"Yes. The next murder. Something must be done. It's got to be stopped."

Clarke came out of the room behind me.

He said: "What's got to be stopped, Thora?"

"These awful murders."

"Yes." His jaw thrust itself out aggressively. "I want to talk to M. Poirot sometime. Is Crome any good?" He shot the words out unexpectedly.

I replied that he was supposed to be a very clever officer. My voice was perhaps not as enthusiastic as it might have been.

"He's got a damned offensive manner," said Clarke. "Looks as though he knows everything—and what does he know? Nothing at all as far as I can make out."

He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "M. Poirot's the man for my money. I've got a plan. But we'll talk of that later."

He went along the passage and tapped at the same door as the doctor had entered.

I hesitated a moment. The girl was staring in front of her. "What are you thinking of, Miss Grey?" She turned her eyes towards me.

"I'm wondering where he is now, the murderer, I mean. It's not twelve hours yet since it happened . . . . Oh! aren't there any real clairvoyants who could see where he is now and what he is doing . . .?"

"The police are searching—" I began.

My commonplace words broke the spell. Thora Grey pulled herself together.

"Yes," she said. "Of course."

In her turn she descended the staircase. I stood there a moment longer turning her words over in my mind. A.B.C.. Where was he now . . . ?

Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust came out with the rest of the audience of the Torquay Pavilion, where he had been seeing and hearing that highly emotional film, Not a Sparrow . . . .

He blinked a little as he came out into the afternoon sunshine and peered round him in that lost-dog fashion that was characteristic of him.

He murmured to himself: "It's an idea."

Newsboys passed along crying out: "Latest . . . Homicidal Maniac at Churston . . ."

They carried placards on which was written: CHURSTON MURDER. LATEST.

Mr. Cust fumbled in his pocket, found a coin, and bought a paper. He did not open it at once.

Entering the Princess Gardens, he slowly made his way to a shelter facing Torquay harbour. He sat down and opened the paper.

There were big headlines:

SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE MURDERED

TERRIBLE TRAGEDY AT CHURSTON

WORK OF A HOMICIDAL MANIAC

And below them:

Only a month ago England was shocked and startled by the murder of a young girl, Elizabeth Barnard, at Bexhill. It may be remembered that an A.B.C. railway guide figured in the case. An A.B.C. was also found by the dead body of Sir Carmichael Clarke, and the police incline to the belief that both crimes were committed by the same person. Can it be possible that a homicidal murderer is going the round of our seaside resorts? . . .

A young man in flannel trousers and a bright blue aertex shirt who was sitting beside Mr. Cust remarked: "Nasty business—eh?"

Mr. Cust jumped. "Oh, very—very—"

His hands, the young man noticed, were trembling so that he could hardly hold the paper.

"You never know with lunatics," said the young man chattily. "They don't always look balmy, you know. Often they seem just the same as you or me . . . ."

"I suppose they do," said Mr. Cust.

"It's a fact. Sometimes it's the war what unhinged them—never been right since."

"I—I expect you're right."

"I don't hold with wars," said the young man.

His companion turned on him. "I don't hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and cancer . . . but they happen all the same!"

"War's preventable," said the young man with assurance.

Mr. Cust laughed. He laughed for some time. The young man was slightly alarmed.

"He's a bit batty himself," he thought.

Aloud he said: "Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war."

"I was," said Mr. Cust. "It—it—unsettled me. My head's never been right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly."

"Oh! I'm sorry about that," said the young man awkwardly.

"Sometimes I hardly know what I'm doing . . . ."

"Really? Well, I must be getting along," said the young man and removed himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began to talk about their health.

Mr. Cust remained with his paper.

He read and reread . . . .

People passed to and fro in front of him. Most of them were talking of the murder . . . .

"Awful . . . do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese? Wasn't the waitress in a Chinese cafй? . . ."

"Actually on the golf links . . ."

"I heard it was on the beach . . ."

"—but, darling, we took out tea to Elbury only yesterday . . ."

"—police are sure to get him . . ."

"—say he may be arrested any minute now . . ."

"—quite likely he's in Torquay . . . that other woman was who murdered the what do you call 'ems . . ."

Mr. Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then he rose and walked sedately along towards the town.

Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes appraised the men they passed.

Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr. Cust . . . .

He sat down at a little table and ordered tea and Devonshire cream . . . .

With the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke the A.B.C. mystery leaped into the fullest prominence.

The newspapers were full of nothing else. All sorts of "clues" were reported to have been discovered. Arrests were announced to be imminent.

There were photographs of every person or place remotely connected with the murder. There were interviews with anyone who would give interviews. There were questions asked in Parliament.

The Andover murder was not bracketed with the other two.

It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the best chance of laying the murderer by the heels. The population of Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateur sleuths.

The Daily Flicker had the grand inspiration of using the caption: He may be in your town!

Poirot, of course, was in the thick of things. The letters sent to him were published and facsimiled. He was abused wholesale for not having prevented the crimes and defended on the ground that he was on the point of naming the murderer.

Reporters incessantly badgered him for interviews.

What M. Poirot Says Today.

Which was usually followed by a half-column of imbecilities.

M. Poirot Takes Grave View of Situation.

M. Poirot on the Eve of Success.

Captain Hastings, the great friend of M. Poirot, told our Special Representative . . .

"Poirot," I would cry. "Pray believe me. I never said anything of the kind."

My friend would reply kindly: "I know, Hastings—I know. The spoken word and the written—there is an astonishing gulf between them. There is a way of turning sentences that completely reverses the original meaning."

"I wouldn't like you to think I'd said—"

"But do not worry yourself. All this is of no importance. These imbecilities, even, may help."