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 very 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, M. 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 pince-nez.
‘This is very kind of you, I’m sure, M. Poirot,’ she said. ‘Very kind. And such a delicious tea, too. I’m sure I’ve eaten far more than I should—well, perhaps just one more sandwich—tea? Well, just half a cup.’
‘First,’ said Poirot, ‘we make the repast—afterwards we get down to business.’
He smiled at her amiably and twirled his moustache, and Mrs Hubbard said:
‘You know, you’re exactly like I pictured you from Felicity’s description.’
After a moment’s startled realisation that Felicity was the severe Miss Lemon’s Christian name, Poirot replied that he should have expected no less given Miss Lemon’s efficiency.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Hubbard absently, taking a second sandwich, ‘Felicity has never cared for people. I do. That’s why I’m so worried.’
‘Can you explain to me exactly what does worry you?’
‘Yes, I can. It would be natural enough for money to be taken—small sums here and there. And if it were jewellery that’s quite straightforward too—at least, I don’t mean straightforward, quite the opposite—but it would fit in—with kleptomania or dishonesty. But I’ll just read you a list of the things that have been taken, that I’ve put down on paper.’
Mrs Hubbard opened her bag and took out a small notebook.
Evening shoe (one of a new pair)
Bracelet (costume jewellery)
Diamond ring (found in plate of soup)
Powder compact
Lipstick
Stethoscope
Ear-rings
Cigarette lighter
Old flannel trousers
Electric light bulbs
Box of chocolates
Silk scarf (found cut to pieces)
Rucksack (ditto)
Boracic powder
Bath salts
Cookery book
Hercule Poirot drew in a long deep breath.
‘Remarkable,’ he said, ‘and quite—quite fascinating.’
He was entranced. He looked from the severe disapproving face of Miss Lemon to the kindly, distressed face of Mrs Hubbard.
‘I congratulate you,’ he said warmly to the latter.
She looked startled.
‘But why, M. Poirot?’
‘I congratulate you on having such a unique and beautiful problem.’
‘Well, perhaps it makes sense to you, M. Poirot, but—’
‘It does not make sense at all. It reminds me of nothing so much as a round game I was recently persuaded to play by some young friends during the Christmas season. It was called, I understand, the Three Horned Lady. Each person in turn uttered the following phrase, “I went to Paris and bought—” adding some article. The next person repeated that and added a further article and the object of the game was to memorise in their proper order the articles thus enumerated, some of them, I may say, of a most monstrous and ridiculous nature. A piece of soap, a white elephant, a gate-legged table and a Muscovy duck were, I remember, some of the items. The difficulty of the memorisation lay, of course, in the totally unrelated nature of the objects—the lack of sequence, so to speak. As in the list you have just shown me. By the time that, say, twelve objects had been mentioned, to enumerate them in their proper order became almost impossible. A failure to do so resulted in a paper horn being handed to the competitor and he or she had to continue the recitation next time in the terms, “I, a one horned lady, went to Paris,” etc. After three horns had been acquired, retirement was compulsory, the last left in was the winner.’
‘I’m sure you were the winner, M. Poirot,’ said Miss Lemon, with the faith of a loyal employee.
Poirot beamed.
‘That was, in fact, so,’ he said. ‘To even the most haphazard assembly of objects one can bring order, and with a little ingenuity, sequence, so to speak. That is: one says to oneself mentally, “With a piece of soap I wash the dirt from a large white marble elephant which stands on a gate-legged table”—and so on.’
Mrs Hubbard said respectfully: ‘Perhaps you could do the same thing with the list of things I’ve given you.’
‘Undoubtedly I could. A lady with her right shoe on, puts a bracelet on her left arm. She then puts on powder and lipstick and goes down to dinner and drops her ring in the soup, and so on—I could thus commit your list to memory—but that is not what we are seeking. Why was such a haphazard collection of things stolen? Is there any system behind it? Some fixed idea of any kind? We have here primarily a process of analysis. The first thing to do is to study the list of objects very carefully.’
There was a silence whilst Poirot applied himself to study. Mrs Hubbard watched him with the rapt attention of a small boy watching a conjurer, waiting hopefully for a rabbit or at least streams of coloured ribbons to appear. Miss Lemon, unimpressed, withdrew into consideration of the finer points of her filing system.
When Poirot finally spoke, Mrs Hubbard jumped.
‘The first thing that strikes me is this,’ said Poirot. ‘Of all these things that disappeared, most of them were of small value (some quite negligible) with the exception of two—a stethoscope and a diamond ring. Leaving the stethoscope aside for a moment, I should like to concentrate on the ring. You say a valuable ring—how valuable?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say exactly, M. Poirot. It was a solitaire diamond, with 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