ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [31]
“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 204¾ miles. 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 6:8 am, and then 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 là?”
“I was packing for you. I thought it would save time.”
“Vous éprouvez trop d’émotion, 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 lookout. All persons whose name begins with C are 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 ingénieux, ça!” 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 window and called up something.
As the train drew out of the station Poirot and I hurried along the corridor and tapped on the door of the inspector’s sleeper.
“You have news—yes?” demanded Poirot.
Crome said quietly:
“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.