Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [52]
“Why, Mrs. Nick, I didn’t know this was a haunt of yours?”
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought. . . .”
“Who did you think it was? The big bad wolf? What are you drinking? Have another on me.”
“It is all the worry,” Mrs. Nicoletis explained with dignity. “These policemen searching my house, upsetting everyone. My poor heart. I have to be careful with my heart. I do not care for drink, but really I felt quite faint outside. I thought a little brandy. . . .”
“Nothing like brandy. Here you are.”
Mrs. Nicoletis left The Queen’s Necklace a short while later feeling revived and positively happy. She would not take a bus, she decided. It was such a fine night and the air would be good for her. Yes, definitely, the air would be good for her. She felt not exactly unsteady on her feet but just a little bit uncertain. One brandy less, perhaps, would have been wise, but the air would soon clear her head. After all, why shouldn’t a lady have a quiet drink in her own room from time to time? What was there wrong with it? It was not as though she had ever allowed herself to be seen intoxicated. Intoxicated? Of course, she was never intoxicated. And anyway, if they didn’t like it; if they ticked her off, she’d soon tell them where they got off! She knew a thing or two, didn’t she? If she liked to shoot off her mouth! Mrs. Nicoletis tossed her head in a bellicose manner and swerved abruptly to avoid a pillar-box which had advanced upon her in a menacing manner. No doubt, her head was swimming a little. Perhaps if she just leant against the wall here for a little? If she closed her eyes for a moment or two. . . .
II
Police Constable Bott, swinging magnificently down on his beat, was accosted by a timid-looking clerk.
“There’s a woman here, Officer. I really—she seems to have been taken ill or something. She’s lying in a heap.”
Police Constable Bott bent his energetic steps that way, and stooped over the recumbent form. A strong aroma of brandy confirmed his suspicions.
“Passed out,” he said. “Drunk. Ah well, don’t worry, sir, we’ll see to it.”
III
Hercule Poirot, having finished his Sunday breakfast, wiped his moustaches carefully free from all traces of his breakfast cup of chocolate and passed into his sitting room.
Neatly arranged on the table were four rucksacks, each with its bill attached—the result of instructions given to George. Poirot took the rucksack he had purchased the day before from its wrapping, and added it to the others. The result was interesting. The rucksack he had bought from Mr. Hicks did not seem inferior in any way that he could see, to the articles purchased by George from various other establishments. But it was very decidedly cheaper.
“Interesting,” said Hercule Poirot.
He stared at the rucksacks.
Then he examined them in detail. Inside and outside, turning them upside down, feeling the seams, the pockets, the handles. Then he rose, went into the bathroom and came back with a small sharp corn knife. Turning the rucksack he had bought at Mr. Hicks’s store inside out, he attacked the bottom of it with the knife. Between the inner lining and the bottom there was a heavy piece of corrugated stiffening, rather resembling in appearance corrugated paper. Poirot looked at the dismembered rucksack with a great deal of interest.
Then he proceeded to attack the other rucksacks.
He sat back finally and surveyed the amount of destruction he had just accomplished.
Then he drew the telephone towards him and after a short delay managed to get through to Inspector Sharpe.
“Ecoutez, mon cher,” he said. “I want to know just two things.”
Something in the nature of a guffaw came from Inspector Sharpe.
“I know two things about the horse,
And one of them is rather coarse,” he observed.
“I beg your pardon?” said Hercule Poirot, surprised.
“Nothing. Nothing. Just a rhyme I used to