Hickory Dickory Dock

"Half the nurses in our hospitals seem to be black nowadays," said Miss Lemon, doubtfully, "and I understand much pleasanter and more attentive than the English ones. But that's neither here nor there. We talked the scheme over and finally my sister moved in. Neither she nor I cared very much for the proprietress, Mrs. Nicoletis, a woman of very uncertain temper, sometimes charming and sometimes, I'm sorry to say, quite the reverse-and both cheese-paring and impractical. Still, naturally, if she'd been a thoroughly competent woman, she wouldn't have needed any assistance. My sister is not one to let people's tantrums and vagaries worry her.

She can hold her own with anyone and she never stands any nonsense." Poirot nodded. He felt a vague resemblance to Miss Lemon showing in this account of Miss Lemon's sister coma Miss Lemon softened as it were, by marriage and the climate of Singapore, but a woman with the same hard core of sense.

"So your sister took the job?" he asked.

"Yes, she moved into 26 Hickory Road about six months ago. On the whole, she liked her work there and found it interesting." Hercule Poirot listened. So far the adventures of Miss Lemon's sister had been disappointingly tame.

"But for some time now she's been badly worried.

Very badly worried." "Why?" "Well, you see, Mr. Poirot, she doesn't like the things that are going on." "There are students there of both sexes?" Poirot inquired delicately.

"Oh no, Mr. Poirot, I don't mean that!

One is always prepared for difficulties of that kind, one expects them! No, you see, things have been disappearing." "Disappearing?" "Yes. And such odd things… And all in rather an unnatural way." "When you say things have been disappearing, you mean things have been stolen?" "Yes." "Have the police been called in?" "No. Not yet. My sister hopes that it may not be necessary. She is fond of these young people-of some of them, that is-and she would very much prefer to straighten things out by herself." "Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I can quite see that. But that does not explain, if I may say so, your own anxiety which I take to be a reflex of your sister's anxiety." "I don't like the situation, Mr. Poirot. I don't like it at all. I cannot help feeling that something is going on which I do not understand. No ordinary explanation seems quite to cover the facts-and I really cannot imagine what other explanation there can be." Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Miss Lemon's Heel of Achilles had always been her imagination. She had none. On questions of fact she was invincible. On questions of surmise, she was lost. Not for her the state of mind of Cortes' men upon the peak of Darien.

"Not ordinary petty thieving.? A kleptomaniac, perhaps?" "I do not think so. I read up the subject," said the conscientious Miss Lemon, "in the Encyclopedia Britannica and in a medical work.

But I was not convinced." Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute and a half.

Did he wish to embroil himself in the troubles of Miss Lemon's sister and the passions and grievances of a polyglot Hostel? But it was very annoying and inconvenient to have Miss Lemon making mistakes in typing his letters. He told himself that if he were to embroil himself in the matter, that would be the reason.

He did not admit to himself that he had been rather bored of late and that the very triviality of the business attracted him.

"The parsley sinking into the butter on a hot day," he murmured to himself.

"Parsley? Butter?" Miss Lemon looked startled.

"A quotation from one of your classics," he said.

"You are acquainted, Do doubt, with the Adventures, to say nothing of the Exploits, of Sherlock Holmes." "You mean these Baker Street societies and all that," said Miss Lemon. "Grown men being so silly! But there, that's men all over. Like the model railways they go on playing with. I can't say I've ever had time to read any of the stories. When I do get time for reading, which isn't often, I prefer an improving book." Hercule Poirot bowed his head gracefully.

"How would it be, Miss Lemon, if you were to invite your sister here for some suitable refreshment-afternoon tea, perhaps? I might be able to be of some slight assistance to her." "That's very kind of you, Mr. Poirot. Really very kind indeed. My sister is always free in the afternoons." "Then shall we say tomorrow, if you can arrange it?" And in due course, the faithful George was instructed to provide a meal of square crumpets richly buttered, symmetrical sandwiches, and other suitable components of a lavish English afternoon tea.

Miss LEMON'S SISTER whose name was Mrs.

Hubbard had a definite resemblance to her sister.

She was a good deal yellower of skin, she was plumper, her hair was more frivolously done, and she was less brisk in manner, but the eyes that looked out of a round and amiable countenance were the same shrewd eyes that gleamed through Miss Lemon's.

"This is very kind of you, I'm sure, Mr.