Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [53]
“You mentioned yesterday certain police inquiries at Hickory Road made during the last three months. Can you tell me the dates of them and also the time of day they were made?”
“Yes—well—that should be easy. It’ll be in the files. Just wait and I’ll look it up.”
It was not long before the inspector returned to the phone. “First inquiry as to Indian student disseminating subversive propaganda, 18th December last—3:30 p.m.”
“That is too long ago.”
“Inquiry re Montague Jones, Eurasian, wanted in connection with murder of Mrs. Alice Combe of Cambridge—February 24th—5:30 p.m. Inquiry re William Robinson—native West Africa, wanted by Sheffield police—March 6th, 11 a.m.”
“Ah! I thank you.”
“But if you think that either of those cases could have any connection with—”
Poirot interrupted him.
“No, they have no connection. I am interested only in the time of day they were made.”
“What are you up to, Poirot?”
“I dissect rucksacks, my friend. It is very interesting.”
Gently he replaced the receiver.
He took from his pocketbook the amended list that Mrs. Hubbard had handed him the day before. It ran as follows:
Rucksack (Len Bateson’s)
Electric light bulbs
Bracelet (Genevieve’s)
Diamond ring (Patricia’s)
Powder compact (Genevieve’s)
Evening shoe (Sally’s)
Lipstick (Elizabeth Johnston’s)
Earrings (Valerie’s)
Stethoscope (Len Bateson’s)
Bath salts (?)
Scarf cut in pieces (Valerie’s)
Trousers (Colin’s)
Cookery book (?)
Boracic (Chandra Lal’s)
Costume brooch (Sally’s)
Ink spilled on Elizabeth’s notes.
(This is the best I can do. It’s not absolutely accurate. L Hubbard.)
Poirot looked at it a long time.
He sighed and murmured to himself, “Yes . . . decidedly . . . we have to eliminate the things that do not matter. . . .”
He had an idea as to who could help him to do that. It was Sunday. Most of the students would probably be at home.
He dialled the number of 26 Hickory Road and asked to speak to Miss Valerie Hobhouse. A thick rather guttural voice seemed rather doubtful as to whether she was up yet, but said it would go and see.
Presently he heard a low husky voice:
“Valerie Hobhouse speaking.”
“It is Hercule Poirot. You remember me?”
“Of course, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?”
“I would like, if I may, to have a short conversation with you?”
“Certainly.”
“I may come round, then, to Hickory Road?”
“Yes. I’ll be expecting you. I’ll tell Geronimo to bring you up to my room. There’s not much privacy here on a Sunday.”
“Thank you, Miss Hobhouse. I am most grateful.”
Geronimo opened the door to Poirot with a flourish, then bending forward he spoke with his usual conspiratorial air.
“I take you up to Miss Valerie very quietly. Hush sh sh.”
Placing a finger on his lips, he led the way upstairs and into a good sized room overlooking Hickory Road. It was furnished with taste and a reasonable amount of luxury as a bed-sitting room. The divan bed was covered with a worn but beautiful Persian rug, and there was an attractive Queen Anne walnut bureau which Poirot judged hardly likely to be one of the original furnishings of 26 Hickory Road.
Valerie Hobhouse was standing ready to greet him. She looked tired, he thought, and there were dark circles round her eyes.
“Mais vous êtes très bien ici,” said Poirot, as he greeted her. “It is chic. It has an air.”
Valerie smiled.
“I’ve been here a good time,” she said. “Two and a half years. Nearly three. I’ve dug myself in more or less and I’ve got some of my own things.”
“You are not a student, are you, mademoiselle?”
“Oh no. Purely commercial. I’ve got a job.”
“In a—cosmetic firm, was it?”
“Yes. I’m one of the buyers for Sabrina Fair—it’s a beauty salon. Actually I have a small share in the business. We run a certain amount of sidelines besides beauty treatment. Accessories, that type of thing. Small Parisian novelties. And that’s my department.”
“You go over then fairly often to Paris and to the Continent?”
“Oh yes, about once a month, sometimes oftener.”
“You must forgive me,” said Poirot, “if I seem