‘I fancy your own task isn’t going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old A B C has done you again.’

Crome, I noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed.

‘I don’t fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time,’ he said. ‘The fool has given us ample warning. The 11th isn’t till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard—that’s so much to the good. Also, we’ll draft police into the town on a fairly large scale. That’s already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man—and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!’

Clarke said quietly:

‘It’s easy to see you’re not a sporting man, inspector.’

Crome stared at him.

‘What do you mean, Mr Clarke?’

‘Man alive, don’t you realize that on next Wednesday the St Leger is being run at Doncaster?’

The inspector’s jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar ‘Oh, yes?’ Instead he said:

‘That’s true. Yes, that complicates matters…’

‘A B C is no fool, even if he is a madman.’

We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the race-course—the passionate, sport-loving English public—the endless complications.

Poirot murmured:

‘C’est ingénieux. Tout de même c’est bien imaginé, c¸a.’

‘It’s my belief,’ said Clarke, ‘that the murder will take place on the race-course—perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.’

For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought…

Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him.

‘The St Leger is a complication,’ he allowed. ‘It’s unfortunate.’

He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered.

She said anxiously:

‘The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?’

It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her golden head.

It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer.

‘Doncaster—and on the day of the St Leger.’

We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated the plans we had made tentatively beforehand.

A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes do?

As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest.