In the street he consulted his watch.

‘With great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the 7.2. Let us despatch ourselves quickly.’

Chapter 8

The Second Letter

‘Well?’ I demanded eagerly.

We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves. The train, an express, had just drawn out of Andover.

‘The crime,’ said Poirot, ‘was committed by a man of medium height with red hair and a cast in the left eye. He limps slightly on the right foot and has a mole just below the shoulder-blade.’

‘Poirot?’ I cried.

For the moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my friend’s eye undeceived me.

‘Poirot!’ I said again, this time in reproach.

‘Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of doglike devotion and demand of me a pronouncement àla Sherlock Holmes! Now for the truth—I do not know what the murderer looks like, nor where he lives, nor how to set hands upon him.’

‘If only he had left some clue,’ I murmured.

‘Yes, the clue—it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas that he did not smoke the cigarette and leave the ash, and then step in it with a shoe that has nails of a curious pattern. No—he is not so obliging. But at least, my friend, you have the railway guide. The A B C, that is a clue for you!’

‘Do you think he left it by mistake then?’

‘Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints tell us that.’

‘But there weren’t any on it.’

‘That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm June night. Does a man stroll about on such an evening in gloves? Such a man would certainly have attracted attention. Therefore since there are no fingerprints on the A B C, it must have been carefully wiped. An innocent man would have left prints—a guilty man would not. So our murderer left it there for a purpose—but for all that it is none the less a clue. That A B C was bought by someone—it was carried by someone—there is a possibility there.’

‘You think we may learn something that way?’

‘Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this unknown X, obviously prides himself on his abilities. He is not likely to blaze a trail that can be followed straight away.’

‘So that really the ABC isn’t helpful at all.’

‘Not in the sense you mean.’

‘In any sense?’

Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly:

‘The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknown personage. He is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark. But in the very nature of things he cannot help throwing light upon himself. In one sense we know nothing about him—in another sense we know already a good deal. I see his figure dimly taking shape—a man who prints clearly and well—who buys good-quality paper—who is at great needs to express his personality. I see him as a child possibly ignored and passed over—I see him growing up with an inward sense of inferiority—warring with a sense of injustice…I see that inner urge—to assert himself—to focus attention on himself ever becoming stronger, and events, circumstances—crushing it down—heaping, perhaps, more humiliations on him. And inwardly the match is set to the powder train…’