Strength and-well-malice, you know.” was I know, yes, I know. It is not pleasant.
Not pleasant to think about.” “Then, when later that scarf of Valerie’s was found, also slashed to pieces, well, it did look-what shall I say-unbalanced.” “Ah,” said Poirot. “But I think there you are wrong, Madame. I do not think there is anything unbalanced about this business. I think it has aim and purpose and shall we say, method.” “Well, I daresay you know more about these things, Mr. Poirot, than I do,” said Mrs.
Hubbard. “All I can say is, I don’t like it.
As far as I can judge we’ve got a very nice lot of students here and it would distress me very much to think that one of them is-well, not what I’d like to think he or she is.” Poirot had wandered over to the window. He opened it and stepped out on to the old-fashioned balcony.
The room looked out over the back of the house.
Below was a small, sooty garden. can’ It is more quiet here than at the front, I expect?” he said.
“In a way. But Hickory Road isn’t really a noisy road. And facing this way you get all the cats at night. Yowling, you know, and knocking the lids off the dust bins.” Poirot looked down at four large battered ash cans and other assorted back yard junk.
“Where is the boiler house?” “That’s the door to it, down there next to the coal house.” “see.” He gazed down speculatively.
“Who else has rooms facing this way?” so’ Nigel Chapman and Len Bateson have the next room to this.” “And beyond them?” “Then it’s the next house-and the girls’ rooms.
First the room Celia had and beyond it Elizabeth Johnston’s and then Patricia Lane’s.
Valerie and Jean Tomlinson look out to the front.” Poirot nodded and came back into the room.
“He is neat, this young man,” he murmured, looking round him appreciatively.
“Yes, Colin’s room is always very tidy. Some of the boys live in a terrible mess,” said Mrs.
Hubbard. “You should see Len Bateson’s room.” She added indulgently, “But he is a nice boy, Mr. Poirot.” “You say that these rucksacks are bought at the shop at the end of the road?” “Yes.” “What is the name of that shop?” “Now really, Mr. Poirot, when you ask me like that I can’t remember. Mabberley, I tlnk. Or else Kelso.
No, I know they don’t sound the same kind of name but they’re the same sort of name in my mind.
Really, of course, because I knew some people once called Kelso and some other ones called Mabberley, and they were very alike.” “Ah,” said Poirot. “That is one of the reasons for things that always fascinate me. The unseen link.” He looked once more out of the window and down into the garden, then took his leave of Mrs. Hubbard and left the house.
He walked down Hickory Road until he came to the corner and turned into the main road. He had no difficulty in recognizing the shop of Mrs. Hubbard’s description. It displayed in great profusion picnic baskets, rucksacks, thermos flasks, sports equipment of all kinds, shorts, bush shirts, topees, tents, swimming suits, bicycle lamps and torches; in fact all possible needs of young and athletic youth.
The name above the shop, he noted, was neither Mabberley nor Kelso but Hicks. After a careful study of the goods displayed in the window, Poirot entered and represented himself as desirous of purchasing a rucksack for a hypothetical nephew.
“He makes “re camping,” you understand,” said Poirot at his most foreign. “He goes with other students upon the feet and all he needs he takes with him on his back, and the cars and the lorries that pass, they give him a lift.” The proprietor, who was a small, obliging man with sandy hair, replied promptly.
“Ah, hitch-hiking,” he said. “They all do it nowadays. Must lose the buses and the railways a lot of money, though. Hitch-hike themselves all over Europe some of these young people do. Now it’s a rucksack you’re wanting, sir. Just an ordinary rucksack?” “I understand so. Yes. You have a variety then?” “Well, we have one or two extra light ones for ladies, but this is the general article we sell.