Poirot beamed.
“That was, in fact, so,” he said. “To even the most haphazard assembly of objects one can bring order, andwitha little ingenuity, sequence, so to speak. That is: one says to oneself mentally ‘With a piece of soap I wash the dirt from a large white marble elephant which stands on a gate-legged table!-and so on.
Mrs. Hubbard said respectfully, “Perhaps you could do the same thing with comthe list of things I’ve given you.” “Undoubtedly I could. A lady with her right shoe on, puts a bracelet on her left arm. She then puts on powder and lipstick and goes down to dinner and drops her ring in the soup, and so on-I could thus commit your list to memory-but it is not that that we are seeking. Why was such a haphazard collection of things stolen? Is there any system behind it? Some fixed idea of any kind? We have here primarily a process of analysis. The first thing to do is to study the list of objects very carefully.” There was a silence whilst Poirot applied himself to study. Mrs. Hubbard watched him with the wrapped attention of a small boy watching a conjuror, waiting hopefully for a rabbit or at least streams of coloured ribbons to appear. Miss Lemon, unimpressed, withdrew inffconsideration of the finer points of her filing system.
When Poirot finally spoke, Mrs. Hubbard jumped.
“The first thing that strikes me is this,” said Poirot. “Of all these things that disappeared, most of them were of small value (some quite negligible) with the exception of two-a stethoscope and a diamond ring. Leaving the stethoscope aside for a moment, I should like to concentrate on the ring. You say a valuable ring-how valuable?” “Well, I couldn’t say exactly, Mr.
Poirot. It was a solitaire diamond, was a cluster of small diamonds top and bottom. It had been Miss Lane’s mother’s engagement ring, I understand. She was most upset when it was missing, and we were all relieved when it turned up the same evening in Miss Hobhouse’s plate of soup. Just a nasty practical joke, we thought.” “And so it may have been. But I myself consider that its theft and return are significant. If a lipstick, or a powder compact or a book are missing-it is not sufficient to make you call in the police. But a valuable diamond ring is different. There is every chance that the police will be called in. So the ring is returned.” “But why take it if you’re going to return it?” said Miss Lemon, frowning.
“Why indeed,” said Poirot. “But for the moment we will leave the questions. I am engaged now on classifying these thefts, and I am taking the ring first.
Who is this Miss Lane from whom it was stolen?” “Patricia Lane? She’s a very nice girl.
Going in for a what-do-you-call-it, a diploma in history or archeology or something.” “Well off?” “Oh, no. She’s got a little money of her own, but she’s very careful always. The ring, as I say, belonged to her mother. She has one or two bits of jewelry but she doesn’t have many new clothes, and she’s given up smoking lately.” “What is she like? Describe her to me in your own words.” “Well, she’s sort of betwixt and between in colouring. Rather washed out looking. Quiet and ladylike, but not much spirits or life to her. What you’d call rather awell, an earnest type of girl.” “And the ring turned up again in Miss Hobhouse’s plate of soup. Who is Miss Hobhouse?” “Valerie Hobhouse? She’s a clever dark girl with rather a sarcastic way of talking. She works in a beauty parlour. Sabrina Fair-I suppose you have heard of it.” “Are these two girls friendly?” Mrs. Hubbard considered.
“I should say so-yes. They don’t have much to do with each other. Patricia gets on well with everybody, I should say, without being particularly popular or anything like that. Valerie Hobhouse has her enemies, her tongue being what it is-but she’s got quite a following too, If you know what I mean.” “I think I know,” said Poirot.
So Patricia Lane was nice but dull, and Valerie Hobhouse had personality. He resumed his study of the list of thefts.