Our arrival there took place about 8 am. A local police officer had met us at the station and had put us au courant of the situation.

Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up—at some time after eleven—it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually followed the same course, it was not long before a search-party discovered his body. Death was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open A B C had been placed face downwards on the dead body.

We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o’clock. The door was opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the tragedy had affected him.

‘Good morning, Deveril,’ said the police officer.

‘Good morning, Mr Wells.’

‘These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.’

‘This way, gentlemen.’ He ushered us into a long dining-room where breakfast was laid. ‘I’ll get Mr Franklin.’

A Minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room.

This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man’s only brother.

He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

Inspector Wells made the introductions.

‘This is Inspector Crome of the CID, Mr Hercule Poirot and—er—Captain Hayter.’

‘Hastings,’ I corrected coldly.

Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was accompanied by a piercing look.

‘Let me offer you some breakfast,’ he said. ‘We can discuss the position as we eat.’

There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and bacon and coffee.

‘Now for it,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position last night—though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A B C railway guide has been deposited beside the body?’

‘That is substantially the position, Mr Clarke.’

‘But why? What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime—even in the most diseased imagination?’

Poirot nodded his head in approval.

‘You go straight to the point, Mr Franklin,’ he said.

‘It’s not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr Clarke,’ said Inspector Crome. ‘That’s a matter for an alienist—though I may say that I’ve had a certain experience of criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to assert one’s personality, to make a splash in the public eye—in fact, to be a somebody instead of a nonentity.’

‘Is that true, M. Poirot?’

Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by Inspector Crome, who frowned.