Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [43]
He resolved to try a line of approach that he had sometimes found useful. He said smoothly:
“As you may appreciate, Miss Johnston, in an establishment like this, the level of intelligence varies a great deal. Some people—most people—we just ask for facts. But when we come across someone with a high level of intelligence—”
He paused. The inference was flattering. Would she respond?
After a brief pause, she did.
“I think I understand what you mean, Inspector. The intellectual level here is not, as you say, very high. Nigel Chapman has a certain quickness of intellect, but his mind is shallow. Leonard Bateson is a plodder—no more. Valerie Hobhouse has a good quality of mind, but her outlook is commercial, and she’s too lazy to use her brains on anything worthwhile. What you want is the detachment of a trained mind.”
“Such as yours, Miss Johnston.”
She accepted the tribute without a protest. He realised, with some interest, that behind her modest pleasant manner, here was a young woman who was positively arrogant in her appraisement of her own qualities.
“I’m inclined to agree with your estimate of your fellow students, Miss Hobhouse. Chapman is clever but childish. Valerie Hobhouse has brains but a blasé attitude to life. You, as you say, have a trained mind. That’s why I’d value your views—the views of a powerful detached intellect.”
For a moment he was afraid he had overdone it, but he need have had no fears.
“There is nothing wrong about this place, Inspector. Pay no attention to Sally Finch. This is a decent well-run hostel. I am certain that you will find no trace here of any subversive activities.”
Inspector Sharpe felt a little surprised.
“It wasn’t really subversive activities I was thinking about.”
“Oh—I see—” She was a little taken aback. “I was linking up what Celia said about a passport. But looking at it impartially and weighing up all the evidence, it seems quite certain to me that the reason for Celia’s death was what I should express as a private one—some sex complication, perhaps. I’m sure it had nothing to do with what I might call the hostel as a hostel, or anything ‘going on’ here. Nothing, I am sure, is going on. I should be aware of the fact if it were so, my perceptions are very keen.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Miss Johnston. You’ve been very kind and helpful.”
Elizabeth Johnston went out. Inspector Sharpe sat staring at the closed door and Sergeant Cobb had to speak to him twice before he roused himself.
“Eh?”
“I said that’s the lot, sir.”
“Yes, and what have we got? Precious little. But I’ll tell you one thing, Cobb. I’m coming back here tomorrow with a search warrant. We’ll go away talking pretty now and they’ll think it’s all over. But there’s something going on in this place. Tomorrow I’ll turn it upside down—not so easy when you don’t know what you’re looking for, but there’s a chance that I’ll find something to give me a clue. That’s a very interesting girl who just went out. She’s got the ego of a Napoleon, and I strongly suspect that she knows something.”
Chapter Twelve
I
Hercule Poirot, at work upon his correspondence, paused in the middle of a sentence that he was dictating. Miss Lemon looked up questioningly.
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
“My mind wanders!” Poirot waved a hand. “After all, this letter is not important. Be so kind, Miss Lemon, as to get me your sister upon the telephone.”
“Yes, M. Poirot.”
A few moments later Poirot crossed the room and took the receiver from his secretary’s hand.
“’Allo!” he said.
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
Mrs. Hubbard sounded rather breathless.
“I trust, Mrs. Hubbard, that I am not disturbing you?”
“I’m past being disturbed,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“There have been agitations, yes?” Poirot asked delicately.
“That’s a very nice way of putting it, M. Poirot. That’s exactly what they have been. Inspector Sharpe finished