Mr. Cust seemed to consider.
“No—no—not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But she was ambitious—terribly ambitious. That’s why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I’d cut a figure in the world. She was always urging me to assert myself—talking about will-power…saying anyone could be master of his fate…she said I could do anything!”
He was silent for a minute.
“She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I wasn’t the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish things—making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid—afraid of people. I had a bad time at school—the boys found out my Christian names—they used to tease me about them…I did very badly at school—in games and work and everything.”
He shook his head.
“Just as well poor mother died. She’d have been disappointed…Even when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid—it took me longer to learn typing and shorthand than anyone else. And yet I didn’t feel stupid—if you know what I mean.”
He cast a sudden appealing look at the other man.
“I know what you mean,” said Poirot. “Go on.”
“It was just the feeling that everybody else thought me stupid. Very paralyzing. It was the same thing later in the office.”
“And later still in the war?” prompted Poirot.
Mr. Cust’s face lightened up suddenly.
“You know,” he said, “I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the same box. I was as good as anyone else.”
His smile faded.
“And then I got that wound on the head. Very slight. But they found out I had fits…I’d always known, of course, that there were times when I hadn’t been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And of course, once or twice I’d fallen down. But I don’t really think they ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don’t think it was right.”
“And afterwards?” asked Poirot.
“I got a place as a clerk. Of course there was good money to be got just then. And I didn’t do so badly after the war. Of course, a smaller salary…And—I didn’t seem to get on. I was always being passed over for promotion. I wasn’t go-ahead enough. It grew very difficult—really very difficult…. Especially when the slump came. To tell you the truth, I’d got hardly enough to keep body and soul together (and you’ve got to look presentable as a clerk) when I got the offer of this stocking job. A salary and commission!”
Poirot said gently:
“But you are aware, are you not, that the firm whom you say employed you deny the fact?”
Mr. Cust got excited again.
“That’s because they’re in the conspiracy—they must be in the conspiracy.”
He went on:
“I’ve got written evidence—written evidence. I’ve got their letters to me, giving me instructions as to what places to go to and a list of people to call on.”
“Not written evidence exactly—typewritten evidence.”
“It’s the same thing. Naturally a big firm of wholesale manufacturers typewrite their letters.”
“Don’t you know, Mr. Cust, that a typewriter can be identified? All those letters were typed by one particular machine.”
“What of it?”
“And that machine was your own—the one found in your room.”
“It was sent me by the firm at the beginning of my job.”
“Yes, but these letters were received afterwards. So it looks, does it not, as though you typed them yourself and posted them to yourself?”
“No, no! It’s all part of the plot against me!”