Chapter Thirty-Three Alexander Bonaparte Cust


          I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot
     and
     that strange man-Alexander Bonaparte Cust.Owing to his association
     with the
     police and the peculiar circumstances of the case，Poirot had no
     difficulty
     in obtaining a Home Office order-but that order did not extend to me，
     and in
     any case it was essential，from Poirot's point of view，that that
     interview
     should be absolutely private-the two men face to face.
         He has given me，however，such a detailed account of what passed
     between
     them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as though I
     had
     actually been present.
         Mr Cust seemed to have shrunk.His stoop was more apparent.His
     fingers
     plucked vaguely at his coat.
         For some time，I gather，Poirot did not speak.
         He sat and looked at the man opposite him.
         The atmosphere became restful-soothing-full of infinite
     leisure......
         It must have been a dramatic moment-this meeting of the two
     adversaries
     in the long drama.In Poirot's place I should have felt the dramatic
     thrill.
         Poirot，however，is nothing if not matter-of-fact.He was absorbed
     in
     producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him.
         At last he said gently:
         "Do you know who I am?"
         The other shook his head.
         "No-no-I can't say I do.Unless you are Mr Lucas's-what do they
     call
     it?-junior.Or perhaps you come from Mr.Maynard?"
         (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 gigantic conspiracy."
         Poirot did not reply.
         Mr Cust said:
         "Everyone's had 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."
         "And afterwards?"asked Poirot.
         "I got a place as a clerk.Of course there was good money to be got
     just
     then.And I didn't do so badly after the war.Of course，a smaller
     salary......And-I didn't seem to get on.I was always being passed over
     for
     promotion.I wasn't go-ahead enough.It grew very difficult-really very
     difficult.......Especially when the slump came.To tell you the truth，
     I'd
     got hardly enough to keep body and sould together (and you've got to
     look
     presentable as a clerk)when I got the offer of this stocking job.A
     salary
     and commission!"
         Poirot said gently:
         "But you are aware，are you not，that the firm whom you say
     employed you
     deny the fact?"
         Mr Cust got excited again.
         "That's because they're in the conspiracy-they must be in the
     conspiracy."
         He went on:
         "I've got written evidence-written evidence.I've got their letters
     to me，
     giving me instructions as to what places to go to and a list of people
     to
     call on."
         "Not written evidence exactly-typewritten evidence."
         "It's the same thing.Naturally a big firm of wholesale
     manufacturers
     typewrite their letters."
         "Don't you know，Mr Cust，that a typewriter can be identified?All
     those
     letters were typed by one particular machine."
         "What of it?"
         "And that machine was your own-the one found in your room."
         "It was sent me by the firm at the beginning of my job."
         "Yes，but these letters were received afterwards.So it looks，does
     it
     not，as though you typed them yourself and posted them to yourself?"
         "No，no!It's all part of the plot against me!"
         He added suddenly:
         "Besides，their letters would be written on the same kind of
     machine."
         "The same kind，but not the same actual machine."
         Mr Cust repeated obstinately:
         "It's a plot!"
         "And the A B C's that were found in the cupboard?"
         "I know nothing about them.I thought they were all stockings."
         "Why did you tick off the name of Mrs Ascher in that first list of
     people in Andover?"
         "Because I decided to start with her.One must begin somewhere."
         "Yes，that is true.One must begin somewhere."
         "I don't mean that!"said Mr Cust."I don't mean what you mean!"
         "But you know what I mean?"
         Mr Cust said nothing.He was trembling.
         "I didn't do it!"he said."I'm perfectly innocent!It's all a
     mistake.
         Why，look at that second crime-that Bexhill one.I was playing
     dominoes
     at Eastbourne.You've got to admit that!"
         His voice was triumphant.
         "Yes，"said Poirot.His voice was meditative-silky."But it's so
     easy，
     isn't it，to make a mistake of one day?And if you're an obstinate，
     positive
     man，like Mr Strange，you'll never consider the possibility of having
     been
     mistaken.What you've said you'll stick to......He's that kind of
     man.And the
     hotel register-it's very easy to put down the wrong date when you're
     signing
     it-probably no one will notice it at the time."
         "I was playing dominoes that evening!"
         "You play dominoes very well，I believe."
         Mr Cust was a little flurried by this.
         "I-I-well，I believe I do."
         "It is a very absorbing game，is it not，with a lot of skill in
     it?"
         "Oh，there's a lot of play in it-a lot of play!We used to play a
     lot in
     the city，in the lunch hour.You'd be surprised the way total strangers
     come
     together over a game of dominoes."
         He chuckled.
         "I remember one man-I've never forgotten him because of something
     he
     told me-we just got talking over a cup of coffee，and we started
     dominoes.Well，I felt after twenty minutes that I'd known that man all
     my
     life."
         "What was it that he told you?"asked Poirot.
         Mr Cust's face clouded over.
         "It gave me a turn-a nasty turn.Talking of your fate being written
     in
     your hand，he was.And he showed me his hand and the lines that showed
     he'd
     have two near escapes of being drowned-and he had had two near
     escapes.And
     then he looked at mine and he told me some amazing things.Said I was
     going
     to be one of the most celebrated men in England before I died.Said the
     whold
     country would be talking about me.But he said-he said......"
         Mr Cust broke down-faltered......
         "Yes?"
         Poirot's gaze held a quiet magnetism.Mr Cust looked at him，looked
     away，
     then back again like a fascinated rabbit.
         "He said-he said-that it looked as though I might die a violent
     death-and he laughed and said:"Almost looks as though you might die on
     the
     scaffold，"and then he laughed and said that was only his joke......"
         He was silent suddenly.His eyes left Poirot's face-they ran from
     side to
     side......
         "My head-I suffer very badly with my head......the headaches are
     something cruel sometimes.And then there are times when I don't
     know-when I
     don't know......"
         He broke down.
         Poirot leant forward.He spoke very quietly but with great
     assurance.
         "But you do know，don't you，"he said，"that you committed the
     murders?"
         Mr Cust looked up.His glance was quite simple and direct.All
     resistance
     had left him.He looked strangely at peace.
         "Yes，"he said，"I know."
         "But-I am right，am I not?-you don't know why you did them?"
         Mr Cust shook his head.
         "No，"he said."I don't."

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