ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [30]
How little we knew what the future held.
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 headquarters without loss of time.
As the days succeeded 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 own 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 Mansions, 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