‘Yes—yes—she did…I remember now. She said something about being sorry for these wretched men who go round and try to get orders.’

‘But what’s the connection?’ cried Franklin. ‘That a man came selling stockings proves nothing!’

‘I tell you, my friends, it cannot be coincidence. Three crimes—and every time a man selling stockings and spying out the land.’

He wheeled round on Thora.

‘A vous la parole! Describe this man.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘I can’t…I don’t know how…He had glasses, I think—and a shabby overcoat…’

‘Mieux que c¸a, mademoiselle.’

‘He stooped…I don’t know. I hardly looked at him. He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice…’

Poirot said gravely:

‘You are quite right, mademoiselle. The whole secret of the murders lies there in your description of the murderer—for without a doubt he was the murderer! “He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice.” Yes—there is no doubt about it…You have described the murderer!’

Chapter 22

Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative

Mr Alexander Bonaparte Cust sat very still. His breakfast lay cold and untasted on his plate. A newspaper was propped up against the teapot and it was this newspaper that Mr Cust was reading with avid interest.

Suddenly he got up, paced to and fro for a minute, then sank back into a chair by the window. He buried his head in his hands with a stifled groan.

He did not hear the sound of the opening door. His landlady, Mrs Marbury, stood in the doorway.

‘I was wondering, Mr Cust, if you’d fancy a nice—why, whatever is it? Aren’t you feeling well?’

Mr Cust raised his head from his hands.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing at all, Mrs Marbury. I’m not—feeling very well this morning.’

Mrs Marbury inspected the breakfast tray.

‘So I see. You haven’t touched your breakfast. Is it your head troubling you again?’

‘No. At least, yes…I—I just feel a bit out of sorts.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure. You’ll not be going away today, then?’

Mr Cust sprang up abruptly.

‘No, no. I have to go. It’s business. Important. Very important.’

His hands were shaking. Seeing him so agitated, Mrs Marbury tried to soothe him.

‘Well, if you must—you must. Going far this time?’

‘No. I’m going to’—he hesitated for a minute or two—‘Cheltenham.’

There was something so peculiar about the tentative way he said the word that Mrs Marbury looked at him in surprise.

‘Cheltenham’s a nice place,’ she said conversationally. ‘I went there from Bristol one year. The shops are ever so nice.’

‘I suppose so—yes.’

Mrs Marbury stooped rather stiffly—for stooping did not suit her figure—to pick up the paper that was lying crumpled on the floor.

‘Nothing but this murdering business in the papers nowadays,’ she said as she glanced at the headlines before putting it back on the table. ‘Gives me the creeps, it does. I don’t read it. It’s like Jack the Ripper all over again.’

Mr Cust’s lips moved, but no sound came from them.

‘Doncaster—that’s the place he’s going to do his next murder,’ said Mrs Marbury. ‘And tomorrow! Fairly makes your flesh creep, doesn’t it? If I lived in Doncaster and my name began with a D, I’d take the first train away, that I would. I’d run no risks. What did you say, Mr Cust?’