"Will you be away long, Mr. Cust?" called Mrs. Marbury as he ran up the stairs.
"Oh, no - two or three days - that's all."
He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs. Marbury retired into the kitchen, thinking sentimentally of "the dear little mite."
Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge.
Last night Tom and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying to make out that Mr. Cust was that dreadful monster, A.B.C. Just because of his initials and because of a few coincidences.
"I don't suppose they meant it seriously," she thought comfortably. "And now I hope they'll be ashamed of themselves."
In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr. Cust's statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any doubts Mrs. Marbury might have had of her lodger's bonafides.
"I hope she didn't have too bad a time of it, poor dear," thought Mrs. Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out Lily's silk slip.
Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track.
Mr. Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes rested a minute on the telephone.
That brief conversation re-echoed in his brain.
"Is that you, Mr. Cust? I thought you might like to know there's an inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you."
What had he said? He couldn't remember.
"Thank you - thank you, my dear... very kind of you -"
Something like that.
Why had she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did she just want to make sure he would stay in for the inspector's visit?
But how did she know the inspector was coming?
And her voice - she'd disguised her voice from her mother... It looked - it looked - as though she knew... But surely if she knew, she wouldn't...
She might, though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel and unexpectedly kind. He'd seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a mouse trap.
A kind girl...
A kind, pretty girl...
He paused by the hall stand with its load of umbrellas and coats.
Should he -?
A slight noise from the kitchen decided him...
No, there wasn't time...
Mrs. Marbury might come out...
He opened the front door, passed through and closed it behind him.
Where...?
Chapter 29
AT SCOTLAND YARD
Conference again.
The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Crome, Poirot and myself. The A.C. 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 10:05, getting to Paignton at 10:15. No one answering to his description noticed on train or at stations, but that Thursday was Dartmouth Regatta and the trains back from Kingswear were pretty full.
"Bexhill much the same. Stayed at the Glove 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 A.C.
"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 A.B.C. 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. "Anyway, 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 straightaway. 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 A.C. 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 get 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 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 A.C. "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 A.B.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.
Chapter 30
(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)
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. Interview 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 always had 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.
Chapter 31
HERCULE POIROT ASKS QUESTIONS
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 Her 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 wanted 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 denouement that was," I said.
"His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes - it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A.B.C. had 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 Japp.
"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 bastic 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, of 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.
