Good, stout, stand a lot of wear, and really very cheap though I say it myself.” He produced a stout canvas affair which was, as far as Poirot could judge, an exact replica of the one he had been shown in Colin’s room. Poirot examined it, asked a few more exotic and unnecessary questions and ended by paying for it then and there.
“Ah yes, we sell a lot of these,” said the man as he made it up into a parcel.
“A good many students lodge round here, do they not?” “Yes. This is a neighbourhood with a lot of students.” “There is one hostel, I believe, in Hickory Road?” “Oh yes. I’ve sold several to the young gentlemen there. And the young ladies. They usually come here for any equipment they want before they go off. My prices are cheaper than the big stores, and so I tell them. There you are, sir, and I’m sure your nephew will be delighted with the service he gets out of this.” Poirot thanked him and went out with his parcel.
He had only gone a step or two when a hand fell on his shoulder.
It was Inspector Sharpe.
“Just the man I want to see,” said Sharpe.
“You have accomplished your search of the house?” “I’ve searched the house, but I don’t know that I’ve accomplished very much. There’s a place along here where you can get a very decent sandwich and a cup of coffee. Come along with me if you’re not too busy.
I’d like to talk to you.” The sandwich bar was almost empty. The two men carried their plates and cups to a small table in a corner.
Here Sharpe recounted the results of his questioning of the students.
“The only person we’ve got any evidence against is young Chapman,” he said. “And there we’ve got too much. Three lots of poison through his hands. But there’s no reason to believe he’d any animus against Celia Austin, and I doubt if he’d have been as frank about his activities if he was really guilty.” “It opens out other possibilities, though.” “Yes-all that stuff knocking about in a drawer.
Silly young, ass!” He went on to Elizabeth Johnston and her account of what Celia had said to her.
“If what she said is true, it’s significant.” “Very significant,” Poirot agreed.
The Inspector quoted, was “T shall know more about it tomorrow.”” “And so-tomorrow never came for that poor girl!
Your search of the house-did it accomplish anything?” “There were one or two things that were-what shall I say? Unexpected, perhaps.” “Such as?” “Elizabeth Johnston is a member of the Communist party. We found her Party card.” “Yes,” said Poirot, thoughtfully. “That is interesting.” “You wouldn’t have expected it,” said Inspector Sharpe. “I didn’t until I questioned her yesterday. She’s got a lot of personality, that girl.” “I should think she was a valuable recruit to the Party,” said Hercule Poirot. “She is a young woman of quite unusual intelligence, I should say.” “It was interesting to me,” said Inspector Sharpe, “because she has never paraded those sympathies, apparently. She’s kept very quiet about it at Hickory Road. I don’t see that it has any significance in connection with the case of Celia Austin, I mean-but it’s a thing to bear in mind.” “What else did you find?” Inspector Sharpe shrugged his shoulders.
Miss Patricia Lane, in her drawer, had a handkerchief rather extensively stained with green ink.” Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
“Green ink? Patricia Lane! So it may have been she who took the ink and spilled it over Elizabeth Johnston’s papers and comthen wiped her hands afterwards. But surely . . .” “Surely she wouldn’t want her dear Nigel to be suspected,” Sharpe finished for him.
“One would not have thought so. Of course, someone else might have put the handkerchief in her drawer.” “Likely enough.” “Anything else?” “Well,” Sharpe reflected for a moment. “It seems Leonard Bateson’s father is in Longwith Vale Mental Hospital, a certified patient. I don’t suppose it’s of any particular interest, but . . .” “But Len Bateson’s father is insane.
Probably without significance, as you say, but it is a fact to be stored away in the memory. It would even be interesting to know what particular form his mania takes.” “Bateson’s a nice young fellow,” said Sharpe, “but of course his temper is a bit, well, uncontrolled.” Poirot nodded. Suddenly, vividly, he remembered Celia Austin saying ‘Of course, I wouldn’t cut up a rucksack. That’s just silly.