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Conference again.
The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Crome, Poirot and myself.
The AC was saying:
‘A good tip that of yours, M. Poirot, about checking a large sale of stockings.’
Poirot spread out his hands.
‘It was indicated. This man could not be a regular agent. He sold outright instead of touting for orders.’
‘Got everything clear so far, inspector?’
‘I think so, sir.’ Crome consulted a file. ‘Shall I run over the position to date?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ve checked up with Churston, Paignton and Torquay. Got a list of people where he went and offered stockings. I must say he did the thing thoroughly. Stayed at the Pitt, small hotel near Torre Station. Returned to the hotel at 10.30 on the night of the murder. Could have taken a train from Churston at 9.57, getting to Torre at 10.20. No one answering to his description noticed on train or at station, but that Friday was Dartmouth Regatta and the trains back from Kingswear were pretty full.
‘Bexhill much the same. Stayed at the Globe under his own name. Offered stockings to about a dozen addresses, including Mrs Barnard and including the Ginger Cat. Left hotel early in the evening. Arrived back in London about 11.30 the following morning. As to Andover, same procedure. Stayed at the Feathers. Offered stockings to Mrs Fowler, next door to Mrs Ascher, and to half a dozen other people in the street. The pair Mrs Ascher had I got from the niece (name of Drower)—they’re identical with Cust’s supply.’
‘So far, good,’ said the AC.
‘Acting on information received,’ said the inspector, ‘I went to the address given me by Hartigan, but found that Cust had left the house about half an hour previously. He received a telephone message, I’m told. First time such a thing had happened to him, so his landlady told me.’
‘An accomplice?’ suggested the Assistant Commissioner.
‘Hardly,’ said Poirot. ‘It is odd that—unless —’
We all looked at him inquiringly as he paused.
He shook his head, however, and the inspector proceeded.
‘I made a thorough search of the room he had occupied. That search puts the matter beyond doubt. I found a block of notepaper similar to that on which the letters were written, a large quantity of hosiery and—at the back of the cupboard where the hosiery was stored—a parcel much the same shape and size but which turned out to contain—not hosiery—but eight new ABC railway guides!’
‘Proof positive,’ said the Assistant Commissioner.
‘I’ve found something else, too,’ said the inspector—his voice becoming suddenly almost human with triumph. ‘Only found it this morning, sir. Not had time to report yet. There was no sign of the knife in his room —’
‘It would be the act of an imbecile to bring that back with him,’ remarked Poirot.
‘After all, he’s not a reasonable human being,’ remarked the inspector. ‘Anway, it occurred to me that he might just possibly have brought it back to the house and then realized the danger of hiding it (as M. Poirot points out) in his room, and have looked about elsewhere. What place in the house would he be likely to select? I got it straight away. The hall stand—no one ever moves a hall stand. With a lot of trouble I got it moved out from the wall—and there it was!’
‘The knife?’
‘The knife. Not a doubt of it. The dried blood’s still on it.’
‘Good work, Crome,’ said the AC approvingly. ‘We only need one thing more now.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The man himself.’
‘We’ll get him, sir. Never fear.’
The inspector’s tone was confident.
‘What do you say, M. Poirot?’
Poirot started out of a reverie.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We were saying that it was only a matter of time before we got our man. Do you agree?’
‘Oh, that—yes. Without a doubt.’
His tone was so abstracted that the others looked at him curiously.
‘Is there anything worrying you, M. Poirot?’
‘There is something that worries me very much. It is the why? The motive.’
‘But, my dear fellow, the man’s crazy,’ said the Assistant Commissioner impatiently.
‘I understand what M. Poirot means,’ said Crome, coming graciously to the rescue. ‘He’s quite right. There’s got to be some definite obsession. I think we’ll find the root of the matter in an intensified inferiority complex. There may be a persecution mania, too, and if so he may possibly associate M. Poirot with it. He may have the delusion that M. Poirot is a detective employed on purpose to hunt him down.’
‘H’m,’ said the AC. ‘That’s the jargon that’s talked nowadays. In my day if a man was mad he was mad and we didn’t look about for scientific terms to soften it down. I suppose a thoroughly up-to-date doctor would suggest putting a man like А В C in a nursing home, telling him what a fine fellow he was for forty-five days on end and then letting him out as a responsible member of society.’
Poirot smiled but did not answer.
The conference broke up.
‘Well,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘As you say, Crome, pulling him in is only a matter of time.’
‘We’d have had him before now,’ said the inspector, ‘if he wasn’t so ordinary-looking. We’ve worried enough perfectly inoffensive citizens as it is.’
‘I wonder where he is at this minute,’ said the Assistant Commissioner.
Mr Cust stood by a greengrocer’s shop.
He stared across the road.
Yes, that was it.
Mrs Ascher. Newsagent and Tobacconist…
In the empty window was a sign.
To Let.
Empty…
Lifeless…
‘Excuse me, sir.’
The greengrocer’s wife, trying to get at some lemons.
He apologized, moved to one side.
Slowly he shuffled away—back towards the main street of the town…
It was difficult—very difficult—now that he hadn’t any money left…
Not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and light-headed…
He looked at a poster outside a newsagent’s shop.
The A B C Case. Murderer Still at Large. Interviews with M. Hercule Poirot.
Mr Cust said to himself:
‘Hercule Poirot. I wonder if he knows…’
He walked on again.
It wouldn’t do to stand staring at that poster…
He thought:
‘I can’t go on much longer…’
Foot in front of foot… what an odd thing walking was…
Foot in front of foot—ridiculous.
Highly ridiculous…
But man was a ridiculous animal anyway…
And he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, was particularly ridiculous.
He had always been…
People had always laughed at him…
He couldn’t blame them…
Where was he going? He didn’t know. He’d come to the end. He no longer looked anywhere but at his feet.
Foot in front of foot.
He looked up. Lights in front of him. And letters…
Police Station.
‘That’s funny,’ said Mr Cust. He gave a little giggle.
Then he stepped inside. Suddenly, as he did so, he swayed and fell forward.
It was a clear November day. Dr Thompson and Chief Inspector Japp had come round to acquaint Poirot with the result of the police court proceedings in the case of Rex v. Alexander Bonaparte Cust.
Poirot himself had had a slight bronchial chill which had prevented his attending. Fortunately he had not insisted on having my company.
‘Committed for trial,’ said Japp. ‘So that’s that.’
‘Isn’t it unusual?’ I asked, ‘for a defence to be offered at this stage? I thought prisoners always reserved their defence.’
‘It’s the usual course,’ said Japp. ‘I suppose young Lucas thought he might rush it through. He’s a trier, I will say. Insanity’s the only defence possible.’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘With insanity there can be no acquittal. Imprisonment during His Majesty’s pleasure is hardly preferable to death.’
‘I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance,’ said Japp. ‘With a first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened. I don’t think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway, Lucas goes in for originality. He’s a young man, and he wants to hit the public eye.’
Poirot turned to Thompson.
‘What’s your opinion, doctor?’
‘Of Cust? Upon my soul, I don’t know what to say. He’s playing the sane man remarkably well. He’s an epileptic, of course.’
‘What an amazing dénouement that was,’ I said.
‘His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes—it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. ABC has always timed his effects well.’
‘Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?’ I asked. ‘His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them.’
Dr Thompson smiled a little.
‘You mustn’t be taken in by that theatrical “I swear by God” pose. It’s my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the murders.’
‘When they’re as fervent as that they usually do,’ said Crome.
‘As to your question,’ went on Thompson, ‘it’s perfectly possible for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an action and be entirely unaware of having done so. But it is the general opinion that such an action must “not be contrary to the will of the person in the waking state”.’
He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand mal and petit mal and, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case when a learned person holds forth on his own subject.
‘However, I’m against the theory that Cust committed these crimes without knowing he’d done them. You might put that theory forward if it weren’t for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime.’
‘And of the letters we have still no explanation,’ said Poirot.
‘That interests you?’
‘Naturally—since they were written to me. And on the subject of the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved.’
‘Yes—I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you in any way?’
‘None whatever.’
‘I might make a suggestion. Your name!’
‘My name?’
‘Yes. Cust is saddled—apparently by the whim of his mother (Oedipus complex there, I shouldn’t wonder!)—with two extremely bombastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander—the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte—the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary—an adversary, one might say, in his class. Well—there you are—Hercules the strong.’
‘Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas…’
‘Oh, it’s only a suggestion. Well, I must be off.’
Dr Thompson went out. Japp remained.
‘Does this alibi worry you?’ Poirot asked.
‘It does a little,’ admitted the inspector. ‘Mind you, I don’t believe in it, because I know it isn’t true. But it is going to be the deuce to break it. This man Strange is a tough character.’
‘Describe him to me.’
‘He’s a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining engineer. It’s my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing might be settled out of hand.’
‘He’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever seen,’ I said.
‘The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.
‘He sticks to his story and he’s not one to be heckled. He swears by all that’s blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne on the evening of July 24th. He was lonely and wanted someone to talk to. As far as I can see, Cust made an ideal listener. He didn’t interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They’ll play for hours. That’s what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn’t hear of it—swore they’d keep it up until midnight at least. And that’s what they did do. They separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of the 25th he couldn’t very well be strangling Betty Barnard on the beach at Bexhill between midnight and one o’clock.’
‘The problem certainly seems insuperable,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘Decidedly, it gives one to think.’
‘It’s given Crome something to think about,’ said Japp. ‘This man Strange is very positive?’
‘Yes. He’s an obstinate devil. And it’s difficult to see just where the flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn’t Cust—why on earth should he say his name is Cust? And the writing in the hotel register is his all right. You can’t say he’s an accomplice—homicidal lunatics don’t have accomplices! Did the girl die later? The doctor was quite firm in his evidence, and anyway it would take some time for Cust to get out of the hotel at Eastbourne without being seen and get over to Bexhill—about fourteen miles away —’
‘It is a problem—yes,’ said Poirot.
‘Of course, strictly speaking, it oughtn’t to matter. We’ve got Cust on the Doncaster murder—the blood-stained coat, the knife—not a loophole there. You couldn’t bounce any jury into acquitting him. But it spoils a pretty case. He did the Doncaster murder. He did the Churston murder. He did the Andover murder. Then, by hell, he must have done the Bexhill murder. But I don’t see how!’
He shook his head and got up.
‘Now’s your chance, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘Crome’s in a fog. Exert those cellular arrangements of yours I used to hear so much about. Show us the way he did it.’
Japp departed.
‘What about it, Poirot?’ I said. ‘Are the little grey cells equal to the task?’
Poirot answered my question by another.
‘Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?’
‘Well—yes, practically speaking. We’ve got the man. And we’ve got most of the evidence. It’s only the trimmings that are needed.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘The case is ended! The case! The case is the man, Hastings. Until we know all about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever. It is not victory because we have put him in the dock!’
‘We know a fair amount about him.’
‘We know nothing at all! We know where he was born. We know he fought in the war and received a slight wound in the head and that he was discharged from the army owing to epilepsy. We know that he lodged with Mrs Marbury for nearly two years. We know that he was quiet and retiring—the sort of man that nobody notices. We know that he invented and carried out an intensely clever scheme of systemized murder. We know that he made certain incredibly stupid blunders. We know that he killed without pity and quite ruthlessly. We know, too, that he was kindly enough not to let blame rest on any other person for the crimes he committed. If he wanted to kill unmolested—how easy to let other persons suffer for his crimes. Do you not see, Hastings, that the man is a mass of contradictions? Stupid and cunning, ruthless and magnanimous—and that there must be some dominating factor that reconciles his two natures.’
‘Of course, if you treat him like a psychological study,’ I began.
‘What else has this case been since the beginning? All along I have been groping my way—trying to get to know the murderer. And now I realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at all! I am at sea.’
‘The lust for power —’ I began.
‘Yes—that might explain a good deal… But it does not satisfy me. There are things I want to know. Why did he commit these murders? Why did he choose those particular people —?’
‘Alphabetically —’ I began.
‘Was Betty Barnard the only person in Bexhill whose name began with a B? Betty Barnard—I had an idea there… It ought to be true—it must be true. But if so —’
He was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him.
As a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep.
I woke to find Poirot’s hand on my shoulder.
‘Mon cher Hastings,’ he said affectionately. ‘My good genius.’
I was quire confused by this sudden mark of esteem.
‘It is true,’ Poirot insisted. ‘Always—always—you help me—you bring me luck. You inspire me.’
‘How have I inspired you this time?’ I asked.
‘While I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark of yours—a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Did I not say to you once that you had a genius for stating the obvious. It is the obvious that I have neglected.’
‘What is this brilliant remark of mine?’ I asked.
‘It makes everything as clear as crystal. I see the answers to all my questions. The reason for Mrs Ascher (that, it is true, I glimpsed long ago), the reason for Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for the Doncaster murder, and finally and supremely important, the reason for Hercule Poirot.’
‘Could you kindly explain?’ I asked.
‘Not at the moment. I require first a little more information. That I can get from our Special Legion. And then—then, when I have got the answer to a certain question, I will go and see ABC. We will be face to face at last—А В C and Hercule Poirot—the adversaries.’
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘And then,’ said Poirot. ‘We will talk! Je vous assure, Hastings—there is nothing so dangerous for anyone who has something to hide as conversation! Speech, so a wise old Frenchman said to me once, is an invention of man’s to prevent him from thinking. It is also an infallible means of discovering that which he wishes to hide. A human being, Hastings, cannot resist the opportunity to reveal himself and express his personality which conversation gives him. Every time he will give himself away.’
‘What do you expect Cust to tell you?’
Hercule Poirot smiled.
‘A lie,’ he said. ‘And by it, I shall know the truth!’
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