Free Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie Page A

self-centered young man.”
    “Then that's probably the explanation. She didn't feel worthy of him, or hadn't told him all she ought to tell him. She was quite young, wasn't she?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    “They're idealistic at that age and they take love affairs hard. Yes, that's it, I'm afraid. Pity.”
    He rose to his feet. “I'm afraid the actual facts will have to come out, but we'll do all we can to gloss things over. Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard. I've got all the information I need now. Her mother died two years ago and the only relative you know of is this elderly aunt in Yorkshire - we'll communicate with her.”
    He picked up the small torn fragment with Celia's agitated writing on it.
    “There's something wrong about that,” said Mrs. Hubbard suddenly.
    “Wrong? In what way?”
    “I don't know. I feel I ought to know. Oh dear.”
    “You're quite sure it's her handwriting?”
    “Oh yes. It's not that.” Mrs. Hubbard pressed her hands to her eyeballs.
    “I feel so dreadfully stupid this morning,” she said apologetically.
    “It's all been very trying for you, I know,” said the Inspector with gentle sympathy. “I don't think we need to trouble you further at the moment, Mrs. Hubbard.”
    Inspector Sharpe opened the door and immediately fell over Geronimo who was pressed against the door outside.
    “Hullo,” said Inspector Sharpe pleasantly. “Listening at doors, eh?”
    “No, no,” Geronimo answered with an air of virtuous indignation. “I do not listen - never, never! I am just coming in with message.”
    “I see. What message?”
    Geronimo said sulkily,
    “Only that there is gentleman downstairs to see la Signora Hubbard.”
    “All right. Go along in, sonny, and tell her.”
    He walked past Geronimo down the passage and then, taking a leaf out of the Italian's book, turned sharply, and tiptoed noiselessly back. Might as well know if little monkey face had been telling the truth.
    He arrived in time to hear Geronimo say,
    “The gentleman who came to supper the other night, the gentleman with the moustaches, he is downstairs waiting to see you.”
    “Eh? What?” Mrs. Hubbard sounded abstracted. “Oh, thank you, Geronimo. I'll be down in a minute or two.”
    “Gentleman with the moustaches, eh,” said Sharpe to himself, grinning. “I bet I know who that is.”
    He went downstairs and into the Common Room.
    “Hullo, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “It's a long time since we met.”
    Poirot rose without visible discomposure from a kneeling position by the bottom shelf near the fireplace.
    “Aha,” he said. “But surely - yes, it is Inspector Sharpe, is it not? But you were not formerly in this division?”
    “Transferred two years ago. Remember that business down at Crays Hill?”
    “Ah yes. That is a long time ago now. You are still a young man, Inspector.”
    “Getting on, getting on.”
    “And I am an old one. Alas!” Poirot sighed.
    “But still active, eh, Mr. Poirot. Active in certain ways, shall we say?”
    “Now what do you mean by that?”
    “I mean that I'd like to know why you came along here the other night to give a lecture on criminology to students.”
    Poirot smiled.
    “But there is such a simple explanation. Mrs. Hubbard here is the sister of my much valued secretary, Miss Lemon. So when she asked me -”
    “When she asked you to look into what had been going on here, you came along. That's it really, isn't it?”
    “You are quite correct.”
    “But why? That's what I want to know. What was there in it for you?”
    “To interest me, you mean?”
    “That's what I mean. Here's a silly kid who's been pinching a few things here and there. Happens all the time. Rather small beer for you, Mr. Poirot, isn't it?”
    Poirot shook his head.
    “Why not? What isn't simple about it?”
    “It is not so simple as that.”
    Poirot sat down on a chair. With a slight frown he dusted the knees of his trousers.
    “I wish I knew,” he said simply.
    Sharpe frowned.
    “I don't