Twenty-three

SEPTEMBER 11TH. DONCASTER

Doncaster!

I shall, I think, remember that 11th of September all my life.

Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St. Leger my mind flies automatically not to horseracing but to murder.

When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most is a sickening sense ofinsufficiency. We were here—on the spot—Poirot, myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, ThoraGrey and Mary Drower, and in the last resort what could any of us do?

We were building on a forlorn hope — on the chance of recognizing amongst a crowd ofthousands of people a face or figure imperfectly seen on an occasion one, two or three monthsback.

The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only person likely to make such arecognition was Thora Grey.

Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her calm, efficient manner was gone.

She sat twisting her hands together, almost weeping, appealing incoherently to Poirot.

“I never really looked at him…Why didn’t I? What a fool I was. You’re depending on me, all ofyou…and I shall let you down. Because even if I did see him again I mightn’t recognize him. I’vegot a bad memory for faces.”

Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however harshly he might seem to criticize the girl,showed nothing but kindness now. His manner was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poirotwas no more indifferent to beauty in distress than I was.

He patted her shoulder kindly.

“Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you should see this man you wouldrecognize him.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, a great many reasons—for one, because the red succeeds the black.”

“What do you mean, Poirot?” I cried.

“I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long run on the black—but in theend red must turn up. It is the mathematical laws of chance.”

“You mean that luck turns?”

“Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler (and the murderer, who is, after all, only asupreme kind of gambler since what he risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligentanticipation. Because he has won he thinks he will continue to win! He does not leave the tables ingood time with his pocket full. So in crime the murderer who is successful cannot conceive thepossibility of not being successful! He takes to himself all the credit for a successful performance—but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned, no crime can be successful without luck!”

“Isn’t that going rather far?” demurred Franklin Clarke.

Poirot waved his hands excitedly.

“No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour. Consider! It might havehappened that someone enters Mrs. Ascher’s shop just as the murderer is leaving. That personmight have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman—and either laidhands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of himto the police that he would have been arrested forthwith.”

“Yes, of course, that’s possible,” admitted Clarke. “What it comes to is that a murderer’s got totake a chance.”

“Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often doesnot know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His senseof proportion is warped. He does not say ‘I have been clever and lucky!’ No, he says only ‘I havebeen clever!’ And his opinion of his cleverness grows and then, mes amis, the ball spins, and therun of colour is over—it drops into a new number and the croupier calls out ‘Rouge.’”

“You think that will happen in this case?” asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown.

“It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal—sooner or later itmust turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning.

Now, instead of everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And he, too,will begin to make mistakes….”

“I will say you’re heartening,” said Franklin Clarke. “We all need a bit of comfort. I’ve had aparalysing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up.”

“It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value,” saidDonald Fraser.

Megan rapped out:

“Don’t be a defeatist, Don.”

Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said:

“What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend’s in this place, and so are we—and after all,you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes.”

I fumed:

“If only we could do something more.”

“You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible.

Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner,but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action.

They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the race course.

There will be plainclothesmen everywhere. There is also the press campaign. The public is fullywarned.”

Donald Fraser shook his head.

“He’ll never attempt it, I’m thinking,” he said more hopefully. “The man would just be mad!”

“Unfortunately,” said Clarke dryly, “he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give itup or will he try to carry it through?”

“In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt to carry out hispromise! Not to do so would be to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow.

That, I may say, is also Dr. Thompson’s opinion. Our hope is that he may be caught in theattempt.”

Donald shook his head again.

“He’ll be very cunning.”

Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that we were to make an all-day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationingourselves at various likely points on the race course.

I say “we.” Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likelyto have set eyes on A B C. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area aspossible I had suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.

Poirot had agreed—I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye.

The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out,apparently lost in thought.

Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted tocount as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot.

“Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did shesay—or hint—I mean—did she suggest at all—?”

He stopped, embarrassed.

Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions.

“Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint, or suggest—what?”

Franklin Clarke got rather red.

“Perhaps you think this isn’t a time for butting in with personal things—”

“Du tout!”

“But I feel I’d like to get things quite straight.”

“An admirable course.”

This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot’s bland face of concealing some inneramusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.

“My sister-in-law’s an awfully nice woman—I’ve been very fond of her always—but of courseshe’s been ill some time—and in that kind of illness—being given drugs and all that—one tends to—well, to fancy things about people!”

“Ah?”

By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot’s eye.

But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it.

“It’s about Thora—Miss Grey,” he said.

“Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?” Poirot’s tone held innocent surprise.

“Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora—Miss Grey is well, rather agoodlooking girl—”

“Perhaps—yes,” conceded Poirot.

“And women, even the best of them, are a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora wasinvaluable to my brother—he always said she was the best secretary he ever had—and he was veryfond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and aboveboard. I mean, Thora isn’t the sort ofgirl—”

“No?” said Poirot helpfully.

“But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be—well—jealous, I suppose. Not that she evershowed anything. But after Car’s death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on—well,Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it’s partly the illness and the morphia and all that—NurseCapstick says so—she says we mustn’t blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head—”

He paused.

“Yes?”

“What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn’t anything in it at all. It’s just a sickwoman’s imaginings. Look here”—he fumbled in his pocket—“here’s a letter I received from mybrother when I was in the Malay States. I’d like you to read it because it shows exactly what termsthey were on.”

Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of theextracts out loud.

“—things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. Iwish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl anda greater comfort to me than I can tell you. I should not have known what to dothrough this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. Shehas an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion forChinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer ormore sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always ahappy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and true affection.

“You see,” said Franklin, “that’s how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter.

What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns herout of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot.”

“Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember.”

“I know. That’s what I keep saying to myself. One mustn’t judge her. All the same, I thoughtI’d show you this. I don’t want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarkemay have said.”

Poirot returned the letter.

“I can assure you,” he said, smiling, “that I never permit myself to get false impressions fromanything anyone tells me. I form my own judgments.”

“Well,” said Clarke, stowing away the letter. “I’m glad I showed it to you anyway. Here comethe girls. We’d better be off.”

As we left the room, Poirot called me back.

“You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?”

“Oh, yes. I shouldn’t be happy staying here inactive.”

“There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings.”

“Well, you’re better at it than I am,” I said.

“You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be acavalier to one of the ladies?”

“That was the idea.”

“And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?”

“Well—I—er—hadn’t considered yet.”

“What about Miss Barnard?”

“She’s rather the independent type,” I demurred.

“Miss Grey?”

“Yes. She’s better.”

“I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently dishonest! All along you had made upyour mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!”

“Oh, really, Poirot!”

“I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere.”

“Oh, all right. I think you’ve got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl.”

“The person you are to escort is Mary Drower—and I must request you not to leave her.”

“But, Poirot, why?”

“Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances.”

I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched, but then I realized that if A B Chad a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot’smovements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very pat fourthstroke.

I promised to be faithful to my trust.

I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window.

In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called afterme:

“Rouge—that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!”