“I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance,” said Japp. “With a first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened. I don’t think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway, Lucas goes in for originality. He’s a young man, and he wants to hit the public eye.”
Poirot turned to Thompson.
“What’s your opinion, doctor?”
“Of Cust? Upon my soul, I don’t know what to say. He’s playing the sane man remarkably well. He’s an epileptic, of course.”
“What an amazing dénouement that was,” I said.
“His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes—it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A B C has always timed his effects well.”
“Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?” I asked. “His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them.”
Dr. Thompson smiled a little.
“You mustn’t be taken in by that theatrical ‘I swear by God’ pose. It’s my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the murders.”
“When they’re as fervent as that they usually do,” said Crome.
“As to your question,” went on Thompson, “it’s perfectly possible for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an action and be entirely unaware of having done so. But it is the general opinion that such an action must ‘not be contrary to the will of the person in the waking state.’”
He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand mal and petit mal and, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case when a learned person holds forth on his own subject.
“However, I’m against the theory that Cust committed these crimes without knowing he’d done them. You might put that theory forward if it weren’t for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime.”
“And of the letters we have still no explanation,” said Poirot.
“That interests you?”
“Naturally—since they were written to me. And on the subject of the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved.”
“Yes—I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you in any way?”
“None whatever.”
“I might make a suggestion. Your name!”
“My name?”
“Yes. Cust is saddled—apparently by the whim of his mother (Oedipus complex there, I shouldn’t wonder!)—with two extremely bombastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander—the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte—the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary—an adversary, one might say, in his class. Well—there you are—Hercules the strong.”
“Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas….”
“Oh, it’s only a suggestion. Well, I must be off.”
Dr. Thompson went out. Japp remained.
“Does this alibi worry you?” Poirot asked.
“It does a little,” admitted the inspector. “Mind you, I don’t believe in it, because I know it isn’t true. But it is going to be the deuce to break it. This man Strange is a tough character.”
“Describe him to me.”
“He’s a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining engineer. It’s my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing might be settled out of hand.”
“He’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever seen,” I said.
“The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken,” said Poirot thoughtfully.