Hickory Dickory Dock

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.

"What is so intriguing is all the different categories represented here. There are the small trifles that would tempt a girl who was both vain and hard up, the lipstick, the costume jewelry, a powder compact-bath salts-the box of chocolates, perhaps. Then we have the stethoscope, a more likely theft for a man who would know just where to sell it or pawn it. Who did it belong to?" "It belonged to Mr. Batesonhe's a big friendly young man." "A medical student?" "Yes." "Was he very angry?" "He was absolutely livid, Mr. Poirot.

He's got one of those flaring up tempers-say anything at the time, but it's soon over. He's not the sort who'd take kindly to having his things pinched." "Does anyone?" "Well, there's Mr. Gopal Ram, one of our Indian students. He smiles at everything. He waves his hand and says material possessions do not matter." "Has anything been stolen from him?" "No." "Ah! Who did the flannel trousers belong to?" "Mr. Mcationabb. Very old they were, and anyone else would say they were done for, but Mr. Mcationabb is very attached to his old clothes and he never throws anything away." "So we have come to the things that it would seem were not worth stealing-old flannel trousers, electric light bulbs, boracic powder, bath salts-a cookery book. They may be important, more likely they are not. The boracie was probably removed by error, someone may have removed a dead bulb and intended to replace it, but forgot-the cookery book may have been borrowed and not returned. Some charwoman may have taken away the trousers." "We employ two very reliable cleaning women.

I'm sure they would neither of them have done such a thing without asking first." "You may be right. Then there is the evening shoe, one of a new pair, I understand? Who do they belong to?" "Sally Finch. She's an American girl studying over here on a Fulbright scholarship." "Are you sure that the shoe has not simply been mislaid? I cannot conceive what use one shoe could be to anyone." "It wasn't mislaid, Mr. Poirot. We all had a terrific hunt. You see Miss Finch was going out to a party in what she calls 'formal dressHis-evening dress to usand the shoes were really vital-they were her only good ones." "It caused her inconvenience-and annoyanceyes.

.. yes, I wonder. Perhaps there is something there.

.." He was silent for a moment or two and then went on.