Chapter 21. Description of a Murderer

It was at this moment, I think, that what Poirot called the human element began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind being unable to stand unadulterated horror, we had had an interval of normal human interests.

We had, one and all, felt the impossibility of doing anything until the fourth letter should come revealing the projected scene of the D murder. That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of tension.

But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper, the hunt was up once more.

Inspector Crome had come round from the Yard, and while he was still there, Franklin Clarke and Megan Barnard came in.

The girl explained that she, too, had come up from Bexhill.

‘I wanted to ask Mr Clarke something.’

She seemed rather anxious to excuse and explain her procedure. I just noted the fact without attaching much importance to it.

The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.

Crome was not, I think, any too pleased to see the various participants in the drama. He became extremely official and non-committal.

‘I’ll take this with me, M. Poirot. If you care to take a copy of it —’

‘No, no, it is not necessary.’

‘What are your plans, inspector?’ asked Clarke.

‘Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr Clarke.’

‘This time we’ve got to get him,’ said Clarke. ‘I may tell you, inspector, that we’ve formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties.’

Inspector Crome said in his best manner:

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I gather you don’t think much of amateurs, inspector?’

‘You’ve hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr Clarke?’

‘We’ve got a personal axe to grind—and that’s something.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I fancy your own task isn’t going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old ABC has done you again.’

Crome, I noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed.

‘I don’t fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time,’ he said. ‘The fool has given us ample warning. The 11th isn’t till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard—that’s so much to the good. Also, we’ll draft police into the town on a fairly large scale. That’s already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man—and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!’

Clarke said quietly:

‘It’s easy to see you’re not a sporting man, inspector.’

Crome stared at him.

‘What do you mean, Mr Clarke?’

‘Man alive, don’t you realize that on next Wednesday the St Leger is being run at Doncaster?’

The inspector’s jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar ‘Oh, yes?’ Instead he said:

‘That’s true. Yes, that complicates matters…’

‘А В C is no fool, even if he is a madman.’

We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the race-course—the passionate, sport-loving English public—the endless complications.

Poirot murmured:

‘C’est ingénieux. Tout de même c’est bien imaginé, ça.’

‘It’s my belief,’ said Clarke, ‘that the murder will take place on the race-course—perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.’

For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought…

Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him.

‘The St Leger is a complication,’ he allowed. ‘It’s unfortunate.’

He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered.

She said anxiously:

‘The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?’

It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her golden head.

It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer.

‘Doncaster—and on the day of the St Leger.’

We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated the plans we had made tentatively beforehand.

A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes do?

As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest.

‘Mes enfants,’ he said. ‘We must not disperse the strength. We must approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts. We must look within and not without for the truth. We must say to ourselves—each one of us—what do I know about the murderer? And so we must build up a composite picture of the man we are going to seek.’

‘We know nothing about him,’ sighed Thora Grey helplessly.

‘No, no, mademoiselle. That is not true. Each one of us knows something about him—if we only knew what it is we know. I am convinced that the knowledge is there if we could only get at it.’

Clarke shook his head.

‘We don’t know anything—whether he’s old or young, fair or dark! None of us has ever seen him or spoken to him! We’ve gone over everything we all know again and again.’

‘Not everything! For instance, Miss Grey here told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was murdered.’

Thor a Grey nodded.

‘That’s quite right.’

‘Is it? Lady Clarke told us, mademoiselle, that from her window she saw you standing on the front doorstep talking to a man.’

‘She saw me talking to a strange man?’ The girl seemed genuinely astonished. Surely that pure, limpid look could not be anything but genuine.

She shook her head.

‘Lady Clarke must have made a mistake. I never—Oh!’

The exclamation came suddenly—jerked out of her. A crimson wave flooded her cheeks.

‘I remember now! How stupid! I’d forgotten all about it. But it wasn’t important. Just one of those men who come round selling stockings—you know, ex-army people. They’re very persistent. I had to get rid of him. I was just crossing the hall when he came to the door. He spoke to me instead of ringing but he was quite a harmless sort of person. I suppose that’s why I forgot about him.’

Poirot was swaying to and fro, his hands clasped to his head. He was muttering to himself with such vehemence that nobody else said anything, but stared at him instead.

‘Stockings,’ he was murmuring. ‘Stockings… stockings… stockings… çа vient… stockings… stockings… it is the motif—yes… three months ago… and the other day… and now. Bon Dieu, I have it!’

He sat upright and fixed me with an imperious eye.

‘You remember, Hastings? Andover. The shop. We go upstairs. The bedroom. On a chair. A pair of new silk stockings. And now I know what it was that roused my attention two days ago. It was you, mademoiselle —’ He turned on Megan. ‘You spoke of your mother who wept because she had bought your sister some new stockings on the very day of the murder…’

He looked round on us all.

‘You see? It is the same motif three times repeated. That cannot be coincidence. When mademoiselle spoke I had the feeling that what she said linked up with something. I know now with what. The words spoken by Mrs Ascher’s next-door neighbour, Mrs Fowler. About people who were always trying to sell you things—and she mentioned stockings. Tell me, mademoiselle, it is true, is it not, that your mother bought those stockings, not at a shop, but from someone who came to the door?’

‘Yes—yes—she did… I remember now. She said something about being sorry for these wretched men who go round and try to get orders.’

‘But what’s the connection?’ cried Franklin. ‘That a man came selling stockings proves nothing!’

‘I tell you, my friends, it cannot be coincidence. Three crimes—and every time a man selling stockings and spying out the land.’

He wheeled round on Thora.

‘À vous la parole! Describe this man.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘I can’t… I don’t know how… He had glasses, I think—and a shabby overcoat…’

‘Mieux que çа, mademoiselle.’

‘He stooped… I don’t know. I hardly looked at him. He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice…’

Poirot said gravely:

‘You are quite right, mademoiselle. The whole secret of the murders lies there in your description of the murderer—for without a doubt he was the murderer! “He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice.” Yes—there is no doubt about it… You have described the murderer!’