Hickory Dickory Dock (II).
I meet Hercule Poirot.

Actually, I would like to make an amendment to what I said earlier: Patricia and I had not discovered the notice until that next morning. I suppose my remembrances have had some slight altercations when typing up this story. Happens to the best of us, really.

Anyway, sleeping in Patricia's room, in the bunk above hers, was as comfortable as mattresses come by, nothing much to say about it.

"Fine morning," I had said. "Not a cloud in sight."

"Very rare for Foggy London," Patricia had replied. "Did you hear the front door open last night?"

"I suppose that since I am a heavy sleeper when I can be, no. I didn't snore last night, did I?"

"No. But, I suppose it was the constable for Hickory Road. Remember, we were talking yesterday about calling the police yesterday."

"Oh, yeah."

After that, I hopped down to change from my nightclothes; Patricia was kind enough to respect my privacy. However, it was only after slipping on my favorite black and white striped sleeveless shirt...

"That's weird."

"What is it?"

"I could've sworn I left my jacket hanging right here, and now its missing."

"Chalk it up to the other things that have gone missing."

Her responses were almost monotone, but I did not think much of it. It was after that did we hike downstairs to find the notice on the board detailing Mr. Poirot's arrival. I assume that since I had yet to have met either Colin or Valerie, neither of them noticed how my jacket was missing the following morning; as well as Celia being to preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice either.

Of course, the moment I could, I let Mrs. Hubbard know of my only missing jacket.

The rest of the day was uneventful: most all of the other Hostel folks had studies, jobs, and schoolwork-in June, for some reason-so the Hostel was most to myself.

The day finally picked up in the late evening, think about that. Of course, mother had pressed me about packing my best formal dress, which I never actually packed, considering how damn expensive it is. So, luckily like the rest of the Hostel, I went to dinner in only what I had been wearing for the entirety of the day.

Actually, it was when I was making my way to the dining room that the front doorbell rang, and of course I got to meet the Great Hercule Poirot right then and there. How to describe him? He was just shorter than my own height, rather plump in the stomach, egg-shaped head, little curls at each end of his moustache, a bald spot from a little loss of hair from years past (he was rather old), and quite honestly the most sharp-dressed person I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Though, at the offset, I was humored by his little stature.

"Bonsoir, madame," he greeted. His accent was clearly French, and his mannerisms were surprisingly old-fashioned. "Is this the Youth Hostel of 26 Hickory Road?"

"Yes it is. Mr. Hercu-ly Poi-rot, I presume?"

"Ah, it is pronounced Hercule Poirot, but yes, it is I."

"Well, come on it, you're expected for dinner, monsieur."

I could tell he was humored at my greeting in French, as he smiled brightly under that extraordinary moustache of his. He then waddled his way in past the doorway and myself, hanging his hat and coat on the rack, while also setting his swan-shaped tipped cane.

"You are American, are you not?"

"Yes, I'm-"

"No need, you may tell my your name at le souper. Oh, and could you straighten your shirt bun, just a little to the left next time."

He made this statement with one of his little mannerisms, being how he tilted his left hand to indicate his wording. Embarrassingly, my favorite shirt also does not fit me as sooth as I hoped it would, so like some kids nowadays my age I tie the excess amount of shirt in a little bun. Shrugging my shoulders, I followed him into the dining room where everyone else was seated. Poirot took the empty seat at the end, and I took mine between Akibombo and Patricia. I then noticed a strange sort of woman seated next to Poirot: she was straight as an arrow, with a rather straight sort of nose, and her eyebrows were as if not more straight than her back posture. My immediate thought was that she was related to Mrs. Hubbard, considering the outward appearance of her table manners.

To the other end of the table was a woman who was as plump as Mrs. Hubbard but more unkempt. I assumed she was probably the Hostel's owner while Mrs. Hubbard was the caretaker and accountant, as the way her hair was disheveled I figured right off the bat that she was also an alcoholic. She was eyeing Poirot with great suspicion, I as well after she noticed I was noticing. Perhaps she was apprehensive about foreigners."

"I'm Celia Austin, Mr. Poirot. I'm on a part-time course in chemistry."

"Colin McNabb, psychology."

"I'm Patricia Lane. I'm studying politics."

"I'm Sally Finch. I'm here on a Fulbright scholarship, studying English lit."

"Akibombo. Forensics."

"Zipp Storm. I'm here on the Summer Student Exchange Program."

"Valerie Hobhouse, studying fashion and creating it."

"Leonard Bateson, soon to be Dr. Leonard Bateson, studying medicine."

"And I'm Nigel Chapman, studying medieval history and archeology."

Each of us gave our introduction, much to Poirot's amusement. His smile was unlike any I have ever seen, more because his moustache was the most unique I have ever seen, and I have seen the moustache of my Great-Uncle Burgess. While I was looking and admittedly admiring that wonderful moustache, his eyes met mine; very shifty little ones they were, like they never once stopped looking. I immediately slumped back in embarrassment, to which Leonard sniggered.

"Well," Nigel said. "If that's the introductions over, let's have the soup, Ma. I'm starving."

"Are you going to talk to us about crime, Mr. Poirot?" Colin asked.

"After the supper, oui," Poirot replied, smiling while straightening his napkin to his neck. "That is indeed my intention."

"You know, Colin thinks he'd make a good detective," Leonard smirked.

"Or a good criminal," Nigel added.

"Well, why not?" Colin said, somewhat appalled in his response. "If you understood the psychology of a crime the way I do, then you could disguise it." I believe the sinister tone in his voice was intentional. "And that way, you would never be caught," he leered to Poirot.

I raised an eyebrow while grinning, holding back a chuckle until I could no longer.

"What a frightening thought," Celia gasped.

"Yes, indeed," Poirot said, "but it is wrong."

"Why?" Colin asked again.

"Because the little gray cells, they see everything. It is the clues, always the little mistakes that the criminal ignores, that opens the door to the psychology and so to the crime."

"You yourself study psychology, Mr. Poirot?" I asked, very much intrigued.

"Oui, it is one of my personal favorite pastimes to, as you say, read up on it."

"Say, Zipp," Leonard grinned again. "Why don't you give it a try?"

"What?" I said, nearly spitting out my drink.

"You know, the whole Sherlock Holmes thing, the psychology thing," Nigel added.

"Oh, come on, guys."

"No, no, no. S'il vous plaît, I would like to hear this as well."

If I was about to drink again from my glass, it would have been that moment that I would have spat out the entire drink, thereby further embarrassing myself even more so in front of the Great Detective himself. The entire table was staring daggers at me, Patricia the least doing so, simply sipping from her glass.

At least Akibombo was wholeheartedly smiling again to me, which greatly helped to ease my stress levels.

"Very well. Mr. Poirot, from what I've seen and heard of you, which isn't that much to be honest, my best guess is that before you became the great and possibly world-renowned detective, you were probably a policeman abroad from Britain, at it's plain to all that English is, or was, not in fact your primary language. Supposing your bragging of your 'little gray cells' your abilities in deduction got you promoted to Chief of Police. At first, I assumed you hailed from somewhere in France, but a slight fluctuation in your voice tells me that's not so, meaning your French accent isn't perfect. I should know, as I'm currently taking French as one of my courses back home."

I then paused to ease my throat to take a sip of my glass of milk.

"And judging from your obsession for all things neat and organized, you're either from Belgium or Luxembourg. It has to be a European country, or at least I assume so, as European countries from what I believed are historically known for their pride of themselves."

I definitely silenced the entire table, to which I blushed bright red, darting my gaze away from either of them to the best I could do; especially from Poirot, seeing that his head hung forward with his eyes wide and brows high up. I was about to stutter a response, but Poirot beat me to it.

"Mon ami," he said. "As you say, color me impressed with your brilliant use of your Little Gray Cells. Most people who have met for the first time mistake me for a Frenchman, they do not pick up on the, as you said, little fluctuations in my voice."

I nervously chuckled, then finally broke down in pink as Poirot raised his glass in my direction.

"I believe you have embarrassed our newest housemate, Mr. Poirot," Nigel sniggered.

"I still think Colin's right," Celia said, after a period of meek silence.

"You enjoy your dinner, Mr. Poirot. We'll have tine for speeches later," Mrs. Hubbard said, holding a soup tray as Poirot took a soup-spoon full to pour into his own bowl.

Poirot then sniffed at the drink in his own glass, and then the other woman spoke up:

"Retsina, Mr. Piero. It come from my hometown."

Her accent was somewhat Greek, at least that is what I again assumed picking apart her slurred speech pattern. Mrs. Hubbard went around offering us each a scoop of soup (heh), to which we all accepted.

Later, after dinner, we were gathered in the sitting room as Poirot was finishing up his brilliant lecture on criminal psychology.

"You see, always the prevention is better than the cure, and so we try to prevent the murders before they are committed. Thank you."

We applauded at the end of it, admittedly myself the loudest, close enough to hold back myself from whistling like I was at a sports game. I say we, meaning not Leonard, Sally, or the other middle-aged adults in the room.

"Now, has anyone got any questions?" Mrs. Hubbard asked.

"Yes, I have one," Leonard said. "What I'd like to know is, what's your real motive in coming here tonight?"

"Really, Len."

"Oh, come on, Ma. You arranged this dinner at short notice and with Mr. Poirot, of all people. You've come to investigate us, haven't you?"

"There hasn't been a murder here, has there?" Valerie asked.

"No, it's about all the thefts, isn't it? That's why he's here," Sally answered for her.

Personally, I detest the smell of tobacco in general, more so the stereotype that all young women smoke cigarettes in their spare time. Lately, however, it has been more to do with vaping, but it seems that I am not the only one who had done my health homework.

"Oui," Poirot nodded. "That is indeed why I am here, mademoiselle."

"Well, I'll be," Colin said.

"Well, it's either Mr. Poirot or the police," Mrs. Hubbard said, to which I was inclined to agree. "We have to do something."

"Yes, but what can you do, move in and spy on us?" Nigel remarked while grinning, catching the laughs of some of the others.

"Non, mais il peut commencer par autre chose," I said. My attempt at French was meant to silence Nigel, which it did to an extent.

"Oui," Poirot smiled, embarrassing me even more, "and in involves the return of something to its owner. S'il vous plait, Miss Lemon."

The woman who had accompanied Poirot, Miss Lemon, who was sitting in the chair next to where he was standing, reach into her purse and took out a black dress shoe. I absolutely despise heels.

"That's my shoe, my lost shoe," Sally exclaimed.

"How the hell did you do that?" Leonard asked, smirking in intrigue.

"You haven't got my lighter, have you?" Nigel asked.

"And my stethoscope?" Colin added.

"What about my textbook?" Akibombo added as well.

"Where did you find it, Mr. Poirot?" Patricia asked.

I was tempted to ask about my jacket, but I wanted to keep the respect I had just earned from Poirot.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Patricia, it was you, was it not, who had lost a diamond ring?" Poirot asked.

"Yes, but I found it again."

"In my soup," Valerie replied.

"And the soup, it was served then in exactly the same manner as it was tonight?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

"Oh, to hell with the ring," Colin interrupted. "Tell us about the shoo."

Poirot patiently set his teacup onto his saucer. "Miss Lemon," he said.

"Acting on Mr. Poirot's instructions," she said, "I picked it up this afternoon at the London Transport Lost Property Office."

"How did you know to look there?" Sally asked, beaming.

"A simple process of deduction, mademoiselle," Poirot replied. "One shoe, it cannot be worn, and it is not possible to sell. Alors the simplest way-

"Is to leave it on a bus or a train," Nigel spoke up, snapping his finger.

"Oui, c'est ça. That was my guess, and, of course, I was right. The shoe, it was discovered on the bus with a number 42. Now, that bus, I believe, passes close by.

"That bus goes to the hospital," Mrs. Hubbard noted.

"Ah, well, that narrows the field a bit," Leonard said. "I'm studying medicine, I take that bus everyday."

"Come on, Len, you're not the only one," Sally said.

"I go on that bus too," Celia chimed in. "I have an afternoon job in the pharmacy."

"I take bus to grocery store and library," Akibombo added.

"Any one of us could have got on that bus. It doesn't prove anything," Nigel said.

"I am of your opinion, Monsieur Chapman," Poirot said. "Any one of you could be the thief. Besides, of course, Mademoiselle Storm."

"Well," I said, trying hard to conceal my blushing. "I did only just arrive here yesterday."

"So, what do you advise us to do?" Valerie asked.

Immediately his tone of stature and voice change to complete dread.

"There is something here at Hickory Road that I do not like, that causes me to fear. The rucksack that is cut to pieces-that is not nice. You ask my advice? It is this: go to the police." He was now eyeing on the Hostel's owner. "Go now, madame. No time can be lost."

The woman he was indicating towards stood up and left in a huff without another word.

"Très bien, I shall now make my leave. It has been a pleasure to make all of your acquaintances. Miss Lemon."

Poirot then made a little bow of farewell before he and Miss Lemon made their leave of our company.

"Well," Mrs. Hubbard said, "I suppose since Mr. Poirot has finished his lecture, I'd say it's about time we'd all prepare ourselves for bed."

I was all sure of that, I needed a break from the tobacco infestation in the room. I said my goodnights before heading upstairs, then I took my evening clothes and toothbrush to the bathroom. There I changed, brushed my teeth, and put on my evening braces. I was just making my way back to Patricia's room, when I noticed something hanging from a crack coming from Celia's room. I made my way over to the door after checking that no one else was around, they were all still downstairs.

What it turned out to be was my missing jacket, hanging right from a hook attached to Celia's wardrobe. When I went and grabbed it on frustration, I then noticed a few other things set around her room: a stethoscope, a few lightbulbs, a cigarette lighter, a thickened textbook next to a cookbook right under the desk opening, lipstick that was placed on the window sill of all places, and a pair of old flannel pants sticking out from the socks drawer.

I quickly bounded and hopped right into my own bed, full of thought about Celia. I could not believe that she would steal such small objects intentionally, unless of course she had kleptomania. Then I suddenly remembered how nervous Celia acted earlier during Colin's conversation about murder without motive. Could it be possible that she was faking her kleptomania in order to attract Colin's eyes, an avid studier of the psychological mind? She would be quite the interesting case to study, even more so considering that she happened to live in the same Hostel as her.

Anyway, it was about time I got myself some rest, especially for my Little Gray Cells.

While I am including the majority of elements from the novel, this is mostly following the structure of the TV episode, just to clarify.