Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [72]
He uttered an ejaculation of pleasure.
“Here we are, my lad,” he said.
Fastened to the underneath side of the bottom drawer with adhesive tape were a half-dozen small dark blue books with gilt lettering.
“Passports,” said Sergeant Cobb. “Issued by Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, God bless his trusting heart.”
McCrae bent over with interest as Cobb opened the passports and compared the affixed photographs.
“Hardly think it was the same woman, would you?” said McCrae.
The passports were those of Mrs. da Silva, Miss Irene French, Mrs. Olga Kohn, Miss Nina Le Mesurier, Mrs. Gladys Thomas, and Miss Moira O’Neele. They represented a dark young woman whose age varied between twenty-five and forty.
“It’s the different hairdo every time that does it,” said Cobb. “Pompadour, curls, straight cut, page boy bob, etc. She’s done something to her nose for Olga Kohn, plumpers in her cheeks for Mrs. Thomas. Here are two more—foreign passports—Madame Mahmoudi, Algerian. Sheila Donovan, Eire. I’ll say she’s got bank accounts in all these different names.”
“Bit complicated, isn’t that?”
“It has to be complicated, my lad. Inland Revenue always snooping round asking embarrassing questions. It’s not so difficult to make money by smuggling goods—but it’s hell and all to account for money when you’ve got it! I bet this little gambling club in Mayfair was started by the lady for just that reason. Winning money by gambling is about the only thing an income tax inspector can’t check up on. A good part of the loot, I should say, is cached around in Algerian and French banks and in Eire. The whole thing’s a thoroughly well thought out businesslike setup. And then, one day, she must have had one of these fake passports lying about at Hickory Road and that poor little devil Celia saw it.”
Chapter Twenty
“It was a clever idea of Miss Hobhouse’s,” said Inspector Sharpe. His voice was indulgent, almost fatherly.
He shuffled the passports from one hand to the other like a man dealing cards.
“Complicated thing, finance,” he said. “We’ve had a busy time haring round from one bank to the other. She covered her tracks well—her financial tracks, I mean. I’d say that in a couple of years’ time she could have cleared out, gone abroad and lived happily ever after, as they say, on ill-gotten gains. It wasn’t a big show—illicit diamonds, sapphires, etc., coming in—stolen stuff going out—and narcotics on the side, as you might say. Thoroughly well organised. She went abroad under her own and under different names, but never too often, and the actual smuggling was always done, unknowingly, by someone else. She had agents abroad who saw to the exchange of rucksacks at the right moment. Yes, it was a clever idea. And we’ve got M. Poirot here to thank for putting us on to it. It was smart of her, too, to suggest that psychological stealing stunt to poor little Miss Austin. You were wise to that almost at once, weren’t you, M. Poirot?”
Poirot smiled in a deprecating manner and Mrs. Hubbard looked admiringly at him. The conversation was strictly off the record in Mrs. Hubbard’s sitting room.
“Greed was her undoing,” said Poirot. “She was tempted by that fine diamond in Patricia Lane’s ring. It was foolish of her because it suggested at once that she was used to handling precious stones—that business of prising the diamond out and replacing it with a zircon. Yes, that certainly gave me ideas about Valerie Hobhouse. She was clever, though, when I taxed her with inspiring Celia, she admitted it and explained it in a thoroughly sympathetic way.”
“But murder!” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Cold-blooded murder. I can’t really believe it even now.”
Inspector Sharpe looked gloomy.
“We aren’t in a position to charge her with the murder of Celia Austin yet,” he said. “We’ve got her cold on the smuggling, of course. No difficulties about that. But the murder charge is more tricky. The public prosecutor doesn’t see his way. There’s motive, of course, and opportunity. She probably knew all about the bet and Nigel’s possession of morphia, but there