Chapter Fourteen The Third Letter


          I well remember the arrival of A B C's third letter.
         I may say that all precautions had been taken so that when A B C
     resumed
     his campaign there should be no unnecessary delays.A young sergeant
     from
     Scotland Yard was attached to the house and if Poirot and I were out
     it was
     his duty to open anything that came so as to be able to communicate
     with
     headquaters without loss of time.
         As the days succedded each other we had all grown more and more on
     edge.
         Inspector Crome's aloof and superior manner grew more and more
     aloof and
     superior as one by one his more hopeful clues petered out.The vague
     descriptions of men said to have been seen with Betty Barnard proved
     useless.Various cars noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill and Cooden
     were
     either accounted for or could not be traced.The investigation of
     purchases
     of A B C railway guides caused inconvenience and trouble to heaps of
     innocent people.
         As for ourselves，each time the postman's familiar rat-tat sounded
     on
     the door，our hearts beat faster with apprehension.At least that was
     true
     for me，and I cannot but believe that Poirot experienced the same
     sensation.
         He was，I knew，deeply unhappy over the case.He refused to leave
     London，
     preferring to be on the spot in case of emergency.In those hot dog
     days even
     his moustaches drooped-neglected for once by their owner.
         It was on a Friday that A B C's third letter came.The evening post
     arrived about ten o'clock.
         When we heard the familiar step and the brisk rat-tat，I rose and
     went
     along to the box.There were four or five letters，I remember.The last
     one I
     looked at was addressed in printed characters.
         "Poirot，"I cried......My voice died away.
         "It has come?Open it，Hastings.Quickly.Every moment may be
     needed.We
     must make our plans."
         I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me with
     untidiness)and extracted the printed sheet.
         

         "Read it，"said Poirot.
         I read aloud:
         Poor Mr Poirot，-Not so good at these little criminal matters as
     you
     thought yourself，are you?Rather past your prime，perhaps?Let us see
     if you
     can do any better this time.This time it's an easy one.Churston on the
     30th.Do try and do something about it!It's a bit dull having it all my
     won
     way，you know!
         Good hunting.Ever yours，A B C "Churston，"I said，jumping to our
     own
     copy of an A B C."Let's see where it is."
         "Hastings，"Poirot's voice came sharply and interrupted me."When
     was
     that letter written?Is there a date on it?"
         I glanced at the letter in my hand.
         "Written on the 27th，"I announced.
         "Did I hear you aright，Hastings?Did he give the date of the
     murder as
     the 30th?"
         "That's right.Let me see，that's-""Bon Dieu，Hastings-do you not
     realise?Today is the 30th."
         His eloquent hand pointed to the calendar on the wall.I caught up
     the
     daily paper to confirm it.
         "But why-how-"I stammered.
         Poirot caught up the torn envelope from the floor.Something
     unusual
     about the address had registered itself vaguely in my brain，but I had
     been
     too anxious to get at the contents of the letter to pay more than
     fleeting
     attention to it.
         Poirot was at the time living in Whitehaven Mansions.The address
     ran:
         M.Hercule Poirot，Whitehorse Mansion，across the corner was
     scrawled:"Not known at Whitehorse Mansions，EC1，nor at Whitehorse
     Court-try
     Whitehaven Mansions."
         "Mon Dieu!"murmured Poirot."Does even chance aid this madman?
         Vite-vite-we must get on to Scotland Yard."
         A minute or two later we were speaking to Crome over the wire.For
     once
     the self-controlled inspector did not reply "Oh，yes?"Instead a
     quickly
     stifled curse came to his lips.He heard what we had to say，then rang
     off in
     order to get a trunk connection to Churston as rapidly as possible.
         "C'est trop tard，"murmured Poirot.
         "You can't be sure of that，"I argued，though without any great
     hope.
         He glanced at the clock.
         "Twenty minutes past ten?An hour and forty minutes to go.Is it
     likely
     that A B C will have held his hand so long?"
         I opened the railway guide I had previously taken from its shelf.
         "Churston，Devon，"I read，"from Paddington 20miles.Population
     656.It
     sounds a fairly small place.Surely our man will be bound to be noticed
     there."
         "Even so，another life will have been taken，"murmured
     Poirot."What are
     the trains?I imagine train will be quicker than car."
         "There's a midnight train-sleeping car to Newton Abbot-gets there
     6.8am，
     and them Churston at 7.15."
         "That is from Paddington?"
         "Paddington，yes."
         "We will take that，Hastings."
         "You'll hardly have time to get news before we start."
         "If we receive bad news tonight or tomorrow morning does it matter
     which?"
         "There's something in that."
         I put a few things together in a suitcase while Poirot once more
     rang up
     Scotland Yard.
         A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and demanded:
         "Mais qu'est ce que vous faites la?"
         "I was packing for you.I thought it would save time."
         "Vous eprouvez trop d'emotion，Hastings.It affects your hands and
     your
     wits.Is that a way to fold a coat?And regard what you have done to my
     pyjamas.If the hairwash breaks what will befall them?"
         "Good heavens，Poirot，"I cried，"this is a matter of life and
     death.
         What does it matter what happens to our clothes?"
         "You have no sense of proportion，Hastings.We cannot catch a train
     earlier than the time that it leaves，and to ruin one's clothes will
     not be
     the least helpful in preventing a murder."
         Taking his suitcase from me firmly，he took the packing into his
     own
     hands.
         He explained that we were to take the letter and envelope to
     Paddington
     with us.Someone from Scotland Yard would meet us there.
         When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was
     Inspector
     Crome.
         He answered Poirot's look of inquiry.
         "No news as yet.All men available are on the look-out.All persons
     whose
     name begins with Care being warned by phone when possible.There's just
     a
     chance.Where's the letter?"
         Poirot gave it to him.
         He examined it，swearing softly under his breath.
         "Of all the damned luck.The stars in their courses fight for the
     fellow."
         "You don't think，"I suggested，"that it was done on purpose?"
         Crome shook his head.
         "No.He's got his rules-crazy rules-and abides by them.Fair
     warning.He
     makes a point of that.That's where his boastfulness comes in.I wonder
     now-I'd almost bet the chap drinks White Horse Whisky."
         "Ah，c'est ingenieux，ca!"said Poirot，driven to admiration in
     spite of
     himself."He prints the letter and the bottle is in front of him."
         "That's the way of it，"said Crome."We've all of us done much the
     same
     thing one time or another，unconsciously copied something that's just
     under
     the eye.He started off White and went on horse instead of haven......"
         The inspector，we found，was also travelling by the train.
         "Even if by some unbelievable luck nothing happened，Churston is
     the
     place to be.Our murderer is there，or has been there today.One of my
     men is
     on the phone here up to the last minute in case anything comes
     through."
         Just as the train was leaving the station we saw a man running
     down the
     platform.He reached the inspector's sleeper.
         "You have news-yes?"demanded Poirot.
         Crome said quickly:
         "It's about as bad as it can be.Sir Carmichael Clarke has been
     found
     with his head bashed in."
         Sir Carmichael Clarke，although his name was not very well known
     to the
     general public，was a man of some eminence.He had been in his time a
     very
     well-known throat specialist.Retiring from his profession very
     comfortably
     off，he had been able to indulge what had been one of the chief
     passions of
     his life-a collection of Chinese pottery and porcelain.A few years
     later，
     inheriting a considerable fortune from an elderly uncle，he had been
     able to
     indulge his passion to the full，and he was now the possessor of one
     of the
     best-known colletions of Chinese art.He was married but had no
     children and
     lived in a house he had built for himself near the Devon coast，only
     coming
     to London on rare occasions such as when some important sale was on.
         It did not require much reflection to realize that his death，
     following
     that of the young and pretty Betty Barnard，would provide the best
     newspaper
     sensation for years.The fact that it was August and that the papers
     were
     hard up for subject matter would make matters worse.
         "Eh bien，"said Poirot."It is possible that publicity may do what
     private efforts have failed to do.The whole country now will be
     looking for
     A B C."
         "Unfortunately，"I said，"that's what he wants."
         "True.But it may，all the same，be his undoing.Gratified by
     success，he
     may become careless......That is what I hope-that he may be drunk with
     his
     own cleverness."
         "How odd all this is，Poirot，"I exclaimed，struck suddenly by an
     idea.
         "Do you know，this is the first crime of this kind that you and I
     have
     worked on together?All our murders have been-well，private murders，so
     to
     speak."
         "You are quite right，my friend.Always，up to now，it has fallen
     to our
     lot to work from the inside.It has been the history of the victim that
     was
     important.The important points have been:"Who benefited by the death?
         What opportunities had those around him to commit the crime?"It
     has
     always been the "crime intime."Here，for the first time in our
     association，
     it is cold-blooded，impersonal murder.Murder from the outside."
         I shivered.
         "It's rather horrible......"
         "Yes.I felt from the first，when I read the original letter，that
     there
     was something wrong-misshapen......"
         He made an impatient gesture.
         "One must not give way to the nerves......This is no worse than
     any
     ordinary crime......"
         "It is......It is......"
         "Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take
     the
     life of someone near and dear to you-someone who trust and believes in
     you，
     perhaps?"
         "It's worse because it's mad......"
         "No，Hastings.It is not worse.It is only more difficult."
         "No，no，I do not agree with you.It's infinitely more
     frightening."
         Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
         "It should be easier to discover because it is mad.A crime
     committed by
     someone shrewd and sane would be far more complicated.Here，if one
     could but
     hit on the idea......This alphabetical business，it has
     discrepancies.If I
     could once see the idea-then everything would be clear and
     simple......"
         He sighed and shook his head.
         "These crimes must not go on.Soon，soon，I must see the
     truth......Go，
     Hastings.Get some sleep.There will be much to do tommorrow."

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