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 bloodstained 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 quite 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 my
self 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 A B C. We will be face to face at last—A B 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!”
Thirty-two
AND CATCH A FOX
During the next few days Poirot was very busy. He made mysterious absences, talked very little, frowned to himself, and consistently refused to satisfy my natural curiosity as to the brilliance I had, according to him, displayed in the past.
I was not invited to accompany him on his mysterious comings and goings—a fact which I somewhat resented.
Towards the end of the week, however, he announced his intention of paying a visit to Bexhill and neighbourhood and suggested that I should come with him. Needless to say, I accepted with alacrity.
The invitation, I discovered, was not extended to me alone. The members of our Special Legion were also invited.
They were as intrigued by Poirot as I was. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, I had at any rate an idea as to the direction in which Poirot’s thoughts were tending.
He first visited Mr. and Mrs. Barnard and got an exact account from her as to the hour at which Mr. Cust had called on her and exactly what he had said. He then went to the hotel at which Cust had put up and extracted a minute description of that gentleman’s departure. As far as I could judge, no new facts were elicited by his questions but he himself seemed quite satisfied.
Next he went to the beach—to the place where Betty Barnard’s body had been discovered. Here he walked round in circles for some minutes studying the shingle attentively. I could see little point in this, since the tide covered the spot twice a day.
However I have learnt by this time that Poirot’s actions are usually dictated by an idea—however meaningless they may seem.
He then walked from the beach to the nearest point at which a car could have been parked. From there again he went to the place where the Eastbourne buses waited before leaving Bexhill.
Finally he took us all to the Ginger Cat café, where we had a somewhat stale tea served by the plump waitress, Milly Higley.
Her he complimented in a flowing Gallic style on the shape of her ankles.
“The legs of the English—always they are too thin! But you, mademoiselle, have the perfect leg. It has shape—it has an ankle!”
Milly Higley giggled a good deal and told him not to go on so. She knew what French gentlemen were like.
Poirot did not trouble to contradict her mistake as to his nationality. He merely ogled her in such a way that I was startled and almost shocked.
“Voilà,” said Poirot, “I have finished in Bexhill. Presently I go to Eastbourne. One little inquiry there—that is all. Unnecessary for you all to accompany me. In the meantime come back to the hotel and let us have a cocktail. That Carlton tea, it was abominable!”
As we were sipping our cocktails Franklin Clarke said curiously:
“I suppose we can guess what you are after? You’re out to break that alibi. But I can’t see what you’re so pleased about. You haven’t got a new fact of any kind.”
“No—that is true.”
“Well, then?”
“Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time.”
“You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway.”
“Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea—that is why.”
His face grew serious.
“My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young man, played a game called The Truth. It was a game where everyone in turn was asked three questions—two of which must be answered truthfully. The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the most indiscreet kind. But to begin with everyone had to swear that they would indeed speak the truth, and nothing but the truth.”
He paused.
“Well?” said Megan.
“Eh bien—me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of you.”
“Of course,” said Clarke impatiently. “We’ll answer anything.”
“Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to speak the truth?”
He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn themselves. They all swore as he demanded.
“Bon,” said Poirot briskly. “Let us begin—”
“I’m ready,” said Thora Grey.
“Ah, but ladies first—this time it would not be the politeness. We will start elsewhere.”
He turned to Franklin Clarke.
“What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies wore at Ascot this year?”
Franklin Clarke stared at him.
“Is this a joke?”
“Certainly not.”
“Is that seriously your question?”
“It is.”
Clarke began to grin.
“Well, M. Poirot, I didn’t actually go to Ascot, but from what I could see of them driving in cars, women’s hats for Ascot were an even bigger joke than the hats they wear ordinarily.”
“Fantastic?”
“Quite fantastic.”
Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser.
“When did you take your holiday this year, monsieur?”
It was Fraser’s turn to stare.
“My holiday? The first two weeks in August.”
His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought the loss of the girl he loved back to him.
Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear.
“Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke’s death, would you have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?”
The girl sprang up.
“How dare you ask me such a question. It’s—it’s insulting!”
“Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the truth. Eh bien—Yes or no?”
“Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost like a daughter. And that’s how I felt to him—just affectionate and grateful.”
“Pardon me, but that is not answering Yes or No, mademoiselle.”
She hesitated.
“The answer, of course, is no!”
He made no comment.
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl’s face was very pale. She was breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal.
Poirot’s voice came out like the crack of a whiplash.
“Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigatio
ns? Do you want me to find out the truth—or not?”
Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth.
Her answer came clearly—and it stupefied me.
“No!”
We all jumped. Poirot leant forward studying her face.
“Mademoiselle Megan,” he said, “you may not want the truth but—ma foi—you can speak it!”
He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary Drower.
“Tell me, mon enfant, have you a young man?”
Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and blushed.
“Oh, Mr. Poirot. I—I—well, I’m not sure.”
He smiled.
“Alors c’est bien, mon enfant.”
He looked round for me.
“Come, Hastings, we must start for Eastbourne.”
The car was waiting and soon we were driving along the coast road that leads through Pevensey to Eastbourne.
“Is it any use asking you anything, Poirot?”
“Not at this moment. Draw your own conclusions as to what I am doing.”
I relapsed into silence.
Poirot, who seemed pleased with himself, hummed a little tune. As we passed through Pevensey he suggested that we stop and have a look over the castle.
As we were returning towards the car, we paused a moment to watch a ring of children—Brownies, I guessed, by their get-up—who were singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices….
“What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words.”
I listened—till I caught one refrain.
“—And catch a fox
And put him in a box
And never let him go.”
“And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!” repeated Poirot.
His face had gone suddenly grave and stern.
“It is very terrible that, Hastings.” He was silent a minute. “You hunt the fox here?”
“I don’t. I’ve never been able to afford to hunt. And I don’t think there’s much hunting in this part of the world.”
“I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side—then they sound the tally-ho, do they not?—and the run begins—across the country—over the hedges and ditches—and the fox he runs—and sometimes he doubles back—but the dogs—”