No, I know they don't sound the same kind of name but they're the same sort of name in my mind.

Really, of course, because I knew some people once called Kelso and some other ones called Mabberley, and they were very alike." "Ah," said Poirot. "That is one of the reasons for things that always fascinate me. The unseen link." He looked once more out of the window and down into the garden, then took his leave of Mrs. Hubbard and left the house.

He walked down Hickory Road until he came to the corner and turned into the main road. He had no difficulty in recognizing the shop of Mrs. Hubbard's description. It displayed in great profusion picnic baskets, rucksacks, thermos flasks, sports equipment of all kinds, shorts, bush shirts, topees, tents, swimming suits, bicycle lamps and torches; in fact all possible needs of young and athletic youth.

The name above the shop, he noted, was neither Mabberley nor Kelso but Hicks. After a careful study of the goods displayed in the window, Poirot entered and represented himself as desirous of purchasing a rucksack for a hypothetical nephew.

"He makes "re camping," you understand," said Poirot at his most foreign. "He goes with other students upon the feet and all he needs he takes with him on his back, and the cars and the lorries that pass, they give him a lift." The proprietor, who was a small, obliging man with sandy hair, replied promptly.

"Ah, hitch-hiking," he said. "They all do it nowadays. Must lose the buses and the railways a lot of money, though. Hitch-hike themselves all over Europe some of these young people do. Now it's a rucksack you're wanting, sir. Just an ordinary rucksack?" "I understand so. Yes. You have a variety then?" "Well, we have one or two extra light ones for ladies, but this is the general article we sell.

Good, stout, stand a lot of wear, and really very cheap though I say it myself." He produced a stout canvas affair which was, as far as Poirot could judge, an exact replica of the one he had been shown in Colin's room. Poirot examined it, asked a few more exotic and unnecessary questions and ended by paying for it then and there.

"Ah yes, we sell a lot of these," said the man as he made it up into a parcel.

"A good many students lodge round here, do they not?" "Yes. This is a neighbourhood with a lot of students." "There is one hostel, I believe, in Hickory Road?" "Oh yes. I've sold several to the young gentlemen there. And the young ladies. They usually come here for any equipment they want before they go off. My prices are cheaper than the big stores, and so I tell them. There you are, sir, and I'm sure your nephew will be delighted with the service he gets out of this." Poirot thanked him and went out with his parcel.

He had only gone a step or two when a hand fell on his shoulder.

It was Inspector Sharpe.

"Just the man I want to see," said Sharpe.

"You have accomplished your search of the house?" "I've searched the house, but I don't know that I've accomplished very much. There's a place along here where you can get a very decent sandwich and a cup of coffee. Come along with me if you're not too busy.

I'd like to talk to you." The sandwich bar was almost empty. The two men carried their plates and cups to a small table in a corner.

Here Sharpe recounted the results of his questioning of the students.

"The only person we've got any evidence against is young Chapman," he said. "And there we've got too much. Three lots of poison through his hands. But there's no reason to believe he'd any animus against Celia Austin, and I doubt if he'd have been as frank about his activities if he was really guilty." "It opens out other possibilities, though." "Yes-all that stuff knocking about in a drawer.

Silly young, ass!" He went on to Elizabeth Johnston and her account of what Celia had said to her.

"If what she said is true, it's significant." "Very significant," Poirot agreed.

The Inspector quoted, was "T shall know more about it tomorrow." "And so-tomorrow never came for that poor girl!

Your search of the house-did it accomplish anything?" "There were one or two things that were-what shall I say? Unexpected, perhaps." "Such as?" "Elizabeth Johnston is a member of the Communist party. We found her Party card." "Yes," said Poirot, thoughtfully. "That is interesting." "You wouldn't have expected it," said Inspector Sharpe. "I didn't until I questioned her yesterday. She's got a lot of personality, that girl." "I should think she was a valuable recruit to the Party," said Hercule Poirot. "She is a young woman of quite unusual intelligence, I should say." "It was interesting to me," said Inspector Sharpe, "because she has never paraded those sympathies, apparently. She's kept very quiet about it at Hickory Road. I don't see that it has any significance in connection with the case of Celia Austin, I mean-but it's a thing to bear in mind." "What else did you find?" Inspector Sharpe shrugged his shoulders.

Miss Patricia Lane, in her drawer, had a handkerchief rather extensively stained with green ink." Poirot's eyebrows rose.

"Green ink? Patricia Lane! So it may have been she who took the ink and spilled it over Elizabeth Johnston's papers and comthen wiped her hands afterwards. But surely…" "Surely she wouldn't want her dear Nigel to be suspected," Sharpe finished for him.

"One would not have thought so. Of course, someone else might have put the handkerchief in her drawer." "Likely enough." "Anything else?" "Well," Sharpe reflected for a moment. "It seems Leonard Bateson's father is in Longwith Vale Mental Hospital, a certified patient. I don't suppose it's of any particular interest, but…" "But Len Bateson's father is insane.

Probably without significance, as you say, but it is a fact to be stored away in the memory. It would even be interesting to know what particular form his mania takes." "Bateson's a nice young fellow," said Sharpe, "but of course his temper is a bit, well, uncontrolled." Poirot nodded. Suddenly, vividly, he remembered Celia Austin saying 'Of course, I wouldn't cut up a rucksack. That's just silly.

Anyway, that was only temper." How did she know it was temper? Had she seen Len Bateson hacking at that rucksack? He came back to the present to hear Sharpe say, with a grin, and Mr. Ahmed Ali has some extremely pornographic literature and postcards which explains why he went up in the air over the search." "There were many protests, no doubt?" "I should say there were. A French girl practically had hysterics and an Indian, Mr.

Chandra Lal, threatened to make an international incident of it. There were a few subversive pamphlets amongst his belongings-the usual half baked stuff-and one of the West Africans had some rather fearsome souvenirs and fetishes. Yes, a search warrant certainly shows you the peculiar side of human nature. You heard about Mrs.

Nicoletis and her private cupboard?" "Yes, I heard about that." Inspector Sharpe grinned.

"Never seen so many empty brandy bottles in my life! And was she mad at us!" He laughed, and then, abruptly, became serious.

"But we didn't find what we were after," he said.

"No passports except strictly legitimate ones." "You can hardly expect such a thing as a false passport to be left about for you to find, mon ami.

You never had occasion, did you, to make an official visit to 26 Hickory Road in connection with a passport?

Say, in the last six months?" "No. I'll tell you the only occasions on which we did call round-within the times you mention." He detailed them carefully.

Poirot listened with a frown.

"All that, it does not make sense," he said.

He shook his head.

"Things will only make sense If we begin at the beginning." "What do you call the beginning, Poirot?" "The rucksack, my friend," said Poirot softly. "The rucksack. All this began with a cucksack." MRS. NICOLETIS CAME Up the stairs from the basement where she had just succeeded in thoroughly infuriating both Geronimo and the temperamental Maria.