“Hounds!”
“—hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies—quickly and horribly.”
“I suppose it does sound cruel, but really—”
“The fox enjoys it? Do not say les bêtises, my friend. Tout de même—it is better that—the quick, cruel death—than what those children were singing….
“To be shut away—in a box—for ever…No, it is not good, that.”
He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone:
“Tomorrow, I am to visit the man Cust,” and he added to the chauffeur:
“Back to London.”
“Aren’t you going to Eastbourne?” I cried.
“What need? I know—quite enough for my purpose.”
Thirty-three
ALEXANDER BONAPARTE CUST
I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot and that strange man—Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Owing to his association with the police and the peculiar circumstances of the case, Poirot had no difficulty in obtaining a Home Office order—but that order did not extend to me, and in any case it was essential, from Poirot’s point of view, that that interview should be absolutely private—the two men face to face.
He has given me, however, such a detailed account of what passed between them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as though I had actually been present.
Mr. Cust seemed to have shrunk. His stoop was more apparent. His fingers plucked vaguely at his coat.
For some time, I gather, Poirot did not speak.
He sat and looked at the man opposite him.
The atmosphere became restful—soothing—full of infinite leisure….
It must have been a dramatic moment—this meeting of the two adversaries in the long drama. In Poirot’s place I should have felt the dramatic thrill.
Poirot, however, is nothing if not matter-of-fact. He was absorbed in producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him.
At last he said gently:
“Do you know who I am?”
The other shook his head.
“No—no—I can’t say I do. Unless you are Mr. Lucas’s—what do they call it?—junior. Or perhaps you come from Mr. Maynard?”
(Maynard & Cole were the defending solicitors.)
His tone was polite but not very interested. He seemed absorbed in some inner abstraction.
“I am Hercule Poirot….”
Poirot said the words very gently…and watched for the effect.
Mr. Cust raised his head a little.
“Oh, yes?”
He said it as naturally as Inspector Crome might have said it—but without the superciliousness.
Then, a minute later, he repeated his remark.
“Oh, yes?” he said, and this time his tone was different—it held an awakened interest. He raised his head and looked at Poirot.
Hercule Poirot met his gaze and nodded his own head gently once or twice.
“Yes,” he said. “I am the man to whom you wrote the letters.”
At once the contact was broken. Mr. Cust dropped his eyes and spoke irritably and fretfully.
“I never wrote to you. Those letters weren’t written by me. I’ve said so again and again.”
“I know,” said Poirot. “But if you did not write them, who did?”
“An enemy. I must have an enemy. They are all against me. The police—everyone—all against me. It’s a gigantic conspiracy.”
Poirot did not reply.
Mr. Cust said:
“Everyone’s hand has been against me—always.”
“Even when you were a child?”
Mr. Cust seemed to consider.
“No—no—not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But she was ambitious—terribly ambitious. That’s why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I’d cut a figure in the world. She was always urging me to assert myself—talking about will-power…saying anyone could be master of his fate…she said I could do anything!”
He was silent for a minute.
“She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I wasn’t the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish things—making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid—afraid of people. I had a bad time at school—the boys found out my Christian names—they used to tease me about them…I did very badly at school—in games and work and everything.”
He shook his head.
“Just as well poor mother died. She’d have been disappointed…Even when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid—it took me longer to learn typing and shorthand than anyone else. And yet I didn’t feel stupid—if you know what I mean.”
He cast a sudden appealing look at the other man.
“I know what you mean,” said Poirot. “Go on.”
“It was just the feeling that everybody else thought me stupid. Very paralyzing. It was the same thing later in the office.”
“And later still in the war?” prompted Poirot.
Mr. Cust’s face lightened up suddenly.
“You know,” he said, “I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the same box. I was as good as anyone else.”
His smile faded.
“And then I got that wound on the head. Very slight. But they found out I had fits…I’d always known, of course, that there were times when I hadn’t been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And of course, once or twice I’d fallen down. But I don’t really think they ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don’t think it was right.”
“And afterwards?” asked Poirot.
“I got a place as a clerk. Of course there was good money to be got just then. And I didn’t do so badly after the war. Of course, a smaller salary…And—I didn’t seem to get on. I was always being passed over for promotion. I wasn’t go-ahead enough. It grew very difficult—really very difficult…. Especially when the slump came. To tell you the truth, I’d got hardly enough to keep body and soul together (and you’ve got to look presentable as a clerk) when I got the offer of this stocking job. A salary and commission!”
Poirot said gently:
“But you are aware, are you not, that the firm whom you say employed you deny the fact?”
Mr. Cust got excited again.
“That’s because they’re in the conspiracy—they must be in the conspiracy.”
He went on:
“I’ve got written evidence—written evidence. I’ve got their letters to me, giving me instructions as to what places to go to and a list of people to call on.”
“Not written evidence exactly—typewritten evidence.”
“It’s the same thing. Naturally a big firm of wholesale manufacturers typewrite their letters.”
“Don’t you know, Mr. Cust, that a typewriter can be identified? All those letters were typed by one particular machine.”
“What of it?”
“And that machine was your own—the one found in your room.”
“It was sent me by the firm at the beginning of my job.”
“Yes, but these letters were received afterwards. So it looks, does it not, as though you typed them yourself and posted them to yourself?”
“No, no! It’s all part of the plot against me!”
He added suddenly:
“Besides, their letters would be written on the same kind of machine.”
“The same kind, but not the same actual machine.”
Mr. Cust repeated obstinately:
“It’s a plot!”
“And the A B C’s that were found in the cupboard?”
“I know nothing about them. I thought they were all stockings.”
“Why did you tick off the name of Mrs. Ascher in that first list of people in Andover?”
“Because I decided to start with her. One must begin somewhere.”
“Yes, that is true. One must begin somewhere.”
r /> “I don’t mean that!” said Mr. Cust. “I don’t mean what you mean!”
“But you know what I meant?”
Mr. Cust said nothing. He was trembling.
“I didn’t do it!” he said. “I’m perfectly innocent! It’s all a mistake. Why, look at that second crime—that Bexhill one. I was playing dominoes at Eastbourne. You’ve got to admit that!”
His voice was triumphant.
“Yes,” said Poirot. His voice was meditative—silky. “But it’s so easy, isn’t it, to make a mistake of one day? And if you’re an obstinate, positive man, like Mr. Strange, you’ll never consider the possibility of having been mistaken. What you’ve said you’ll stick to…He’s that kind of man. And the hotel register—it’s very easy to put down the wrong date when you’re signing it—probably no one will notice it at the time.”
“I was playing dominoes that evening!”
“You play dominoes very well, I believe.”
Mr. Cust was a little flurried by this.
“I—I—well, I believe I do.”
“It is a very absorbing game, is it not, with a lot of skill in it?”
“Oh, there’s a lot of play in it—a lot of play! We used to play a lot in the city, in the lunch hour. You’d be surprised the way total strangers come together over a game of dominoes.”
He chuckled.
“I remember one man—I’ve never forgotten him because of something he told me—we just got talking over a cup of coffee, and we started dominoes. Well, I felt after twenty minutes that I’d known that man all my life.”
“What was it that he told you?” asked Poirot.
Mr. Cust’s face clouded over.
“It gave me a turn—a nasty turn. Talking of your fate being written in your hand, he was. And he showed me his hand and the lines that showed he’d have two near escapes of being drowned—and he had had two near escapes. And then he looked at mine and he told me some amazing things. Said I was going to be one of the most celebrated men in England before I died. Said the whole country would be talking about me. But he said—he said….”
Mr. Cust broke down—faltered….
“Yes?”
Poirot’s gaze held a quiet magnetism. Mr. Cust looked at him, looked away, then back again like a fascinated rabbit.
“He said—he said—that it looked as though I might die a violent death—and he laughed and said: ‘Almost looks as though you might die on the scaffold,’ and then he laughed and said that was only his joke….”
He was silent suddenly. His eyes left Poirot’s face—they ran from side to side….
“My head—I suffer very badly with my head…the headaches are something cruel sometimes. And then there are times when I don’t know—when I don’t know….”
He broke down.
Poirot leant forward. He spoke very quietly but with great assurance.
“But you do know, don’t you,” he said, “that you committed the murders?”
Mr. Cust looked up. His glance was quite simple and direct. All resistance had left him. He looked strangely at peace.
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
“But—I am right, am I not?—you don’t know why you did them?”
Mr. Cust shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
Thirty-four
POIROT EXPLAINS
We were sitting in a state of tense attention to listen to Poirot’s final explanation of the case.
“All along,” he said, “I have been worried over the why of this case. Hastings said to me the other day that the case was ended. I replied to him that the case was the man! The mystery was not the mystery of the murders, but the mystery of A B C. Why did he find it necessary to commit these murders? Why did he select me as his adversary?
“It is no answer to say that the man was mentally unhinged. To say a man does mad things because he is mad is merely unintelligent and stupid. A madman is as logical and reasoned in his actions as a sane man—given his peculiar biased point of view. For example, if a man insists on going out and squatting about in nothing but a loin cloth his conduct seems eccentric in the extreme. But once you know that the man himself is firmly convinced that he is Mahatma Gandhi, then his conduct becomes perfectly reasonable and logical.
“What was necessary in this case was to imagine a mind so constituted that it was logical and reasonable to commit four or more murders and to announce them beforehand by letters written to Hercule Poirot.
“My friend Hastings will tell you that from the moment I received the first letter I was upset and disturbed. It seemed to me at once that there was something very wrong about the letter.”
“You were quite right,” said Franklin Clarke dryly.
“Yes. But there, at the very start, I made a grave error. I permitted my feeling—my very strong feeling about the letter—to remain a mere impression. I treated it as though it had been an intuition. In a well-balanced, reasoning mind there is no such thing as an intuition—an inspired guess! You can guess, of course—and a guess is either right or wrong. If it is right you call it an intuition. If it is wrong you usually do not speak of it again. But what is often called an intuition is really an impression based on logical deduction or experience. When an expert feels that there is something wrong about a picture or a piece of furniture or the signature on a cheque he is really basing that feeling on a host of small signs and details. He has no need to go into them minutely—his experience obviates that—the net result is the definite impression that something is wrong. But it is not a guess, it is an impression based on experience.
“Eh bien, I admit that I did not regard that first letter in the way I should. It just made me extremely uneasy. The police regarded it as a hoax. I myself took it seriously. I was convinced that a murder would take place in Andover as stated. As you know, a murder did take place.
“There was no means at that point, as I well realized, of knowing who the person was who had done the deed. The only course open to me was to try and understand just what kind of a person had done it.
“I had certain indications. The letter—the manner of the crime—the person murdered. What I had to discover was: the motive of the crime, the motive of the letter.”
“Publicity,” suggested Clarke.
“Surely an inferiority complex covers that,” added Thora Grey.
“That was, of course, the obvious line to take. But why me? Why Hercule Poirot? Greater publicity could be ensured by sending the letters to Scotland Yard. More again by sending them to a newspaper. A newspaper might not print the first letter, but by the time the second crime took place, A B C could have been assured of all the publicity the press could give. Why, then, Hercule Poirot? Was it for some personal reason? There was, discernible in the letter, a slight anti-foreign bias—but not enough to explain the matter to my satisfaction.
“Then the second letter arrived—and was followed by the murder of Betty Barnard at Bexhill. It became clear now (what I had already suspected) that the murders were to proceed on an alphabetical plan, but the fact, which seemed final to most people, left the main question unaltered to my mind. Why did A B C need to commit these murders?”
Megan Barnard stirred in her chair.
“Isn’t there such a thing as—as a blood lust?” she said.
Poirot turned to her.
“You are quite right, mademoiselle. There is such a thing. The lust to kill. But that did not quite fit the facts of the case. A homicidal maniac who desires to kill usually desires to kill as many victims as possible. It is a recurring craving. The great idea of such a killer is to hide his tracks—not to advertise them. When we consider the four victims selected—or at any rate three of them (for I know very little of Mr. Downes or Mr. Earlsfield), we realize that if he had chosen, the murderer could have done away with them without incurring any suspicion. Franz Ascher, Donald Fraser or Megan Barnard, possibly Mr. Clarke—those are the people the police would have suspected even if
they had been unable to get direct proof. An unknown homicidal murderer would not have been thought of! Why, then, did the murderer feel it necessary to call attention to himself? Was it the necessity of leaving on each body a copy of an A B C railway guide? Was that the compulsion? Was there some complex connected with the railway guide?
“I found it quite inconceivable at this point to enter into the mind of the murderer. Surely it could not be magnanimity? A horror of responsibility for the crime being fastened on an innocent person?
“Although I could not answer the main question, certain things I did feel I was learning about the murderer.”
“Such as?” asked Fraser.
“To begin with—that he had a tabular mind. His crimes were listed by alphabetical progression—that was obviously important to him. On the other hand, he had no particular taste in victims—Mrs. Ascher, Betty Barnard, Sir Carmichael Clarke, they all differed widely from each other. There was no sex complex—no particular age complex, and that seemed to me to be a very curious fact. If a man kills indiscriminately it is usually because he removes anyone who stands in his way or annoys him. But the alphabetical progression showed that such was not the case here. The other type of killer usually selects a particular type of victim—nearly always of the opposite sex. There was something haphazard about the procedure of A B C that seemed to me to be at war with the alphabetical selection.
“One slight inference I permitted myself to make. The choice of the A B C suggested to me what I may call a railway-minded man. This is more common in men than women. Small boys love trains better than small girls do. It might be the sign, too, of an in some ways undeveloped mind. The ‘boy’ motif still predominated.
“The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of it gave me certain other indications. The manner of her death was particularly suggestive. (Forgive me, Mr. Fraser.) To begin with, she was strangled with her own belt—therefore she must almost certainly have been killed by someone with whom she was on friendly or affectionate terms. When I learnt something of her character a picture grew up in my mind.