Inspector Crome drew a sheet of paper towards him.

‘Describe this man,’ he said. ‘As quick as you can. There’s no time to be lost.’

‘Medium-sized he were,’ said Mary. ‘And stooped and wore glasses.’

‘His clothes?’

‘A dark suit and a Homburg hat. Rather shabby-looking.’

She could add little to this description.

Inspector Crome did not insist unduly. The telephone wires were soon busy, but neither the inspector nor the Chief Constable were over-optimistic.

Crome elicited the fact that the man, when seen sneaking across the yard, had had no bag or suitcase.

‘There’s a chance there,’ he said.

Two men were despatched to the Black Swan.

Mr Ball, swelling with pride and importance, and Mary, somewhat tearful, accompanied them.

The sergeant returned about ten minutes later.

‘I’ve brought the register, sir,’ he said. ‘Here’s the signature.’

We crowded round. The writing was small and cramped—not easy to read.

‘A. B. Case—or is it Cash?’ said the Chief Constable.

‘A B C,’ said Crome significantly.

‘What about luggage?’ asked Anderson.

‘One good-sized suitcase, sir, full of small cardboard boxes.’

‘Boxes? What was in ’em?’

‘Stockings, sir. Silk stockings.’

Crome turned to Poirot.

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Your hunch was right.’

Chapter 28

Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative

Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard.

The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up.

‘Jacobs speaking, sir. There’s a young fellow come in with a story that I think you ought to hear.’

Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned up with so-called important information about the A B C case. Some of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve—retaining the grosser matter and passing on the residue to his superior.

‘Very well, Jacobs,’ said Crome. ‘Send him along.’

A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector’s door and Sergeant Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall, moderately good-looking young man.

‘This is Mr Tom Hartigan, sir. He’s got something to tell us which may have a possible bearing on the A B C case.’

The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands.

‘Good morning, Mr Hartigan. Sit down, won’t you? Smoke? Have a cigarette?’

Tom Hartigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at what he called in his own mind ‘One of the big-wigs.’ The appearance of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary person!

‘Now then,’ said Crome. ‘You’ve got something to tell us that you think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead.’

Tom began nervously.

‘Of course it may be nothing at all. It’s just an idea of mine. I may be wasting your time.’

Again Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time he had to waste in reassuring people!

‘We’re the best judge of that. Let’s have the facts, Mr Hartigan.’