The A.B.C. Murders (Hercule Poirot 13)

“He sticks to his story and he’s not one to be heckled. He swears by all that’s blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne on the evening of July 24th. He was lonely and wanted someone to talk to. As far as I can see, Cust made an ideal listener. He didn’t interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They’ll play for hours. That’s what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn’t hear of it—swore they’d keep it up until midnight at least. And that’s what they did do. They separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of the 25th he couldn’t very well be strangling Betty Barnard on the beach at Bexhill between midnight and one o’clock.”

“The problem certainly seems insuperable,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Decidedly, it gives one to think.”

“It’s given Crome something to think about,” said Japp.

“This man Strange is very positive?”

“Yes. He’s an obstinate devil. And it’s difficult to see just where the flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn’t Cust—why on earth should he say his name is Cust? And the writing in the hotel register is his all right. You can’t say he’s an accomplice—homicidal lunatics don’t have accomplices! Did the girl die later? The doctor was quite firm in his evidence, and anyway it would take some time for Cust to get out of the hotel at Eastbourne without being seen and get over to Bexhill—about fourteen miles away—”

“It is a problem—yes,” said Poirot.

“Of course, strictly speaking, it oughtn’t to matter. We’ve got Cust on the Doncaster murder—the bloodstained coat, the knife—not a loophole there. You couldn’t bounce any jury into acquitting him. But it spoils a pretty case. He did the Doncaster murder. He did the Churston murder. He did the Andover murder. Then, by hell, he must have done the Bexhill murder. But I don’t see how!”

He shook his head and got up.

“Now’s your chance, M. Poirot,” he said. “Crome’s in a fog. Exert those cellular arrangements of yours I used to hear so much about. Show us the way he did it.”

Japp departed.

“What about it, Poirot?” I said. “Are the little grey cells equal to the task?”

Poirot answered my question by another.

“Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?”

“Well—yes, practically speaking. We’ve got the man. And we’ve got most of the evidence. It’s only the trimmings that are needed.”

Poirot shook his head.

“The case is ended! The case! The case is the man, Hastings. Until we know all about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever. It is not victory because we have put him in the dock!”

“We know a fair amount about him.”

“We know nothing at all! We know where he was born. We know he fought in the war and received a slight wound in the head and that he was discharged from the army owing to epilepsy. We know that he lodged with Mrs. Marbury for nearly two years. We know that he was quiet and retiring—the sort of man that nobody notices. We know that he invented and carried out an intensely clever scheme of systemized murder. We know that he made certain incredibly stupid blunders. We know that he killed without pity and quite ruthlessly. We know, too, that he was kindly enough not to let blame rest on any other person for the crimes he committed. If he wanted to kill unmolested—how easy to let other persons suffer for his crimes. Do you not see, Hastings, that the man is a mass of contradictions? Stupid and cunning, ruthless and magnanimous—and that there must be some dominating factor that reconciles his two natures.”

“Of course, if you treat him like a psychological study,” I began.

“What else has this case been since the beginning? All along I have been groping my way—trying to get to know the murderer. And now I realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at all! I am at sea.”

“The lust for power—” I began.

“Yes—that might explain a good deal…But it does not satisfy me. There are things I want to know. Why did he commit these murders? Why did he choose those particular people—?”

“Alphabetically—” I began.

“Was Betty Barnard the only person in Bexhill whose name began with a B? Betty Barnard—I had an idea there…It ought to be true—it must be true. But if so—”

He was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him.

As a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep.

I woke to find Poirot’s hand on my shoulder.

“Mon cher Hastings,” he said affectionately. “My good genius.”

I was quite confused by this sudden mark of esteem.

“It is true,” Poirot insisted. “Always—always—you help me—you bring me luck. You inspire me.”