparation.”
“What is the good of that? My beautiful Students’ Home will now have a bad name. No one will come.” Mrs. Nicoletis sat down on the sofa and burst into tears. “Nobody thinks of my feelings,” she sobbed. “It is abominable, the way I am treated. Ignored! Thrust aside! If I were to die tomorrow, who would care?”
Wisely leaving this question unanswered, Mrs. Hubbard left the room.
“May the Almighty give me patience,” said Mrs. Hubbard to herself, and went down to the kitchen to interview Maria.
Maria was sullen and uncooperative. The word “police” hovered unspoken in the air.
“It is I who will be accused. I and Geronimo—the povero. What justice can you expect in a foreign land? No, I cannot cook the risotto as you suggest—they send the wrong rice. I make you instead the spaghetti.”
“We had spaghetti last night.”
“It does not matter. In my country we eat the spaghetti every day—every single day. The pasta, it is good all the time.”
“Yes, but you’re in England now.”
“Very well then, I make the stew. The English stew. You will not like it but I make it—pale—pale—with the onions boiled in much water instead of cooked in the oil—and pale meat on cracked bones.”
Maria spoke so menacingly that Mrs. Hubbard felt she was listening to an account of a murder.
“Oh, cook what you like,” she said angrily, and left the kitchen.
By six o’clock that evening, Mrs. Hubbard was once more her efficient self again. She had put notes in all the students’ rooms asking them to come and see her before dinner, and when the various summonses were obeyed, she explained that Celia had asked her to arrange matters. They were all, she thought, very nice about it. Even Genevieve, softened by a generous estimate of the value of her compact, said cheerfully that all would be sans rancune and added with a wise air, “One knows that these crises of the nerves occur. She is rich, this Celia, she does not need to steal. No, it is a storm in her head. M. McNabb is right there.”
Len Bateson drew Mrs. Hubbard aside as she came down when the dinner bell rang.
“I’ll wait for Celia out in the hall,” he said, “and bring her in. So that she sees it’s all right.”
“That’s very nice of you, Len.”
“That’s OK, Ma.”
In due course, as soup was being passed round, Len’s voice was heard booming from the hall.
“Come along in, Celia. All friends here.”
Nigel