Entertainments of some kind?” “We do have lectures occasionally. Miss Battrout, the explorer, came not long ago, with her coloured transparencies. And we had an appeal for Far Eastern Missions, though I am afraid quite a lot of the students went out that night.” “Ah. Then this evening you will have prevailed on M.
Hercule Poirot, the employer of your sister, to come and discourse to your students on the more interesting of my cases.” “That will be very nice, I’m sure, but do you think-was “It is not a question of thinking. I am sure!” That evening, students entering the Common Room found a notice tacked up on the Board which stood just inside the door.
M. Hercule Poirot, the celebrated private detective, has kindly consented to give a talk this evening on the theory and practice of successful detection, with an account of certain celebrated criminal cases.
Returning students made varied comments on this.
“Who’s this private Eye?” “Never heard of him.” “Oh, I have. There was a man who was condemned to death for the murder of a charwoman and this detective got him off at the last moment by finding the real person.” “Sounds crumby to me.” “I think it might be rather fun.” “Colin ought to enjoy it. He’s mad on criminal psychology.” “I would not put it precisely like that, but I’ll not deny that a man who has been closely acquainted with criminals might be interesting to interrogate.” Dinner was at seven thirty and most of the students were already seated when Mrs. Hubbard came down from her sitting room (where sherry had been served to the distinguished guest) followed by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair and a mustache of ferocious proportions which he twirled contentedly.
“These are some of our students, Mr. Poirot.
This is M. Hercule Poirot who is kindly going to talk to us after dinner.” Salutations were exchanged and Poirot sat down by Mrs. Hubbard and busied himself with keeping his moustaches out of the excellent minestrone which was served by a small active Italian manservant from a big tureen.
This was followed by a piping hot dish of spaghetti and meat balls and it was then that a girl sitting on Poirot’s right spoke shyly to him.
“Does Mrs. Hubbard’s sister really work for you?” Poirot turned to her.
“But yes indeed. Miss Lemon has been my secretary for many years. She is the most efficient woman that ever lived. I am sometimes afraid of her.” “Oh. I see. I wondered-was “Now what did you wonder, Mademoiselle?” He smiled upon her in paternal fashion, making a mental note as he did so.
“Pretty, worried, not too quick mentally, frightened . . .” He said, “May I know your name and what it is you are studying?” “Celia Austin. I don’t study. I’m a dispenser at St.
Catherine’s Hospital.” “Ah, that is interesting work?” “Well, I don’t know comperh it is.” She sounded rather uncertain.
“And these others? Can you tell me something about them, perhaps? I understood this was a Home for Foreign Students, but these seem mostly to be English.” “Some of the foreign ones are out. Mr. Chandra Lal and Mr. Gopal Ram-they’re Indians-and Miss Reinleer who’s Dutch-and Mr. comAhmed Ali who’s Egyptian and frightfully political!” “And those who are here? Tell me about these.” “Well, sitting on Mrs. Hubbard’s left is Nigel Chapman. He’s studying Mediaeval History and Italian at London University.
Then there’s Patricia Lane, next to him, with the spectacles. She’s taking a diploma in Archaeology. The big red-headed boy is Len Bateson, he’s a medical and the dark girl is Valerie Hobhouse, she’s in a Beauty Shop.
Next to her is Colin Mcationabb comhe’s doing a post graduate course in psychiatry.” There was a faint change in her voice as she described Colin. Poirggyt glanced keenly a-t her and saw that the colour had come up in her face.
He said to himself, “So-she is in love and she cannot easily conceal the f act.
He noticed that young Mcationabb never seemed to look at her across the table, being far too much taken up with his conversation with a laughing red-headed girl besidehim.