Chapter 8 7

(seven) Miss Lemon was seldom out of time, but this morning when she arrived, out of breath, it was five past ten instead of exactly ten. "I'm very, very sorry, Mr. Poirot. My sister called just as I was going out." "Ah, I believe she is in good health?" Bo Luo asked with a look of inquiry. "Well, to be honest, not really. There was a student who committed suicide." Polo murmured something under his breath. "What's the student's name?" "A girl named Celia Austin." "How did you commit suicide?" "They think she took the morphine."

"Could it be an accident?" "Oh no. Looks like she wrote a note." Polo said softly: "I didn't expect this...but this is the truth. I expected something to happen." He looked up and found that Miss Limon was paying attention, waiting with a pen and paper. He sighed, shaking his head. "No, I'm calling you these letters from this morning. I, I'm going to Hickory Road." Geronimo opened the door to let Polo in, recognized him as the distinguished guest two days ago, and immediately became talkative, fearing that the world would not chaotically bite his ears.

"Oh, sir, it's you, we've got trouble here - the little lady, she died in her bed this morning. First the doctor came, and he shook his head. Now here's a detective, and he's upstairs with the wife and the boss .Why did she kill herself? Just last night when everything was so merry and the engagement was announced?" "got engaged?" "Yes, with Mr. Colin - you know - big, dark, always smoking a pipe." "I know." Geronimo opened the door of the saloon and ushered Polo in with double intrigue. "You stay here, okay? Later, when the police leave, I'll tell my wife you're here."

Polo said yes, and Geronimo withdrew.Poirot was alone, inspecting everything in the room without any scruples, paying special attention to the things that belonged to the students.His examination results were mediocre.Students keep their belongings and personal documents in their bedrooms. Upstairs, Mrs. Hubbard was confronting Inspector Sharpe, who was asking various questions in a soft, apologetic voice. "It might be very embarrassing and sad for you, I know that," he said reassuringly. "But you know, as Dr. Coles has told you, there's going to be an inquest, and we've got to sort things out. You say this girl has been distressed and unhappy lately?"

"yes." "A love thing?" "Not quite." Mrs. Hubbard hesitated. "You'd better tell me, you know," said Inspector Sharpe. "We need to get to the truth. Was there a reason, or did she think it was a reason, to take her own life? Is there any possibility that she was pregnant?" "That's not the case at all. I hesitate, Mr. Sharp, simply because the boy has done some very stupid things, and I hope there's no need to make them public." Inspector Sharp coughed. "We take it very seriously and the coroner is a man of extensive experience, but we have to know."

"Yeah, of course. I'm stupid. The truth is, things have been dropping for the past period, three months or earlier—not anything important." "You mean little things of little value, trinkets or something? And, money?" "As far as I know it doesn't include money." "Ah, and this girl is responsible?" "yes." "You caught her on the spot?" "Not really. A - er - friend of mine was here for dinner the night before yesterday, a Mr. Poirot -" Inspector Sharp looked up from his notebook. "Mr. Hercule Poirot?" said he. "Really?"

"He gave us a little speech after dinner and the topic of these thefts came up. He advised me to call the police in front of them all." "He said so, didn't he?" "Later, Celia came to my room and confessed. She was very distressed at the time." "Is there any issue of transfer to justice involved?" "No. She intends to pay full compensation, and everyone has been very tolerant of what she did." "Is she tight?" "No, she has a modest job as a dispenser at St. Catherine's Hospital, and she has a little money saved of her own. She is arguably richer than most of the students here, I believe."

"So she didn't have to steal—she did," said the Inspector, writing it down. "Kleptomaniacs, I suppose you've got it down?" said Mrs. Hubbard. "That's a title I wrote down, yes. But what I mean is a person who doesn't need to steal, but steals from others." "I wonder if you're being a little unfair to her by noting it that way. There's a young man, you know." "He berated her?" "Oh, No, quite the opposite.He defended her vigorously, and in fact, last night, after dinner, he had announced their engagement. "

Inspector Sharpe raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And then she went to bed and took the morphine? That's a little surprising, isn't it?" "Yes, I don't understand." "But the facts are plain enough," Inspector Sharpe nodded to the small torn piece of paper lying on the table between them.It says: "Dear Mrs. Hubbard, I am truly sorry, and this is the best thing I can do." "There is no signature on it, but you don't doubt that it is her handwriting?" "No doubt." Mrs. Hubbard spoke uncertainly, and frowned as she looked at the torn paper.Why did she feel so strongly that there was something wrong with this—?

"There was a distinct fingerprint on it that was hers," said the Inspector. "The vial of morphine had a St. Catherine's Hospital label on it. And you told me she worked as a dispenser at St. Catherine's. She had access to the poisoned medicine cabinet, and that's where she probably got it. Presumably." It was she who had the idea of ​​suicide and brought it back yesterday." "I really can't believe it. I don't know why, but it just doesn't feel right. She was so happy last night." "Then we must assume that something changed inside her when she went to bed. Perhaps there is much in her past that you don't know. Perhaps she fears her past will be revealed. You think she is deeply in love with this young man—"

"Colin Macna. He's doing his master's at St. Catharines." "A doctor? Well. In St. Catherine's?" "Celier was deeply in love with him, much more than he was for her." "Then maybe that's the explanation. She doesn't feel worthy of his love, or doesn't tell him all she should. She's fairly young?" "Twenty-three." "It's idealized at this age. They love very hard. Well, I'm afraid that's it. It's a pity." He stood up. "I'm afraid the actual truth will have to be revealed, but we'll do everything we can to cover it up. Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard. I've now got all the information I need. She died two years ago at present, and all you know of her The only relative is an elderly aunt who lives in Yorkshire - we'll be in touch with him." He picked up the little slip of paper with Celia's troubled handwriting on it. "There's something wrong with that," said Mrs. Hubbard suddenly. "It's not right, what do you say?" "I don't know—but I feel I ought to know. Good God!" "You're fairly sure it's her handwriting?" "Oh yes. Not the question." "I feel stupid this morning," she said humbly. "It's all very hard on you, I know," said the Inspector sympathetically. "I don't think we need to trouble you any further at present, Mrs. Hubbard." Inspector Sharpe opened the door and met Geronimo, who was outside. "Hey," said Inspector Sharp cheerfully, "listening outside the door, huh?" "No, no," said Geronimo, indignantly. "I didn't eavesdrop--never did! I just came up with a message." "What message?" Geronimo said sullenly: "It's just that there's a gentleman downstairs who wants to see Mrs. Hubbard." "Okay, go in and tell her, baby." He passed Geronimo and walked down the aisle.Then, imitating the behavior of the Italian servant, he suddenly turned around and walked back quietly on tiptoe.It would be good to know if that little monkey face is telling the truth. He was just in time to hear Geronimo say: "The gentleman who came to dinner that night, he is downstairs waiting to see you." "Huh? What?" Mrs. Hubbard looked absent-minded. "Oh, thanks, I'll be down in a minute or two." "Ah," Sharp said to himself. "I think I must know who it is." He went downstairs and into the saloon. "Hi, Mr. Polo, long time no see." Poirot, who had been squatting under a shelf near the fireplace, stood up with no apparent discomfort. "Aha, but of course—yes, Inspector Sharpe? But you weren't in the department before, were you?" "Transferred here two years ago. Remember that incident at Kress Hill?" "Yes. It was a long time ago. You are still very young, Mr. Inspector . . . " "Old and old." "...and I'm an old man. Oops!" sighed Poirot. "Still active, eh, M. Poirot? Let's say yes, in some ways?" "What do you mean by that?" "I mean I wonder why you came here that night to give a lecture on criminology to the students." Polo smiled. "It's very simple. Mrs. Hubbard here is the sister of my secretary, Miss Lemon." "You came when she asked you to investigate what was going on here?" "You're quite right." "But why? That's what I want to know. What's your business?" "You mean, what interests me?" "That's exactly what I mean. There's a silly kid here who steals something. It happens all the time. It's kind of 'pediatric' to you, isn't it?" Polo shook his head. "Why not? What's so simple about it?" "It's not that simple." Poirot sat down on the chair.He frowned slightly, brushing the dust off his trousers. "Wish I knew," he said dryly. Sharp frowned. "I do not understand." "Yes, I don't understand either. Those things that were stolen—" Poirot shook his head. "There's no type to follow - and it doesn't make sense. It's like seeing a row of footprints that were not made by the same pair of feet. Apparently, there's the imprint of what you call a 'silly kid' - but there's more to it. Other things happen Things that were meant to look like Celia Austin did—but didn't fit her way. They made no sense, and apparently had no purpose. There was, of course, evidence of malice. And Xi Li'er has no malicious intentions." "She has kleptomania?" "I very much doubt she has." "So, just an ordinary thief?" "Not what you think. I'll tell you what I think. The purpose of stealing all these little things is to attract the attention of a certain young man." "Colin Macna?" "Not bad. She fell desperately in love with Colin McNer. Colin never paid attention to her. She made herself appear to be an interesting young criminal in place of the pretty, well-behaved young good girl. It was a success." Yes. Colin Macna was immediately hooked." "Then he must be a big fool." "Not at all. He's a keen psychologist." "Oh, one of those guys! Now I see. This girl is pretty smart." "Astonishingly sophisticated," repeated Polo thoughtfully, "yes, astonishingly shrewd." Inspector Sharpe was alarmed. "What's the meaning?" "It means I doubt—whether this is someone else's idea for her." "What reason?" "How do I know? Altruism? Some hidden motive?" "Do you know who might have given her the hint?" "Don't know—unless—but no—" "I still don't quite get it. If she just tried this trick of pretending to be a kleptomaniac and it worked, why did she commit suicide?" The door opened and Mrs. Hubbard entered.She looked triumphant and flushed.Her jaw jutted out provocatively. "I figured it out. Good morning, Mr. Poirot. I figured it out, Inspector Sharpe. I mean, why did that suicide note look wrong. It couldn't have been from Celia." "Why is it impossible?" "Because that note was written in regular ink. And Celia's pen was filled with green ink—that bottle of ink over there," said Mrs. Hubbard, nodding toward the shelf. "At breakfast yesterday morning." Inspector Sharp leaves abruptly after Mrs. Hubbard has finished speaking and returns. "Not bad," he said. "I've checked. The only pen in the girl's room was filled with green ink." Mrs. Hubbard held up the almost empty bottle of ink. She then articulated the scene at the breakfast table. "I'm sure," she concluded, "that the scrap of paper was torn from a letter she wrote to me yesterday—and I didn't open." "What did she do with that letter? Do you remember?" Mrs. Hubbard shook her head. "I left her alone to go about my own business. I think she must have left it here somewhere and forgotten about it." "And someone found it... took it apart and looked at it... someone..." He broke off. "You know," he said, "what does that mean? I've always wondered about this torn piece of paper. She has a bunch of note papers in her room—it would be nice to take one of them and write a suicide note." That's all. It shows that someone saw the possibility of using a ready-made sentence from her letter to you—to suggest something quite different from the original meaning. To suggest suicide..." He paused, then said slowly: "This means..." "Murder," said Hercule Poirot.