ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [52]
III
Tom Hartigan said to Lily Marbury:
“Saw your old dugout this morning.”
“Who? Mr. Cust?”
“Cust it was. At Euston. Looking like a lost hen, as usual. I think the fellow’s half loony. He needs someone to look after him. First he dropped his paper and then he dropped his ticket. I picked that up—he hadn’t the faintest idea he’d lost it. Thanked me in an agitated sort of manner, but I don’t think he recognized me.”
“Oh, well,” said Lily. “He’s only seen you passing in the hall, and not very often at that.”
They danced once round the floor.
“You dance something beautiful,” said Tom.
“Go on,” said Lily and wriggled yet a little closer.
They danced round again.
“Did you say Euston or Paddington?” asked Lily abruptly. “Where you saw old Cust, I mean?”
“Euston.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. What do you think?”
“Funny. I thought you went to Cheltenham from Paddington.”
“So you do. But old Cust wasn’t going to Cheltenham. He was going to Doncaster.”
“Cheltenham.”
“Doncaster. I know, my girl! After all, I picked up his ticket, didn’t I?”
“Well, he told me he was going to Cheltenham. I’m sure he did.”
“Oh, you’ve got it wrong. He was going to Doncaster all right. Some people have all the luck. I’ve got a bit on Firefly for the Leger and I’d love to see it run.”
“I shouldn’t think Mr. Cust went to race meetings, he doesn’t look the kind. Oh, Tom, I hope he won’t get murdered. It’s Doncaster the A B C murder’s going to be.”
“Cust’ll be all right. His name doesn’t begin with a D.”
“He might have been murdered last time. He was down near Churston at Torquay when the last murder happened.”
“Was he? That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
He laughed.
“He wasn’t at Bexhill the time before, was he?”
Lily crinkled her brows.
“He was away…Yes, I remember he was away…because he forgot his bathing-dress. Mother was mending it for him. And she said: ‘There—Mr. Cust went away yesterday without his bathing-dress after all,’ and I said: ‘Oh, never mind the old bathing-dress—there’s been the most awful murder,’ I said, ‘a girl strangled at Bexhill.’”
“Well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to the seaside. I say, Lily”—his face crinkled up with amusement. “What price your old dugout being the murderer himself?”
“Poor Mr. Cust? He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” laughed Lily.
They danced on happily—in their conscious minds nothing but the pleasure of being together.
In their unconscious minds something stirred….
Twenty-three
SEPTEMBER 11TH. DONCASTER
Doncaster!
I shall, I think, remember that 11th of September all my life.
Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St. Leger my mind flies automatically not to horse racing but to murder.
When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most is a sickening sense of insufficiency. We were here—on the spot—Poirot, myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, Thora Grey and Mary Drower, and in the last resort what could any of us do?
We were building on a forlorn hope—on the chance of recognizing amongst a crowd of thousands of people a face or figure imperfectly seen on an occasion one, two or three months back.
The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only person likely to make such a recognition was Thora Grey.
Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her calm, efficient manner was gone. She sat twisting her hands together, almost weeping, appealing incoherently to Poirot.
“I never really looked at him…Why didn’t I? What a fool I was. You’re depending on me, all of you…and I shall let you down. Because even if I did see him again I mightn’t recognize him. I’ve got a bad memory for faces.”
Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however harshly he might seem to criticize the girl, showed nothing but kindness now. His manner was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poirot was no more indifferent to beauty in distress than I was.
He patted her shoulder kindly.
“Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you should see this man you would recognize him.”
“How do