‘What’s the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Every night…?’

‘Drink up your wine,’ ordered Poirot.

The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice:

‘What does it mean? I—I didn’t kill her, did I?’

What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I heard the postman’s knock and automatically I left the room.

What I took out of the letter-box banished all my interest in Donald Fraser’s extraordinary revelations.

I raced back into the sitting-room.

‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘It’s come. The fourth letter.’

He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper-knife and slit it open. He spread it out on the table.

The three of us read it together.

Still no success? Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing? Well, well, isn’t this fun? And where shall we go next for honey?

Poor Mr Poirot. I’m quite sorry for you.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.

We’ve a long way to go still.

Tipperary? No—that comes farther on. Letter T.

The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11th.

So long.

A B C.

Chapter 21

Description of a Murderer

It was at this moment, I think, that what Poirot called the human element began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind being unable to stand unadulterated horror, we had had an interval of normal human interests.

We had, one and all, felt the impossibility of doing anything until the fourth letter should come revealing the projected scene of the D murder. That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of tension.

But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper, the hunt was up once more.

Inspector Crome had come round from the Yard, and while he was still there, Franklin Clarke and Megan Barnard came in.

The girl explained that she, too, had come up from Bexhill.

‘I wanted to ask Mr Clarke something.’

She seemed rather anxious to excuse and explain her procedure. I just noted the fact without attaching much importance to it.

The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.

Crome was not, I think, any too pleased to see the various participants in the drama. He became extremely official and non-committal.

‘I’ll take this with me, M. Poirot. If you care to take a copy of it—’

‘No, no, it is not necessary.’

‘What are your plans, inspector?’ asked Clarke.

‘Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr Clarke.’

‘This time we’ve got to get him,’ said Clarke. ‘I may tell you, inspector, that we’ve formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties.’

Inspector Crome said in his best manner:

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I gather you don’t think much of amateurs, inspector?’

‘You’ve hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr Clarke?’

‘We’ve got a personal axe to grind—and that’s something.’

‘Oh, yes?’