Seventeen

MARKING TIME

With the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke the A B C mystery leaped into the fullest prominence.

The newspapers were full of nothing else. All sorts of “clues” were reported to have beendiscovered. Arrests were announced to be imminent. There were photographs of every person orplace remotely connected with the murder. There were interviews with anyone who would giveinterviews. There were questions asked in Parliament.

The Andover murder was now bracketed with the other two.

It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the best chance of laying themurderer by the heels. The population of Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateursleuths.

The Daily Flicker had the grand inspiration of using the caption:

HE MAY BE IN YOUR TOWN!

Poirot, of course, was in the thick of things. The letters sent to him were published andfacsimiled. He was abused wholesale for not having prevented the crimes and defended on theground that he was on the point of naming the murderer.

Reporters incessantly badgered him for interviews.

What M. Poirot Says Today.

Which was usually followed by a half column of imbecilities.

M. Poirot Takes Grave View of Situation.

M. Poirot on the Eve of Success.

Captain Hastings, the great friend of M. Poirot, told our SpecialRepresentative….

“Poirot,” I would cry. “Pray believe me. I never said anything of the kind.”

My friend would reply kindly:

“I know, Hastings—I know. The spoken word and the written—there is an astonishing gulfbetween them. There is a way of turning sentences that completely reverses the original meaning.”

“I wouldn’t like you to think I’d said—”

“But do not worry yourself. All this is of no importance. These imbecilities, even, may help.”

“How?”

“Eh bien,” said Poirot grimly. “If our madman reads what I am supposed to have said to theDaily Blague today, he will lose all respect for me as an opponent!”

I am, perhaps, giving the impression that nothing practical was being done in the way ofinvestigations. On the contrary, Scotland Yard and the local police of the various counties wereindefatigable in following up the smallest clues.

Hotels, people who kept lodgings, boarding-houses—all those within a wide radius of thecrimes were questioned minutely.

Hundreds of stories from imaginative people who had “seen a man looking very queer androlling his eyes,” or “noticed a man with a sinister face slinking along,” were sifted to the lastdetail. No information, even of the vaguest character, was neglected. Trains, buses, trams, railwayporters, conductors, bookstalls, stationers—there was an indefatigable round of questions andverifications.

At least a score of people were detained and questioned until they could satisfy the police as totheir movements on the night in question.

The net result was not entirely a blank. Certain statements were borne in mind and noted downas of possible value, but without further evidence they led nowhere.

If Crome and his colleagues were indefatigable, Poirot seemed to me strangely supine. Weargued now and again.

“But what is it that you would have me do, my friend? The routine inquiries, the police makethem better than I do. Always—always you want me to run about like the dog.”

“Instead of which you sit at home like—like—”

“A sensible man! My force, Hastings, is in my brain, not in my feet! All the time, whilst I seemto you idle, I am reflecting.”

“Reflecting?” I cried. “Is this a time for reflection?”

“Yes, a thousand times yes.”

“But what can you possibly gain by reflection? You know the facts of the three cases by heart.”

“It is not the facts I reflect upon—but the mind of the murderer.”

“The mind of a madman!”

“Precisely. And therefore not to be arrived at in a minute. When I know what the murderer islike, I shall be able to find out who he is. And all the time I learn more. After the Andover crime,what did we know about the murderer? Next to nothing at all. After the Bexhill crime? A littlemore. After the Churston murder? More still. I begin to see—not what you would like to see—theoutlines of a face and form but the outlines of a mind. A mind that moves and works in certaindefinite directions. After the next crime—”

“Poirot!”

My friend looked at me dispassionately.

“But, yes, Hastings, I think it is almost certain there will be another. A lot depends on lachance. So far our inconnu has been lucky. This time the luck may turn against him. But in anycase, after another crime, we shall know infinitely more. Crime is terribly revealing. Try and varyyour methods as you will, your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind, and your soul is revealedby your actions. There are confusing indications— sometimes it is as though there were twointelligences at work—but soon the outline will clear itself, I shall know.”

“Who it is?”

“No, Hastings, I shall not know his name and address! I shall know what kind of a man heis….”

“And then?…”

“Et alors, je vais à la pêche.”

As I looked rather bewildered, he went on:

“You comprehend, Hastings, an expert fisherman knows exactly what flies to offer to what fish.

I shall offer the right kind of fly.”

“And then?”

“And then? And then? You are as bad as the superior Crome with his eternal ‘Oh, yes?’ Ehbien, and then he will take the bait and the hook and we will reel in the line….”

“In the meantime people are dying right and left.”

“Three people. And there are, what is it—about 120—road deaths every week?”

“That is entirely different.”

“It is probably exactly the same to those who die. For the others, the relations, the friends—yes,there is a difference, but one thing at least rejoices me in this case.”

“By all means let us hear anything in the nature of rejoicing.”

“Inutile to be so sarcastic. It rejoices me that there is here no shadow of guilt to distress theinnocent.”

“Isn’t this worse?”

“No, no, a thousand times no! There is nothing so terrible as to live in an atmosphere ofsuspicion—to see eyes watching you and the love in them changing to fear—nothing so terrible asto suspect those near and dear to you—It is poisonous—a miasma. No, the poisoning of life for theinnocent, that, at least, we cannot lay at A B C’s door.”

“You’ll soon be making excuses for the man!” I said bitterly.

“Why not? He may believe himself fully justified. We may, perhaps, end by having sympathywith his point of view.”

“Really, Poirot!”

“Alas! I have shocked you. First my inertia—and then my views.”

I shook my head without replying.

“All the same,” said Poirot after a minute or two. “I have one project that will please you—since it is active and not passive. Also, it will entail a lot of conversation and practically nothought.”

I did not quite like his tone.

“What is it?” I asked cautiously.

“The extraction from the friends, relations and servants of the victims of all they know.”

“Do you suspect them of keeping things back, then?”

“Not intentionally. But telling everything you know always implies selection. If I were to say toyou, recount me your day yesterday, you would perhaps reply: ‘I rose at nine, I breakfasted at halfpast, I had eggs and bacon and coffee, I went to my club, etc.’ You would not include: ‘I tore mynail and had to cut it. I rang for shaving water. I spilt a little coffee on the tablecloth. I brushed myhat and put it on.’ One cannot tell everything. Therefore one selects. At the time of a murderpeople select what they think is important. But quite frequently they think wrong!”

“And how is one to get at the right things?”

“Simply, as I said just now, by conversation. By talking! By discussing a certain happening, or acertain person, or a certain day, over and over again, extra details are bound to arise.”

“What kind of details?”

“Naturally that I do not know or I should not want to find out. But enough time has passed nowfor ordinary things to reassume their value. It is against all mathematical laws that in three cases ofmurder there is no single fact nor sentence with a bearing on the case. Some trivial happening,some trivial remark there must be which would be a pointer! It is looking for the needle in thehaystack, I grant—but in the haystack there is a needle—of that I am convinced!”

It seemed to me extremely vague and hazy.

“You do not see it? Your wits are not so sharp as those of a mere servant girl.”

He tossed me over a letter. It was neatly written in a sloping board-school hand.

“Dear Sir,—I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in writing to you. I havebeen thinking a lot since these awful two murders like poor auntie’s. It seems asthough we’re all in the same boat, as it were. I saw the young lady’s picture in thepaper, the young lady, I mean, that is the sister of the young lady that was killedat Bexhill. I made so bold as to write to her and tell her I was coming to Londonto get a place and asked if I could come to her or her mother as I said two headsmight be better than one and I would not want much wages, but only to find outwho this awful fiend is and perhaps we might get at it better if we could say whatwe knew something might come of it.

“The young lady wrote very nicely and said as how she worked in an office andlived in a hostel, but she suggested I might write to you and she said she’d beenthinking something of the same kind as I had. And she said we were in the sametrouble and we ought to stand together. So I am writing, sir, to say I am comingto London and this is my address.

“Hoping I am not troubling you, Yours respectfully,“Mary Drower.”

“Mary Drower,” said Poirot, “is a very intelligent girl.”

He picked up another letter.

“Read this.”

It was a line from Franklin Clarke, saying that he was coming to London and would call uponPoirot the following day if not inconvenient.

“Do not despair, mon ami,” said Poirot. “Action is about to begin.”