Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

"You think," said Poirot, "that when A.B.C. finds out his mistake he might try again?"

Anderson nodded. "It's a possibility," he said. "Seems a methodical sort of chap, A.B.C.. It will upset him if things don't go according to programme."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"Wish we could get a description of the fellow," said Colonel Anderson irritably. "We're as much in the dark as ever."

"It may come," said Poirot.

"Think so? Well, it's possible. Damn it all, hasn't anyone got eyes in his head?"

"Have patience," said Poirot.

"You seem very confident, M. Poirot. Got any reason for this optimism?''

"Yes, Colonel Anderson. Up to now, the murderer has not made a mistake. He is bound to make one soon."

"If that's all you've got to go on," began the Chief Constable with a snort, but he was interrupted.

"Mr. Ball of the Black Swan is here with a young woman, sir. He reckons he's got summat to say might help you."

"Bring them along. Bring them along. We can do with anything helpful."

Mr. Ball of the Black Swan was a large, slow-thinking, heavily-moving man. He exhaled a strong odour of beer. With him was a plump young woman with round eyes clearly in a state of high excitement.

"Hope I'm not intruding or wasting valuable time," said Mr. Ball in a slow, thick voice. "But this wench, Mary here, reckons she's got something to tell as you ought to know."

Mary giggled in a half-hearted way.

"Well, my girl, what is it?" said Anderson. "What's your name?"

"Mary, sir—Mary Stroud."

"Well, Mary, out with it."

Mary turned her round eyes on her master.

"It's her business to take up hot water to the gents' bedrooms," said Mr. Ball, coming to the rescue. "About half a dozen gentlemen we've got staying. Some for the races and some just commercials."

"Yes, yes," said Anderson impatiently.

"Get on, lass," said Mr. Ball. "Tell your tale. Nothing to be afraid of."

Mary gasped, groaned and plunged in a breathless voice into her narrative.

"I knocked on door and there wasn't no answer, otherwise I wouldn't have gone in leastways not unless gentleman had said 'Come in,' and as he didn't say nothing I went in and he was there washing his hands."

She paused and breathed deeply.

"Go on, my girl," said Anderson.

Mary looked sideways at her master and as though receiving inspiration from his slow nod, plunged on again.

"'It's your hot water, sir,' I said, 'and I did knock,' but 'Oh,' he says, 'I've washed in cold,' he said, and so, naturally, I looks in basin, and oh! God help me, sir, it were all red!"

"Red?" said Anderson sharply.

Ball struck in. "The lass told me that he had his coat off and that he was holding the sleeve of it, and it was all wet—that's right, eh, lass?"

"Yes, sir, that's right, sir."

She plunged on: "And his face, sir, it looked queer, mortal queer it looked. Gave me quite a turn."

"When was this?" asked Anderson sharply.

"About a quarter after five, so near as I can reckon."

"Over three hours ago," snapped Anderson. "Why didn't you come at once?"

"Didn't hear about it at once," said Ball. "Not till news came along as there'd been another murder done. And then the lass she screams out as it might have been blood in the basin, and I asked her what she means, and she tells me. Well, it doesn't sound right to me and I went upstairs myself. Nobody in the room. I asks a few questions and one of the lads in courtyard says he saw a fellow sneaking out that way and by his description it was the right one. So I says to the missus as Mary here had best go to police. She doesn't like the idea, Mary doesn't, and I says I'll come along with her."

Inspector Crome drew a sheet of paper towards him.

"Describe this man," he said. "As quick as you can. There's no time to be lost."

"Medium-sized, he were," said Mary. "And stooped and wore glasses.''

"His clothes?"

"A dark suit and a Homburg hat. Rather shabby-looking."

She could add little to this description.

Inspector Crome did not insist unduly. The telephone wires were soon busy, but neither the inspector nor the Chief Constable were overoptimistic.

Crome elicited the fact that the man, when seen sneaking across the yard, had had no bag or suitcase. "There's a chance there," he said.

Two men were dispatched to the Black Swan.

Mr. Ball, swelling with pride and importance, and Mary, somewhat tearful, accompanied them.

The sergeant returned about ten minutes later.

"I've brought the register, sir," he said. "Here's the signature."

We crowded round. The writing was small and cramped—not easy to read.

"A.B.Case—or is it Cash?" said the Chief Constable.

"A.B.C.," said Crome significantly.

"What about luggage?" asked Anderson.

"One good-sized suitcase, sir, full of small cardboard boxes."

"Boxes? What was in 'em?"

"Stockings, sir. Silk stockings."

Crome turned to Poirot. "Congratulations," he said. "Your hunch was right."

Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard.

The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up.

"Jacobs speaking, sir. There's a young fellow come in with a story that I think you ought to hear."

Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned up with so-called important information about the A.B.C. case. Some of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve—retaining the grosset matter and passing on the residue to his superior.

"Very well, Jacobs," said Crome. "Send him along."

A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector's door and Sergeant Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall, moderately good-looking young man.

"This is Mr. Tom Hartigan, sir. He's got something to tell us which may have a possible bearing on the A.B.C. case."

The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands.

"Good morning, Mr. Hartigan. Sit down, won't you? Smoke? Have a cigarette?"

Tom Hanigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at what he called in his own mind "one of the bigwigs." The appearance of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary person.

"Now then," said Crome. "You've got something to tell us that you think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead."

Tom began nervously. "Of course it may be nothing at all. It's just an idea of mine. I may be wasting your time."

Again, Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time he had to waste in reassuring people!

"We're the best judge of that. Let's have the facts, Mr. Hartigan."

"Well, it's like this, sir. I've got a young lady, you see, and her mother lets rooms. Up Camden Town way. Their second floor back has been let for over a year to a man called Cust."

"Cust—eh?"

"That's fight, sir. A sort of middle-aged bloke what's rather vague and soft—and come down in the world a bit, I should say. Sort of creature who wouldn't hurt a fly, you'd say—and I'd never of dreamed of anything being wrong if it hadn't been for something rather odd."

In a somewhat confused manner and repeating himself once or twice, Tom described his encounter with Mr. Cust at Euston Station and the incident of the dropped ticket.

"You see, sir, look at it how you will, it's funny like. Lily, that's my young lady, sir—she was quite positive that it was Cheltenham he said, and her mother says the same—says she remembers distinctly talking about it the morning he went off. Of course, I didn't pay much attention to it at the time. Lily—my young lady said as how she hoped he wouldn't cop it for this A.B.C. fellow going to Doncaster—and then she says it's rather a coincidence because he was down Churston way at the time of the last crime. Laughing like, I asks her whether he was at Bexhill the time before, and she says she don't know where he was, but he was away at the seaside—that she does know. And then I said to her it would be odd if he was the A.B.C. himself and she said poor Mr. Cust wouldn't hurt a fly—and that was all at the time. We didn't think no more about it. At least, in a sort of way I did, sir, underneath like. I began wondering about this Cust fellow and thinking that, after all, harmless as he seemed, he might be a bit batty."