Chapter Twenty-One Description of a Murder


          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?"
         "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 speeck 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 ingenieux.Tout de meme c'est bien imagine，ca."
         "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.Thoran 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.
         "Mes enfants，"he said."We must not disperse the strength.We must
     approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts.We must
     look
     within and not without for the truth.We must say to ourselves-each one
     of
     us-what do I know about the murderer?And so we must blind up a
     composite
     picture of the man we are going to seek."
         "We know nothing about him，"sighed Thora Grey helplessly.
         "No，no，mademoiselle.That is not true.Each one of us knows
     something
     about him-if we only knew what it is we know.I am convinced that the
     knowledge is there if we could only get at it."
         Clarke shook his head.
         "We don't know anything-whether he's old or young，fair or
     dark!None of
     us has ever seen him or spoken to him!We've gone over everything we
     all know
     again and again."
         "Not everything!For instance，Miss Grey here told us that she did
     not
     see or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was
     murdered."
         Thora Grey nodded.
         "That's quite right."
         "Is it?Lady Clarke told us，mademoiselle，that from her window she
     saw
     you standing on the front doorstep takling to a man."
         "She saw me talking to a strange man?"The girl seemed genuinely
     astonished.Surely that pure，limpid look could not be anything but
     genuine.
         She shook her head.
         "Lady Clarke must have made a mistake.i never-Oh!"
         The exclamation came suddenly-jerked out of her.A crimson wave
     flooded
     her cheeks.
         "I remember now!How stupid!I'd forgotten all about it.But it
     wasn't
     important.Just one of those men who come round selling stockings-you
     know，
     ex-army people.They're very persistent.I had to get rid of him.I was
     just
     crossing the hall when he came to the door.He spoke to me instead of
     ringing
     but he was quite a harmless sort of person.
         I suppose that's why I forgot about him."
         Poirot was swaying to and fro，his hands clasped to his head.He
     was
     muttering to himself with such vehemence that nobody else said
     anything，but
     at him instead.
         "Stockings，"he was murmuring.
         "Stockings......stockings......stocking......ca
     vient......stockings......stockings......it is the
     motif-yes......three
     months ago......and the other day......and now.Bon Dieu，I have it!"
         He sat upright and fixed me with an imperious eye.
         "You remember，Hastings?Andover The shop.We go upstairs.The
     bedroom.
         On a chair.A pair of new silk stockings.And now I know what it was
     that
     roused my attention two days ago.It was you，mademoiselle-"He turned
     on
     Megan."You spoke of your mother who wept because she had bought your
     sister
     some new stockings on the very day of the murder......"
         He looked round on us all.
         "You see?It is the same motif three times repeated.That cannot be
     coincidence.When mademoiselle spoke I had the feeling that what she
     said
     linked up with something.I know now with what.The words spoken by Mrs
     Ascher's next-door neighbour，Mrs Fowler.About people who were always
     trying
     to sell you things-and she mentioned stockings.Tell me，mademoiselle，
     it is
     true，is it not，that your mother bought those stockings，not at a
     shop，but
     from someone who came to the door?"
         "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 ca，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!"

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