Leonard Bateson would have had the requisite knowledge.
He is aware of Colin’s enthusiasm for ‘maladjusted personalities.” He might have suggested something of the kind to Celia more or less as a joke and coached her in her part. But I cannot really see him conniving at such a thing for month after monthunless, that is, he had an ulterior motive, or is a very different person from what he appears to be. (that is always a thing one must take into account.) Nigel Chapman has a mischievous and slightly malicious turn of mind. He’d think it good fun, and I should imagine, would have no scruples whatever.
He is a kind of grown up ‘enfant terrible.” The third person I have in mind is a young woman called Valerie Hobhouse. She has brains, is modern in outlook and education, and has probably read enough psychology to judge Colin’s probable reartion. If she were fond of Celia, she might think it legitimate fun to make a fool of Colin.” “Leonard Bateson, Nigel Chapman, Valerie Hobhouse,” said Sharpe writing down the names. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll remember when I’m questioning them.
What about the Indians? One of them is a medical student, too.” “His mind is entirely occupied with politics and persecution mania,” said Poirot. “I don’t think he would be interested enough to suggest kleptomania to Celia Austin and I don’t think she would have accepted such advice from him.” “And that’s all the help you can give me, Mr.
Poirot?” said Sharpe, rising to his feet and buttoning away his notebook.
“I fear so. But I consider myself personally interested-that is if you, do not object, my friend?” “Not in the least. Why should I?” “In my own amateurish way I shall do what I can. For me, there is, I think, only one line of action.” “And that is?” Poiro-t sighed.
“Conversation, my friend. Conversation and again conversation!
All the murderers I have ever come across enjoyed talking. In my opinion the strong silent man seldom commits a crime-and if he does it is simple, violent and perfectly obvious. But our clever subtle murderer-he is so pleased with himself that sooner or later he says something unfortunate and trips himself up. Talk to these people, mon cher, do not confine yourself to simple interrogation. Encourage their views, demand their help, inquire about their hunches-but, bon Dieu! I do not need to teach you your business. I remember your abilities well enouch.” Sharpe smiled gently.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve always found-well-amiability-a great help.” The two men smiled at each other in mutual accord.
Sharpe rose to depart.
“I suppose every single one of them is a possible murderer,” he said slowly.
“I should think so,” said Poirot nonchalantly.
“Leonard Bateson, for instance, has a temper.
He could lose control. Valerie Hobhouse has brains and could plan cleverly. Nigel Chapman is the childish type that lacks proportion. There is a French girl there who might kill if enough money were involved. Patricia Lane is a maternal type and maternal types are always ruthless. The American girl, Sally Finch, is cheerful and gay, but she could play an assumed part better than most. Jean Tomlinson is very full of sweetness and righteousness, but we have all known killers who attended Sunday school with sincere devotion. The West Indian girl Elizabeth Johnston has probably the best brains of anyone in the Hostel. She has subordinated her emotional life to her brain-Ahat is dangerous. There is a charming young African who might have motives for killing about which we could never guess. We have Colin Mcationabb, the psychologist. How many psychologists does one know to whom it might be said, Physician, heal thyself?” “For heaven’s sake, Poirot. You are making my head spin! Is nobody incapable of murder?” “I have often wondered,” said Hercule Poirot.
INSPECTOR SHARPE SIGHED, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He had interviewed an indignant and tearful French girl, a supercilious and uncooperative young Frenchman, a stolid and suspicious Dutchman, a voluble and aggressive Egyptian. He had exchanged a few brief remarks with two nervous young Turkish students who did not really understand what he was saying and the same went for a charming young Iraqi. None of these, he was pretty certain, had had anything to do, or could help him in any way, with the death of Celia Austin. He had dismissed them one by one with a few reassuring words and was now preparing to do the same to Mr. Akibombo.