ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [60]
“There’s a chance there,” he said.
Two men were despatched 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.”
Twenty-eight
NOT FROM CAPTAIN HASTINGS’ PERSONAL NARRATIVE
I
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 grosser 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 Hartigan 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 right, 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 distinct 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 from 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