“That’s all?” he asked.
“That’s all, sir. I hope you don’t think I’m making a lot of nothing.”
Tom flushed slightly.
“Not at all. You were quite right to come here. Of course, it’s very slight evidence—these dates may be mere coincidence and the likeness of the name, too. But it certainly warrants my having an interview with your Mr. Cust. Is he at home now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did he return?”
“The evening of the Doncaster murder, sir.”
“What’s he been doing since?”
“He’s stayed in mostly, sir. And he’s been looking very queer, Mrs. Marbury says. He buys a lot of newspapers—goes out early and gets the morning ones, and then after dark he goes out and gets the evening ones. Mrs. Marbury says he talks a lot to himself, too. She thinks he’s getting queerer.”
“What is this Mrs. Marbury’s address?”
Tom gave it to him.
“Thank you. I shall probably be calling round in the course of the day. I need hardly tell you to be careful of your manner if you come across this Cust.”
He rose and shook hands.
“You may be quite satisfied you did the right thing in coming to us. Good morning, Mr. Hartigan.”
“Well, sir?” asked Jacobs, reentering the room a few minutes later. “Think it’s the goods?”
“It’s promising,” said Inspector Crome. “That is, if the facts are as the boy stated them. We’ve had no luck with the stocking manufacturers yet. It was time we got hold of something. By the way, give me that file of the Churston case.”
He spent some minutes looking for what he wanted.
“Ah, here it is. It’s amongst the statements made to the Torquay police. Young man of the name of Hill. Deposes he was leaving the Torquay Palladium after the film Not a Sparrow and noticed a man behaving queerly. He was talking to himself. Hill heard him say ‘That’s an idea.’ Not a Sparrow—that’s the film that was on at the Regal in Doncaster?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There may be something in that. Nothing to it at the time—but it’s possible that the idea of the modus operandi for his next crime occurred to our man then. We’ve got Hill’s name and address, I see. His description of the man is vague but it links up well enough with the descriptions of Mary Stroud and this Tom Hartigan….”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“We’re getting warm,” said Inspector Crome—rather inaccurately, for he himself was always slightly chilly.
“Any instructions, sir?”
“Put on a couple of men to watch this Camden Town address, but I don’t want our bird frightened. I must have a word with the AC. Then I think it would be as well if Cust was brought along here and asked if he’d like to make a statement. It sounds as though he’s quite ready to get rattled.”
Outside Tom Hartigan had rejoined Lily Marbury who was waiting for him on the Embankment.
“All right, Tom?”
Tom nodded.
“I saw Inspector Crome himself. The one who’s in charge of the case.”
“What’s he like?”
“A bit quiet and lah-di-dah—not my idea of a detective.”
“That’s Lord Trenchard’s new kind,” said Lily with respect. “Some of them are ever so grand. Well, what did he say?”
Tom gave her a brief résumé of the interview.
“So they think as it really was him?”
“They think it might be. Anyway, they’ll come along and ask him a question or two.”
“Poor Mr. Cust.”
“It’s no good saying poor Mr. Cust, my girl. If he’s A B C, he’s committed four terrible murders.”
Lily sighed and shook her head.
“It does seem awful,” she observed.
“Well, now you’re going to come and have a bite of lunch, my girl. Just you think that if we’re right I expect my name will be in the papers!”
“Oh, Tom, will it?”
“Rather. And yours, too. And your mother’s. And I dare say you’ll have your picture in it, too.”
“Oh, Tom.” Lily squeezed his arm in an ecstasy.
“And in the meantime what do you say to a bite at the Corner House?”
Lily squeezed tighter.
“Come on then!”
“All right—half a minute. I must just telephone from the station.”
“Who to?”
“A girl I was going to meet.”
She slipped across the road, and rejoined him three minutes later, looking rather flushed.
“Now then, Tom.”
She slipped her arm in his.
“Tell me more about Scotland Yard. You didn’t see the other one there?”
“What other one?”
“The Belgian gentleman. The one that A B C writes to always.”
“No. He wasn’t there.”
“Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside? Who did you speak to and what did you say?”
II
Mr. Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook.
He turned to where Mrs. Marbury was standing in the doorway of the room, clearly devoured with curiosity.
“Not often you have a telephone call, Mr. Cust?”
“No—er—no, Mrs. Marbury. It isn’t.”
“Not bad news, I trust?”
“No—no.” How persistent the woman was. His eyes caught the legend on the newspaper he was carrying.
Births—Marriages—Deaths….
“My sister’s just had a little boy,” he blurted out.
He—who had never had a sister!
“Oh, dear! Now—well, that is nice, I am sure. (‘And never once mentioned a sister all these years,’ was her inward thought. ‘If that isn’t just like a man!’) I was surprised, I’ll tell you, when the lady asked to speak to Mr. Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily’s voice—something like hers, it was—but haughtier if you know what I mean—sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr. Cust, my congratulations, I’m sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and nieces?”
“It’s the only one,” said Mr. Cust. “The only one I’ve ever had or likely to have, and—er—I think I must go off at once. They—they want me to come. I—I think I can just catch a train if I hurry.”
“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 bona fides.
“I hope she didn’t have too hard 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 reechoed 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 t
he 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 mousetrap.
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…?
Twenty-nine
AT SCOTLAND YARD
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 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. “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 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.
Thirty
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. 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 la
ughed 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.
Thirty-one
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 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. A B C 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.”