‘I—I expect you’re right.’

‘I don’t hold with wars,’ said the young man.

His companion turned on him.

‘I don’t hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and cancer…but they happen all the same!’

‘War’s preventable,’ said the young man with assurance.

Mr Cust laughed. He laughed for some time.

The young man was slightly alarmed.

‘He’s a bit batty himself,’ he thought.

Aloud he said:

‘Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war.’

‘I was,’ said Mr Cust. ‘It—it—unsettled me. My head’s never been right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry about that,’ said the young man awkwardly.

‘Sometimes I hardly know what I’m doing…’

‘Really? Well, I must be getting along,’ said the young man and removed himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began to talk about their health.

Mr Cust remained with his paper.

He read and reread…

People passed to and fro in front of him.

Most of them were talking of the murder…

‘Awful…do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese? Wasn’t the waitress in a Chinese café…’

‘Actually on the golf links…’

‘I heard it was on the beach…’

‘—but, darling, we took our tea to Elbury only yesterday…’

‘—police are sure to get him…’

‘—say he may be arrested any minute now…’

‘—quite likely he’s in Torquay…that other woman was who murdered the what do you call ’ems…’

Mr Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then he rose and walked sedately along towards the town.

Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes appraised the men they passed.

Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr Cust…

He sat down at a little table and ordered tea and Devonshire cream…

Chapter 17

Marking Time

With the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke the A B C mystery leaped into the fullest prominence.

The newspapers were full of nothing else. All sorts of ‘clues’ were reported to have been discovered. Arrests were announced to be imminent. There were photographs of every person or place remotely connected with the murder. There were interviews with anyone who would give interviews. There were questions asked in ParlI ament.

The Andover murder was now bracketed with the other two.

It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the best chance of laying the murderer by the heels. The population of Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateur sleuths.

The Daily Flicker had the grand inspiration of using the caption:

HE MAY BE IN YOUR TOWN!

Poirot, of course, was in the thick of things. The letters sent to him were published and facsimiled. He was abused wholesale for not having prevented the crimes and defended on the ground that he was on the point of naming the murderer.

Reporters incessantly badgered him for interviews.

What M. Poirot Says Today.