Catherine's for years. Those are the people who have what you might call rightful and normal access to the cupboard. Then there's an old woman who scrubs the floors. She's there between nine and ten in the morning and she could have grabbed a bottle out of the cupboard if the girls were busy at the outpatients' hatches, or attending to the ward baskets, but she's been working for the Hospital for years and it seems very unlikely. The lab attendant comes through with stock bottles and he, too, could help himself to a bottle if he watched his opportunity-but none of these suggestions seem at all probable." "What outsiders come into the Dispensary?" ets' Quite a lot, one way or another. They'd pass through the Dispensary to go to the Chief Pharmacist's office, for instance-or travellers from the big wholesale drug houses would go through it to the manufacturing departments, Then, of course, friends come in occasionally to see one of the dispensers-not a usual thing, but it happens." "That is better. Who came in recently to see Celia Austin?" Sharpe consulted his notebook.

"A girl called Patricia Lane came in on Tuesday of last week. She wanted Celia to come to meet her at the pictures after the Dispensary closed." "Patricia Lane," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"She was only there about five minutes and she did not go near the poison cupboard but remained near the Outpatients windows talking to Celia and another girl. They also remember a coloured girl comingab two weeks ago-a very superior girl, they said. She was interested in the work and asked questions about it and made notes. Spoke perfect English." "That would be Elizabeth Johnston. She was interested, was she?" "It was a Welfare Clinic afternoon. She was interested in the organisation of such things and also in what was prescribed for such ailments as infant diarrhoea and skin infections." Poirot nodded.

"Anyone else?" "Not that can be remembered." "Do doctors come to the Dispensary?" Sharpe grinned.

"All the time. Officially and unofficially.

Sometimes to ask about a particular formula, or to see what is kept in stock." "To see what is kept in stock?" "Yes, I thought of that. Sometimes they ask advice comab a substitute for some preparation that seems to irritate a patient's skin or interfere with digestion unduly. Sometimes a physician just strolls in for a chat comslack moment.

A good many of the young chaps come in for veganin or aspirin when they've got a hangover-and occasionally, I'd say, for a flirtatious word or two with one of the girls if the opportunity arises. Human nature is always human nature. You see how it is. Pretty hopeless." Poirot said, "And if I recollect rightly, one or more of the students at Hickory Road is attached to St. Catherine's-a big red-haired boy-BatesBateman-was "Leonard Bateson. That's right. And Colin Mcationabb is doing a post graduate course there.

Then there's a girl, Jean Tomlinson, who works in the physiotherapy department." "And all of these have probably been quite often in the Dispensary?" "Yes, and what's more, nobody remembers when because they're used to seeing them and know them by sight.

Jean Tomlinson was by way of being a friend of the senior Dispenser-was "It is not easy," said Poircvt.

"I'll say it's not! You see, anyone who was on the staff could take a look in the poison cupboard, say, "Why on earth do you have so much Liquor Arsenicalis" or something like that.

"Didn't know anybody used it nowadays." And nobody would think twice about it or remember it." Sharpe pause (i and then said: "What we are postulating is that someone gave Celia Austin morphia and afterwards put the morphia bottle and the torn out fragment of letter in her room to make it look like suicide. But why, Mr. Poirot, why?" Poirot shook his head. Sharpe went on: "You hinted this morning that someone might have suggested the kleptomania idea to CeHa Austin." Poirot moved uneasily.

"That was only a vague idea of mine. It was just that it seemed doubtful if she would have had the wits to think of it herself." "Then who?" "As far as I know, onlythree of the students would have been capable of thinking out such an idea.

Leonard Bateson would have had the requisite knowledge.

He is aware of Colin's enthusiasm for 'maladjusted personalities." He might have suggested something of the kind to Celia more or less as a joke and coached her in her part. But I cannot really see him conniving at such a thing for month after monthunless, that is, he had an ulterior motive, or is a very different person from what he appears to be. (that is always a thing one must take into account.) Nigel Chapman has a mischievous and slightly malicious turn of mind. He'd think it good fun, and I should imagine, would have no scruples whatever.

He is a kind of grown up 'enfant terrible." The third person I have in mind is a young woman called Valerie Hobhouse. She has brains, is modern in outlook and education, and has probably read enough psychology to judge Colin's probable reartion. If she were fond of Celia, she might think it legitimate fun to make a fool of Colin." "Leonard Bateson, Nigel Chapman, Valerie Hobhouse," said Sharpe writing down the names. "Thanks for the tip. I'll remember when I'm questioning them.

What about the Indians? One of them is a medical student, too." "His mind is entirely occupied with politics and persecution mania," said Poirot. "I don't think he would be interested enough to suggest kleptomania to Celia Austin and I don't think she would have accepted such advice from him." "And that's all the help you can give me, Mr.

Poirot?" said Sharpe, rising to his feet and buttoning away his notebook.

"I fear so. But I consider myself personally interested-that is if you, do not object, my friend?" "Not in the least. Why should I?" "In my own amateurish way I shall do what I can. For me, there is, I think, only one line of action." "And that is?" Poiro-t sighed.

"Conversation, my friend. Conversation and again conversation!

All the murderers I have ever come across enjoyed talking. In my opinion the strong silent man seldom commits a crime-and if he does it is simple, violent and perfectly obvious. But our clever subtle murderer-he is so pleased with himself that sooner or later he says something unfortunate and trips himself up. Talk to these people, mon cher, do not confine yourself to simple interrogation. Encourage their views, demand their help, inquire about their hunches-but, bon Dieu! I do not need to teach you your business. I remember your abilities well enouch." Sharpe smiled gently.

"Yes," he said, "I've always found-well-amiability-a great help." The two men smiled at each other in mutual accord.

Sharpe rose to depart.

"I suppose every single one of them is a possible murderer," he said slowly.

"I should think so," said Poirot nonchalantly.

"Leonard Bateson, for instance, has a temper.

He could lose control. Valerie Hobhouse has brains and could plan cleverly. Nigel Chapman is the childish type that lacks proportion. There is a French girl there who might kill if enough money were involved. Patricia Lane is a maternal type and maternal types are always ruthless. The American girl, Sally Finch, is cheerful and gay, but she could play an assumed part better than most. Jean Tomlinson is very full of sweetness and righteousness, but we have all known killers who attended Sunday school with sincere devotion. The West Indian girl Elizabeth Johnston has probably the best brains of anyone in the Hostel. She has subordinated her emotional life to her brain-Ahat is dangerous. There is a charming young African who might have motives for killing about which we could never guess. We have Colin Mcationabb, the psychologist. How many psychologists does one know to whom it might be said, Physician, heal thyself?" "For heaven's sake, Poirot. You are making my head spin! Is nobody incapable of murder?" "I have often wondered," said Hercule Poirot.