(Maynard & Cole were the defending solicitors.)

His tone was polite but not very interested. He seemed absorbed in some inner abstraction.

‘I am Hercule Poirot…’

Poirot said the words very gently…and watched for the effect.

Mr Cust raised his head a little.

‘Oh, yes?’

He said it as naturally as Inspector Crome might have said it—but without the superciliousness.

Then, a minute later, he repeated his remark.

‘Oh, yes?’ he said, and this time his tone was different—it held an awakened interest. He raised his head and looked at Poirot.

Hercule Poirot met his gaze and nodded his own head gently once or twice.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am the man to whom you wrote the letters.’

At once the contact was broken. Mr Cust dropped his eyes and spoke irritably and fretfully.

‘I never wrote to you. Those letters weren’t written by me. I’ve said so again and again.’

‘I know,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you did not write them, who did?’

‘An enemy. I must have an enemy. They are all against me. The police—everyone—all against me. It’s a gigantic conspiracy.’

Poirot did not reply.

Mr Cust said:

‘Everyone’s hand has been against me—always.’

‘Even when you were a child?’

Mr Cust seemed to consider.

‘No—no—not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But she was ambitious—terribly ambitious. That’s why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I’d cut a figure in the world. She was always urging me to assert myself—talking about will-power…saying anyone could be master of his fate…she said I could do anything!’

He was silent for a minute.

‘She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I wasn’t the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish things—making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid—afraid of people. I had a bad time at school—the boys found out my Christian names—they used to tease me about them…I did very badly at school—in games and work and everything.’

He shook his head.

‘Just as well poor mother died. She’d have been disappointed…Even when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid—it took me longer to learn typing and shorthand than anyone else. And yet I didn’t feel stupid—if you know what I mean.’

He cast a sudden appealing look at the other man.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Poirot. ‘Go on.’

‘It was just the feeling that everybody else thought me stupid. Very paralysing. It was the same thing later in the office.’

‘And later still in the war?’ prompted Poirot.

Mr Cust’s face lightened up suddenly.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the same box. I was as good as anyone else.’

His smile faded.

‘And then I got that wound on the head. Very slight. But they found out I had fits…I’d always known, of course, that there were times when I hadn’t been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And of course, once or twice I’d fallen down. But I don’t really think they ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don’t think it was right.’