Eight

THE SECOND LETTER

“Well?” I demanded eagerly.

We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves. The train, an express, hadjust drawn¹ out of Andover.

“The crime,” said Poirot, “was committed by a man of medium height with red hair and a castin the left eye. He limps slightly on the right foot and has a mole² just below the shoulder blade.”

“Poirot?” I cried.

For the moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my friend’s eye undeceived me.

“Poirot!” I said again, this time in reproach.

“Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of dog-like devotion and demand of me apronouncement à la Sherlock Holmes! Now for the truth—I do not know what the murderer lookslike, nor where he lives, nor how to set hands upon him.”

“If only he had left some clue,” I murmured.

“Yes, the clue—it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas³ that he did not smoke the cigaretteand leave the ash, and then step in it with a shoe that has nails of a curious pattern. No—he is notso obliging. But at least, my friend, you have the railway guide. The A B C, that is a clue for you!”

“Do you think he left it by mistake then?”

“Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints⁴ tell us that.”

“But there weren’t any on it.”

“That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm June night. Does a man strollabout on such an evening in gloves? Such a man would certainly have attracted attention.

Therefore since there are no fingerprints on the A B C, it must have been carefully wiped. Aninnocent man would have left prints—a guilty man would not. So our murderer left it there for apurpose—but for all that it is none the less a clue. That A B C was bought by someone—it wascarried by someone—there is a possibility there.”

“You think we may learn something that way?”

“Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this unknown X, obviously prideshimself on his abilities. He is not likely to blaze a trail that can be followed straight away.”

“So that really the A B C isn’t helpful at all.”

“Not in the sense you mean.”

“In any sense?”

Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly:

“The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknown personage. He is in the darkand seeks to remain in the dark. But in the very nature of things he cannot help throwing lightupon himself. In one sense we know nothing about him—in another sense we know already a gooddeal. I see his figure dimly taking shape—a man who prints clearly and well—who buys good-quality paper—who is at great needs to express his personality. I see him as a child possiblyignored and passed over—I see him growing up with an inward sense of inferiority—warring witha sense of injustice…I see that inner urge—to assert himself—to focus attention on himself everbecoming stronger, and events, circumstances — crushing it down — heaping, perhaps, morehumiliations on him. And inwardly the match is set to the powder train….”

“That’s all pure conjecture,” I objected. “It doesn’t give you any practical help.”

“You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! You always have. But at least wecan ask ourselves some practical questions. Why the A B C? Why Mrs. Ascher? Why Andover?”

“The woman’s past life seems simple enough,” I mused⁶. “The interviews with those two menwere disappointing. They couldn’t tell us anything more than we knew already.”

“To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we could not neglect two possiblecandidates for the murder.”

“Surely you don’t think—”

“There is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near Andover. That is a possibleanswer to our question: ‘Why Andover?’ Well, here were two men known to have been in theshop at the requisite⁷ time of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there is nothing as yetto show that one or other of them is not the murderer.”

“That great hulking brute⁸, Riddell, perhaps,” I admitted.

“Oh, I am inclined to acquit⁹ Riddell off-hand. He was nervous, blustering¹⁰, obviously uneasy—”

“But surely that just shows—”

“A nature diametrically opposed to that which penned the A B C letter. Conceit¹¹ and self-confidence are the characteristics that we must look for.”

“Someone who throws his weight about?”

“Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing manner, conceal¹² a great deal ofvanity and self-satisfaction.”

“You don’t think that little Mr. Partridge—”

“He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as the writer of the letter would act—goes at once to the police—pushes himself to the fore—enjoys his position.”

“Do you really think—?”

“No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came from outside Andover, but we mustneglect no avenue of research. And although I say ‘he’ all the time, we must not exclude thepossibility of a woman being concerned.”

“Surely not!”

“The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous¹³ letters are written by womenrather than by men. We must bear that in mind.”

I was silent for a few minutes, then I said:

“What do we do next?”

“My energetic Hastings,” Poirot said and smiled at me.

“No, but what do we do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” My disappointment rang out clearly.

“Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?”

Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give an answer. Nevertheless I feltconvinced that something ought to be done and that we should not allow the grass to grow underour feet.

I said:

“There is the A B C—and the notepaper and envelope—”

“Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their disposalfor that kind of inquiry¹⁴. If anything is to be discovered on those lines have no fear but that theywill discover it.”

With that I was forced to rest content.

In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously¹⁵ disinclined to discuss the case. When I tried toreopen the subject he waved it aside with an impatient hand.

In my own mind I was afraid that I fathomed¹⁶ his motive¹⁷. Over the murder of Mrs. Ascher,Poirot had sustained a defeat. A B C had challenged him—and A B C had won. My friend,accustomed to an unbroken line of successes, was sensitive to his failure—so much so that hecould not even endure discussion of the subject. It was, perhaps, a sign of pettiness in so great aman, but even the most sober of us is liable to have his head turned by success. In Poirot’s case thehead-turning process had been going on for years. Small wonder if its effects became noticeable atlong last.

Understanding, I respected my friend’s weakness and I made no further reference to the case. Iread in the paper the account of the inquest. It was very brief, no mention was made of the A B Cletter, and a verdict was returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. The crimeattracted very little attention in the press. It had no popular or spectacular features. The murder ofan old woman in a side street was soon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics.

Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think, because I disliked to thinkof Poirot as being in any way associated with a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived.

I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away in Yorkshire for the weekend. Iarrived back on Monday afternoon and the letter came by the six o’clock post. I remember thesudden, sharp intake¹⁸ of breath that Poirot gave as he slit¹⁹ open that particular envelope.

“It has come,” he said.

I stared at him—not understanding.

“What has come?”

“The second chapter of the A B C business.”

For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really passed from mymemory.

“Read,” said Poirot and passed me over the letter.

As before, it was printed on good-quality paper.

Dear Mr. Poirot,—Well, what about it? First game to me, I think. The Andoverbusiness went with a swing, didn’t it?

But the fun’s only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea.

Date, the 25th inst.

What a merry time we are having! Yours etc.

A B C

“Good God, Poirot,” I cried. “Does this mean that this fiend is going to attempt another crime?”

“Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think that the Andover business wasan isolated²⁰ case? Do you not remember my saying: ‘This is the beginning’?”

“But this is horrible!”

“Yes, it is horrible.”

“We’re up against a homicidal maniac²².”

“Yes.”

His quietness was more impressive than any heroics could have been. I handed back the letterwith a shudder²³.

The following morning saw us at a conference of powers. The Chief Constable²⁴ of Sussex, theAssistant Commissioner²⁵ of the CID, Inspector²⁶ Glen from Andover, Superintendent²⁷ Carter of theSussex police, Japp and a younger inspector called Crome, and Dr. Thompson, the famous alienist,were all assembled together. The postmark on this letter was Hampstead, but in Poirot’s opinionlittle importance could be attached to this fact.

The matter was discussed fully⁵. Dr. Thompson was a pleasant middle-aged²⁸ man who, in spite ofhis learning, contented²⁹ himself with homely³⁰ language, avoiding the technicalities of hisprofession.

“There’s no doubt,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “that the two letters are in the same hand.

Both were written by the same person.”

“And we can fairly assume that that person was responsible for the Andover murder.”

“Quite. We’ve now got definite warning of a second crime scheduled to take place on the 25th—the day after tomorrow—at Bexhill. What steps can be taken?”

The Sussex Chief Constable looked at his superintendent.

“Well, Carter, what about it?”

The superintendent shook his head gravely.

“It’s difficult, sir. There’s not the least clue towards whom the victim may be. Speaking fair andsquare, what steps can we take?”

“A suggestion,” murmured Poirot.

Their faces turned to him.

“I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will begin with the letter B.”

“That would be something,” said the superintendent doubtfully.

“An alphabetical³¹ complex,” said Dr. Thompson thoughtfully.

“I suggest it as a possibility—no more. It came into my mind when I saw the name Ascherclearly written over the shop door of the unfortunate woman who was murdered last month. WhenI got the letter naming Bexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well as the placemight be selected by an alphabetical system.”

“It’s possible,” said the doctor. “On the other hand, it may be that the name Ascher was acoincidence—that the victim this time, no matter what her name is, will again be an old womanwho keeps a shop. We’re dealing³², remember, with a madman. So far he hasn’t given us any clueas to motive.”

“Has a madman any motive, sir?” asked the superintendent sceptically.

“Of course he has, man. A deadly logic³³ is one of the special characteristics of acute mania²¹. Aman may believe himself divinely appointed to kill clergymen—or doctors—or old women intobacco shops—and there’s always some perfectly³⁴ coherent reason behind it. We mustn’t let thealphabetical business run away with us. Bexhill succeeding to Andover may be a merecoincidence.”

“We can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a special note of the B’s, especiallysmall shopkeepers, and keep a watch on all small tobacconists and newsagents looked after by asingle person. I don’t think there’s anything more we can do than that. Naturally, keep tabs on allstrangers as far as possible.”

The superintendent uttered a groan³⁵.

“With the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? People are fairly flooding into theplace this week.”

“We must do what we can,” the Chief Constable said sharply.

Inspector Glen spoke³⁶ in his turn.

“I’ll have a watch kept on anyone connected with the Ascher business. Those two witnesses,Partridge and Riddell, and of course Ascher himself. If they show any sign of leaving Andoverthey’ll be followed.”

The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little desultory³⁷ conversation.

“Poirot,” I said as we walked along by the river. “Surely this crime can be prevented?”

He turned a haggard face to me.

“The sanity³⁸ of a city full of men against the insanity³⁹ of one man? I fear, Hastings—I very muchfear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack⁴⁰ the Ripper.”

“It’s horrible,” I said.

“Madness, Hastings, is a terrible thing…I am afraid…I am very much afraid….”

 

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