The A.B.C. Murders

  “Fair or dark?”

  “I—well—I’m not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking fellow.”

  “He didn’t limp, did he?” asked Inspector Crome.

  “Yes—yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste.”

  “Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?”

  “No. He came in after the big picture began.”

  Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr. Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him.

  “That’s about as bad a witness as you’ll find,” he remarked pessimistically. “He’d say anything with a little leading. It’s perfectly clear that he hasn’t the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let’s have the commissionaire back.”

  The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson.

  “Now, then, Jameson, let’s hear your story.”

  Jameson saluted.

  “Yessir. Close of the performance, sir. I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman’s coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead—stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an A B C railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred.”

  “Very good. Jameson, you acted very properly.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Did you notice a man leaving the two and four-pennies about five minutes earlier?”

  “There were several, sir.”

  “Could you describe them?”

  “Afraid not, sir. One was Mr. Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn’t notice anybody else particular.”

  “A pity. That’ll do, Jameson.”

  “Yessir.”

  The commissionaire saluted and departed.

  “The medical details we’ve got,” said Colonel Anderson. “We’d better have the fellow that found him next.”

  A police constable came in and saluted.

  “Mr. Hercule Poirot’s here, sir, and another gentleman.”

  Inspector Crome frowned.

  “Oh, well,” he said. “Better have ’em in, I suppose.”

  Twenty-seven

  THE DONCASTER MURDER

  Coming in hard on Poirot’s heels, I just caught the fag end of Inspector Crome’s remark.

  Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried and depressed.

  Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the head.

  “Glad you’ve come, M. Poirot,” he said politely. I think he guessed that Crome’s remark might have reached our ears. “We’ve got it in the neck again, you see.”

  “Another A B C murder?”

  “Yes. Damned audacious bit of work. Man leaned over and stabbed the fellow in the back.”

  “Stabbed this time?”

  “Yes, varies his methods a bit, doesn’t he? Biff on the head, strangled, now a knife. Versatile devil—what? Here are the medical details if you care to see ’em.”

  He shoved a paper towards Poirot. “A B C down on the floor between the dead man’s feet,” he added.

  “Has the dead man been identified?” asked Poirot.

  “Yes. A B C’s slipped up for once—if that’s any satisfaction to us. Deceased’s a man called Earlsfield—George Earlsfield. Barber by profession.”

  “Curious,” commented Poirot.

  “May have skipped a letter,” suggested the colonel.

  My friend shook his head doubtfully.

  “Shall we have in the next witness?” asked Crome. “He’s anxious to get home.”

  “Yes, yes—let’s get on.”

  A middle-aged gentleman strongly resembling the frog footman in Alice in Wonderland was led in. He was highly excited and his voice was shrill with emotion.

  “Most shocking experience I have ever known,” he squeaked. “I have a weak heart, sir—a very weak heart, it might have been the death of me.”

  “Your name, please,” said the inspector.

  “Downes. Roger Emmanuel Downes.”

  “Profession?”

  “I am a master at Highfield School for boys.”

  “Now, Mr. Downes, will you tell us in your own words what happened.”

  “I can tell you that very shortly, gentlemen. At the close of the performance I rose from my seat. The seat on my left was empty but in the one beyond a man was sitting, apparently asleep. I was unable to pass him to get out as his legs were stuck out in front of him. I asked him to allow me to pass. As he did not move I repeated my request in—a—er—slightly louder tone. He still made no response. I then took him by the shoulder to waken him. His body slumped down further and I became aware that he was either unconscious or seriously ill. I called out: ‘This gentleman is taken ill. Fetch the commissionaire.’ The commissionaire came. As I took my hand from the man’s shoulder I found it was wet and red…I can assure you, gentlemen, the shock was terrific! Anything might have happened! For years I have suffered from cardiac weakness—”

  Colonel Anderson was looking at Mr. Downes with a very curious expression.

  “You can consider that you’re a lucky man, Mr. Downes.”

  “I do, sir. Not even a palpitation!”

  “You don’t quite take my meaning, Mr. Downes. You were sitting two seats away, you say?”

  “Actually I was sitting at first in the next seat to the murdered man—then I moved along so as to be behind an empty seat.”

  “You’re about the same height and build as the dead man, aren’t you, and you were wearing a woollen scarf round your neck just as he was?”

  “I fail to see—” began Mr. Downes stiffly.

  “I’m telling you, man,” said Colonel Anderson, “just where your luck came in. Somehow or other, when the murderer followed you in, he got confused. He picked on the wrong back. I’ll eat my hat, Mr. Downes, if that knife wasn’t meant for you!”

  However well Mr. Downes’ heart had stood former tests, it was unable to stand up to this one. He sank on a chair, gasped, and turned purple in the face.

  “Water,” he gasped. “Water….”

  A glass was brought him. He sipped it whilst his complexion gradually returned to the normal.

  “Me?” he said. “Why me?”

  “It looks like it,” said Crome. “In fact, it’s the only explanation.”

  “You mean that this man—this—this fiend incarnate—this bloodthirsty madman has been following me about waiting for an opportunity?”

  “I should say that was the way of it.”

  “But in heaven’s name, why me?” demanded the outraged schoolmaster.

  Inspector Crome struggled with the temptation to reply: “Why not?” and said instead: “I’m afraid it’s no good expecting a lunatic to have reasons for what he does.”

  “God bless my soul,” said Mr. Downes, sobered into whispering.

  He got up. He looked suddenly old and shaken.

  “If you don’t want me any more, gentlemen, I think I’ll go home. I—I don’t feel very well.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Downes. I’ll send a constable with you—just to see you’re all right.”

  “Oh, no—no, thank you. That’s not necessary.”

  “Might as well,” said Colonel Anderson gruffly.

  His eyes slid sideways, asking an imperceptible question of the inspector. The latter gave an equally imperceptible nod.

  Mr. Downes went out shakily.

  “Just as well he didn’t tumble to it,” said Colonel Anderson. “There’ll be a couple of them—eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Your Inspector Rice has made arrangements. The house will be watched.”

  “You think,” said Po
irot, “that when A B C finds out his mistake he might try again?”

  Anderson nodded.

  “It’s a possibility,” he said. “Seems a methodical sort of chap, A B C. It will upset him if things don’t go according to programme.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  “Wish we could get a description of the fellow,” said Colonel Anderson irritably. “We’re as much in the dark as ever.”

  “It may come,” said Poirot.

  “Think so? Well, it’s possible. Damn it all, hasn’t anyone got eyes in their head?”

  “Have patience,” said Poirot.

  “You seem very confident, M. Poirot. Got any reason for this optimism?”

  “Yes, Colonel Anderson. Up to now, the murderer has not made a mistake. He is bound to make one soon.”

  “If that’s all you’ve got to go on,” began the Chief Constable with a snort, but he was interrupted.

  “Mr. Ball of the Black Swan is here with a young woman, sir. He reckons he’s got summat to say might help you.”

  “Bring them along. Bring them along. We can do with anything helpful.”

  Mr. Ball of the Black Swan was a large, slow-thinking, heavily moving man. He exhaled a strong odour of beer. With him was a plump young woman with round eyes clearly in a state of high excitement.

  “Hope I’m not intruding or wasting valuable time,” said Mr. Ball in a slow, thick voice. “But this wench, Mary here, reckons she’s got something to tell as you ought to know.”

  Mary giggled in a half-hearted way.

  “Well, my girl, what is it?” said Anderson. “What’s your name?”

  “Mary, sir, Mary Stroud.”

  “Well, Mary, out with it.”

  Mary turned her round eyes on her master.

  “It’s her business to take up hot water to the gents’ bedrooms,” said Mr. Ball, coming to the rescue. “About half a dozen gentlemen we’d got staying. Some for the races and some just commercials.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Anderson impatiently.

  “Get on, lass,” said Mr. Ball. “Tell your tale. Nowt to be afraid of.”

  Mary gasped, groaned and plunged in a breathless voice into her narrative.

  “I knocked on door and there wasn’t no answer, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone in leastways not unless the gentleman had said ‘Come in,’ and as he didn’t say nothing I went in and he was there washing his hands.”

  She paused and breathed deeply.

  “Go on, my girl,” said Anderson.

  Mary looked sideways at her master and as though receiving inspiration from his slow nod, plunged on again.

  “‘It’s your hot water, sir,’ I said, ‘and I did knock,’ but ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I’ve washed in cold,’ he said, and so, naturally, I looks in basin, and oh! God help me, sir, it were all red!”

  “Red?” said Anderson sharply.

  Ball struck in.

  “The lass told me that he had his coat off and that he was holding the sleeve of it, and it was all wet—that’s right, eh, lass?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right, sir.”

  She plunged on:

  “And his face, sir, it looked queer, mortal queer it looked. Gave me quite a turn.”

  “When was this?” asked Anderson sharply.

  “About a quarter after five, so near as I can reckon.”

  “Over three hours ago,” snapped Anderson. “Why didn’t you come at once?”

  “Didn’t hear about it at once,” said Ball. “Not till news came along as there’d been another murder done. And then the lass she screams out as it might have been blood in the basin, and I asks her what she means, and she tells me. Well, it doesn’t sound right to me and I went upstairs myself. Nobody in the room. I asks a few questions and one of the lads in courtyard says he saw a fellow sneaking out that way and by his description it was the right one. So I says to the missus as Mary here had best go to police. She doesn’t like the idea, Mary doesn’t, and I says I’ll come along with her.”

  Inspector Crome drew a sheet of paper towards him.

  “Describe this man,” he said. “As quick as you can. There’s no time to be lost.”

  “Medium-sized he were,” said Mary. “And stooped and wore glasses.”

  “His clothes?”

  “A dark suit and a Homburg hat. Rather shabby-looking.”

  She could add little to this description.

  Inspector Crome did not insist unduly. The telephone wires were soon busy, but neither the inspector nor the Chief Constable were over-optimistic.

  Crome elicited the fact that the man, when seen sneaking across the yard, had had no bag or suitcase.

  “There’s a chance there,” he said.

  Two men were despatched to the Black Swan.

  Mr. Ball, swelling with pride and importance, and Mary, somewhat tearful, accompanied them.

  The sergeant returned about ten minutes later.

  “I’ve brought the register, sir,” he said. “Here’s the signature.”

  We crowded round. The writing was small and cramped—not easy to read.

  “A. B. Case—or is it Cash?” said the Chief Constable.

  “A B C,” said Crome significantly.

  “What about luggage?” asked Anderson.

  “One good-sized suitcase, sir, full of small cardboard boxes.”

  “Boxes? What was in ’em?”

  “Stockings, sir. Silk stockings.”

  Crome turned to Poirot.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “Your hunch was right.”

  Twenty-eight

  NOT FROM CAPTAIN HASTINGS’ PERSONAL NARRATIVE

  I

  Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard.

  The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up.

  “Jacobs speaking, sir. There’s a young fellow come in with a story that I think you ought to hear.”

  Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned up with so-called important information about the A B C case. Some of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve—retaining the grosser matter and passing on the residue to his superior.

  “Very well, Jacobs,” said Crome. “Send him along.”

  A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector’s door and Sergeant Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall, moderately good-looking young man.

  “This is Mr. Tom Hartigan, sir. He’s got something to tell us which may have a possible bearing on the A B C case.”

  The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hartigan. Sit down, won’t you? Smoke? Have a cigarette?”

  Tom Hartigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at what he called in his own mind “One of the bigwigs.” The appearance of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary person!

  “Now then,” said Crome. “You’ve got something to tell us that you think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead.”

  Tom began nervously.

  “Of course it may be nothing at all. It’s just an idea of mine. I may be wasting your time.”

  Again Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time he had to waste in reassuring people!

  “We’re the best judge of that. Let’s have the facts, Mr. Hartigan.”

  “Well, it’s like this, sir. I’ve got a young lady, you see, and her mother lets rooms. Up Camden Town way. Their second-floor back has been let for over a year to a man called Cust.”

  “Cust—eh?”

  “That’s right, sir. A sort of middle-aged bloke what’s rather vague and soft—and come down in the world a bit, I should say. Sort of creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly you’d say—and I’d never of dreamed of anything being wrong if it hadn’t been for something rather odd.”

  In a somewhat confused manner and repeating himself once
or twice, Tom described his encounter with Mr. Cust at Euston Station and the incident of the dropped ticket.

  “You see, sir, look at it how you will, it’s funny like. Lily—that’s my young lady, sir—she was quite positive that it was Cheltenham he said, and her mother says the same—says she remembers distinct talking about it the morning he went off. Of course, I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Lily—my young lady—said as how she hoped he wouldn’t cop it from this A B C fellow going to Doncaster—and then she says it’s rather a coincidence because he was down Churston way at the time of the last crime. Laughing like, I asks her whether he was at Bexhill the time before, and she says she don’t know where he was, but he was away at the seaside—that she does know. And then I said to her it would be odd if he was the A B C himself and she said poor Mr. Cust wouldn’t hurt a fly—and that was all at the time. We didn’t think no more about it. At least, in a sort of way I did, sir, underneath like. I began wondering about this Cust fellow and thinking that, after all, harmless as he seemed, he might be a bit batty.”

  Tom took a breath and then went on. Inspector Crome was listening intently now.

  “And then after the Doncaster murder, sir, it was in all the papers that information was wanted as to the whereabouts of a certain A B Case or Cash, and it gave a description that fitted well enough. First evening off I had, I went round to Lily’s and asked her what her Mr. Cust’s initials were. She couldn’t remember at first, but her mother did. Said they were A B right enough. Then we got down to it and tried to figure out if Cust had been away at the time of the first murder at Andover. Well, as you know, sir, it isn’t too easy to remember things three months back. We had a job of it, but we got it fixed down in the end, because Mrs. Marbury had a brother come from Canada to see her on June 21st. He arrived unexpected like and she wanted to give him a bed, and Lily suggested that as Mr. Cust was away Bert Smith might have his bed. But Mrs. Marbury wouldn’t agree, because she said it wasn’t acting right by her lodger, and she always liked to act fair and square. But we fixed the date all right because of Bert Smith’s ship docking at Southampton that day.”

  Inspector Crome had listened very attentively, jotting down an occasional note.