“That’s Sally Finch. She’s American-over here on a Fulbright. Then there’s Genevieve Maricaud. She’s doing English, and so is Rene Halle who sits next to her. The small fair girl is Jean Tomlinson-she’s at St.
Catherine’s too. She’s a physiotherapist. The black man is Akibombo-he comes from West Africa and he’s frightfully nice. Then there’s Elizabeth Johnston, she’s from Jamaica and she’s studying law. Next to us on wy right are two Turkish st14dents who came about a week ago. They know hardly any English.” “Thank you. And do you all get on well together?
Or do you have quarrels?” The lightness of his tone robbed the words of seriousness.
Celia said, “Oh, we’re all too busy really to have fights, although-was “Although what, Miss Austin?” “Well-nigel-next to Mrs. Hubbard. He likes stirring people up and making them angry. And Len Bateson gets angry. He gets wild with rage sometimes. But he’s very sweet really.” “And Colin Mcationabb-does he too get annoyed?” “Oh no. Colin just raises his eyebrows and looks amused.” “I see. And the young ladies, do you have your quarrels?” “Oh no, we all get on very well.
Genevieve has feelings sometimes. I think French people are inclined to be touchy-oh I mean-I’m sorry” Celia was the picture of confusion.
“Me, I am Belgian,” said Poirot solemnly. He went on quickly, before Celia could recover control of herself.
“What did you mean just now, Miss Austin, when you said you wondered. You wondered-what?” She crumbled her bread nervously.
“Oh that-nothing-notlng really-just, there have been some silly practical jokes lately-I thought Mrs. Hubbard-But really, it was silly of me. I didn’t mean anything.” Poirot did not press her. He turned away to Mrs. Hubbard and was presently engaged in a three cornered conversation with her and with Nigel Chapman who introduced the controversial challenge that crime was a form of creative art-and that the misfits of society were really the police who only entered that profession because of their secret sadism. Poirot was amused to note that the anxious looking young woman in spectacles of about thirty-five who sat beside him tried desperately to explain away his remarks as fast as he made them. Nigel, however, took absolutely no notice of her.
Mrs. Hubbard looked benignantly amused.
“All you young people nowadays think of nothing but polities and psychology,” she said. “When I was a girl we were much more lighthearted. We danced.
If you rolled back the carpet in the Common Room there’s quite a good floor, and you could dance to the wireless, but you never do.” Celia laughed and said with a tinge of malice, “But you used to dance, Nigel. I’ve danced with you myself once, though I don’t expect you to remember.” “You’ve danced with me,” said Nigel incredulously.
“Where?” “At Cambridge-in May Week.” “Oh, May Week!” Nigel waved away the follies of youth. “One goes through that adolescent phase. Mercifully it soon passes.” his Nigel was clearly not much more than twenty-five now. Poirot concealed a smile in his mustache.
Patricia Lane said earnestly, “You see, Mrs. Hubbard, there is so much study to be done.
With lectures to attend and one’s notes to write up, there’s really no time for anything but what is really worth while.” “Well, my dear, one’s only young once,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
A chocolate pudding succeeded the spaghetti and afterwards they all went into the Common Room, and helped themselves to coffee from an urnthat stood on a table.
Poirot was then invited to begin his discourse. The two Turks politely excused themselves. The rest seated themselves and looked expectant.
Poirot rose to his feet and spoke with his usual aplomb. The sound of his own voice was always pleasant to him, and he spoke for three quarters of an hour in a light and amusing fashion, recallin, those of his experiences that lent themselves to an agreeable exaggeration. If he managed to suggest, in a subtle fashion, that he was, perhaps, something of a mountebank, it was not too obviously contrived.
“And so, you see,” he finished, “I say to this City gentleman that I am reminded of a soap manufacturer I knew in L16ge who poisoned his wife in order to marry a beautiful blond secretary. I say it very lightly, but at once I get a reaction. He presses upon me the stolen money I had just recovered for him. He goes pale and there is fear in his eyes. ‘I will give this money,” I say, “to a deserving charity.” ‘Do anything you like with it,” he says. And I say to him then, and I say it very significantly, “It will be advisable, Monsieur, to be very careful.” He nods, speechless, and as I go out, I see that he wipes his forehead. He has had the big fright, and H have saved his life. For though he is infatuated with his blond secretary he will not now try and poison his stupid and disagreeable wife.