Hickory Dickory Dock

"Ni el Chapman? Nigel Chapman? But when we found her dead-he cried-cried like a child." "I daresay," said Poirot. "I think he was as fond of that irl as he could be of anybody-but that wouldn't save her-not if she represented a menace to his interests. All along, Nigel Chapman has stood out as the obvious probability. Who had morphia in his possession? Nigel Chapman.

Who has the shallow brilliant intellect to plan, and the audacity to carry out fraud and murder?

Nigel Chapman. Who do we know to be both ruthless and vain? Nigel Chapman. He has all the hallraarks of the killer; the overweening vanity, the spitefulness, the growing recklessness that led him to draw attention to himself in every conceivable way comusing the green ink in a stupendous double bluff, and finally overreaching himself by the silly deliberate mistake of putting Len Bateson's hairs in Patricia's fingers, oblivious of the fact that as Patricia was struck down from behind, she could not possibly have grasped her assailant by the hair. They are like that, these murderers-carried away by their own egoism, by their admiration of their own cleverness, relying on their charm-for he has charm, this Nigel-he has all the charm of a spoiled child who has never grown up, who never will grow up-who sees only one thing, Himself, and what he wants!" "But why, Mr. Poirot? Why murder?

Celia Austin, perhaps, but why Patricia Lane?" "That," said Poirot, "we have got to find out." "I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU for a long time," said old Mr. Endicott to Hercule Poirot. He peered at the other keenly. "It's very nice of you to drop in." "Not really," said Hercule Poirot. "I want something." "Well, as you know, I'm deeply in your debt.

You cleared up that nasty Abemethy business for me." "I am surprised really to find you here. I thought you had retired." The old lawyer smiled grimly. His firm was a most respectable and old established one.

"I came in specially today to see a very old client. I still attend to the affairs of one or two old friends." "Sir Arthur Stanley was an old friend and client, was he not?" "Yes. We've undertaken all his legal work since he was quite a young man. A very brilliant man, Poirotquite an exceptional brain." "His death was announced on the six o'clock news yesterday, I believe." "Yes. The funeral's on Friday. He's been ailing some time. A malignant growth, I understand." "Lady Stanley died some years ago?" "Two and a hall years ago, roughly." The keen eyes below the bushy brows looked sharply at Poirot.

"How did she die?" The lawyer repried promptly.

"Overdose of sleeping stuff. Medinal as far as'remember." "There was an inquest?" "Yes. The verdict was that she took it accidentally." "Did she?" Mr. Endicott was silent for a moment.

"I won't insult you," he said. "I've no doubt you've got a good reason for asking.

Medinal's a rather dangerous drug, I understand, because there's not a big margin between an effective dose and a lethal one. If the patient gets drowsy and forgets she's taken a dose and takes another-well, it can have a fatal result." Poirot nodded.

"Is that what she did?" "Presumably. There was no suggestion of suicide, or suicidal tendencies." "And no suggestion of-anything else?" Again that keen glance was shot at him.

"Her husband gave evidence." "And what did he say?" "He made it clear that she did sometimes got confused after comtaking her nightly dose and ask for another." "Was he lying?" "Really, Poirot, what an outrageous question.

Why should you suppose for a minute that I should know?" Poirot smiled. The attempt at bluster did not deceive him.

"I suggest, my friend, that you know very well. But for the moment I will not embarrass you by asking you what you know.

Instead I will ask you for an opinion. The opinion of one man about another. Was Arthur Stanley the kind of man who would do away with his wife if he wanted to marry another woman?" Mr. Endicott jumped as though he had been stung by a wasp.

"Preposterous," he said angrily. "Quite preposterous. And there was no other woman. Stanley was devoted to his wife." "Yes," said Poirot. "I thought so. And now-I will come to the purpose of my call upon you. You arethe solicitors who drew up Arthur Stanley's will. You are, perhaps, his executor." "That is so." "Arthur Stanley had a son. The son quaffelled with his father at the time of his mother's death.