Fourteen

THE THIRD LETTER

I well remember the arrival of A B C’s third letter.

I may say that all precautions had been taken so that when A B C resumed his campaign thereshould be no unnecessary delays. A young sergeant¹ from Scotland Yard was attached to the houseand if Poirot and I were out it was his duty to open anything that came so as to be able tocommunicate with headquarters without loss of time.

As the days succeeded each other we had all grown more and more on edge. Inspector² Crome’saloof and superior manner grew more and more aloof³ and superior as one by one his more hopefulclues petered out. The vague descriptions of men said to have been seen with Betty Barnardproved useless. Various cars noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill and Cooden were either accountedfor or could not be traced. The investigation⁴ of purchases of A B C railway guides causedinconvenience and trouble to heaps of innocent people.

As for ourselves, each time the postman’s familiar rat-tat sounded on the door, our hearts beatfaster with apprehension⁵. At least that was true for me, and I cannot but believe that Poirotexperienced the same sensation.

He was, I knew, deeply unhappy over the case. He refused to leave London, preferring to be onthe spot in case of emergency. In those hot dog days even his moustaches drooped—neglected foronce by their owner.

It was on a Friday that A B C’s third letter came. The evening post arrived about ten o’clock.

When we heard the familiar step and the brisk rat-tat, I rose and went along to the box. Therewere four or five letters, I remember. The last one I looked at was addressed in printed characters.

“Poirot,” I cried…My voice died away.

“It has come? Open it, Hastings. Quickly. Every moment may be needed. We must make ourplans.”

I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me with untidiness) and extracted theprinted sheet.

“Read it,” said Poirot.

I read aloud:

Poor Mr. Poirot,—Not so good at these little criminal matters as you thoughtyourself, are you? Rather past your prime, perhaps? Let us see if you can do anybetter this time. This time it’s an easy one. Churston on the 30th. Do try and dosomething about it! It’s a bit dull having it all my own way, you know!

Good hunting. Ever yours,

A B C.

“Churston,” I said, jumping to our own copy of an A B C. “Let’s see where it is.”

“Hastings,” Poirot’s voice came sharply and interrupted me. “When was that letter written? Isthere a date on it?”

I glanced at the letter in my hand.

“Written on the 27th,” I announced.

“Did I hear you aright, Hastings? Did he give the date of the murder as the 30th?”

“That’s right. Let me see, that’s—”

“Bon Dieu, Hastings—do you not realise? Today is the 30th.”

His eloquent⁶ hand pointed⁷ to the calendar on the wall. I caught up the daily paper to confirm it.

“But why—how—” I stammered⁸.

Poirot caught up the torn envelope from the floor. Something unusual about the address hadregistered itself vaguely⁹ in my brain, but I had been too anxious to get at the contents of the letterto pay more than fleeting¹⁰ attention to it.

Poirot was at the time living in Whitehaven Mansions¹¹. The address ran: M. Hercule Poirot,Whitehorse Mansions, across the corner was scrawled¹²: “Not known at Whitehorse Mansions, EC1,nor at Whitehorse Court—try Whitehaven Mansions.”

“Mon Dieu!” murmured Poirot. “Does even chance aid this madman? Vite—vite—we must geton to Scotland Yard.”

A minute or two later we were speaking to Crome over the wire. For once the self-controlledinspector did not reply “Oh, yes?” Instead a quickly stifled¹³ curse came to his lips. He heard whatwe had to say, then rang off in order to get a trunk connection to Churston as rapidly as possible.

“C’est trop tard,” murmured Poirot.

“You can’t be sure of that,” I argued, though without any great hope.

He glanced at the clock.

“Twenty minutes past ten? An hour and forty minutes to go. Is it likely that A B C will haveheld his hand so long?”

I opened the railway guide I had previously¹⁴ taken from its shelf.

“Churston, Devon,” I read, “from Paddington 204? miles. Population 656. It sounds a fairlysmall place. Surely our man will be bound to be noticed there.”

“Even so, another life will have been taken,” murmured Poirot. “What are the trains? I imaginetrain will be quicker than car.”

“There’s a midnight train — sleeping car to Newton Abbot — gets there 6:8 am, and thenChurston at 7:15.”

“That is from Paddington?”

“Paddington, yes.”

“We will take that, Hastings.”

“You’ll hardly have time to get news before we start.”

“If we receive bad news tonight or tomorrow morning does it matter which?”

“There’s something in that.”

I put a few things together in a suitcase while Poirot once more rang up Scotland Yard.

A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and demanded:

“Mais qu’est ce que vous faites là?”

“I was packing for you. I thought it would save time.”

“Vous éprouvez trop d’émotion, Hastings. It affects your hands and your wits. Is that a way tofold a coat? And regard what you have done to my pyjamas¹⁵. If the hairwash breaks what willbefall them?”

“Good heavens, Poirot,” I cried, “this is a matter of life and death. What does it matter whathappens to our clothes?”

“You have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch a train earlier than the time that itleaves, and to ruin one’s clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder.”

Taking his suitcase from me firmly, he took the packing into his own hands.

He explained that we were to take the letter and envelope to Paddington with us. Someone fromScotland Yard would meet us there.

When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was Inspector Crome.

He answered Poirot’s look of inquiry¹⁶.

“No news as yet. All men available are on the lookout¹⁷. All persons whose name begins with Care being warned by phone when possible. There’s just a chance. Where’s the letter?”

Poirot gave it to him.

He examined it, swearing softly under his breath.

“Of all the damned luck. The stars in their courses fight for the fellow.”

“You don’t think,” I suggested, “that it was done on purpose?”

Crome shook his head.

“No. He’s got his rules—crazy rules—and abides¹⁸ by them. Fair warning. He makes a point ofthat. That’s where his boastfulness comes in. I wonder now—I’d almost bet the chap drinks WhiteHorse whisky.”

“Ah, c’est ingénieux, ?a!” said Poirot, driven to admiration¹⁹ in spite of himself. “He prints theletter and the bottle is in front of him.”

“That’s the way of it,” said Crome. “We’ve all of us done much the same thing one time oranother, unconsciously copied something that’s just under the eye. He started off White and wenton horse instead of haven….”

The inspector, we found, was also travelling by the train.

“Even if by some unbelievable luck nothing happened, Churston is the place to be. Ourmurderer is there, or has been there today. One of my men is on the phone here up to the lastminute in case anything comes through.”

Just as the train was leaving the station we saw a man running down the platform. He reachedthe inspector’s window and called up something.

As the train drew out of the station Poirot and I hurried along the corridor and tapped on thedoor of the inspector’s sleeper²⁰.

“You have news—yes?” demanded Poirot.

Crome said quietly:

“It’s about as bad as it can be. Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found with his head bashed in.”

Sir Carmichael Clarke, although his name was not very well known to the general public, was aman of some eminence²¹. He had been in his time a very well-known throat specialist. Retiring fromhis profession very comfortably off, he had been able to indulge what had been one of the chiefpassions of his life—a collection of Chinese pottery²² and porcelain²³. A few years later, inheriting aconsiderable fortune from an elderly uncle, he had been able to indulge his passion to the full, andhe was now the possessor of one of the best-known collections of Chinese art. He was married buthad no children and lived in a house he had built for himself near the Devon coast, only coming toLondon on rare occasions such as when some important sale was on.

It did not require much reflection to realize that his death, following that of the young and prettyBetty Barnard, would provide the best newspaper sensation for years. The fact that it was Augustand that the papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters worse.

“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “It is possible that publicity²⁴ may do what private efforts have failed todo. The whole country now will be looking for A B C.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “that’s what he wants.”

“True. But it may, all the same, be his undoing²⁵. Gratified by success, he may become careless…That is what I hope—that he may be drunk with his own cleverness.”

“How odd all this is, Poirot,” I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an idea. “Do you know, this is thefirst crime of this kind that you and I have worked on together? All our murders have been—well,private murders, so to speak.”

“You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen to our lot to work from theinside. It has been the history of the victim that was important. The important points have been:

‘Who benefited by the death? What opportunities had those round him to commit the crime?’ Ithas always been the ‘crime intime.’ Here, for the first time in our association, it is cold-blooded,impersonal murder. Murder from the outside.”

I shivered.

“It’s rather horrible….”

“Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen….”

He made an impatient gesture.

“One must not give way to the nerves…This is no worse than any ordinary crime….”

“It is…It is….”

“Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life of someone near and dear toyou—someone who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?”

“It’s worse because it’s mad….”

“No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult.”

“No, no, I do not agree with you. It’s infinitely²⁶ more frightening.”

Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:

“It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by someone shrewd andsane would be far more complicated. Here, if one could but hit on the idea…This alphabeticalbusiness, it has discrepancies²⁷. If I could once see the idea—then everything would be clear andsimple….”

He sighed and shook his head.

“These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth…Go, Hastings. Get some sleep.

There will be much to do tomorrow.”

 

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