We all looked at him inquiringly as he paused.

He shook his head, however, and the inspector proceeded.

"I made a thorough search of the room he had occupied. That search puts the matter beyond doubt. I found a block of notepaper similar to that on which the letters were written, a large quantity of hosiery and—at the back of the cupboard where the hosiery was stored—a parcel much the same shape and size but which turned out to contain—not hosiery—but eight new A.B.C. railway guides!"

"Proof positive," said the Assistant Commissioner.

"I've found something else, too," said the inspector—his voice becoming suddenly almost human with triumph. "Only found it this morning, sir. Not had time to report yet. There was no sign of the knife in his room—"

"It would be the act of an imbecile to bring that back with him," remarked Poirot.

"After all, he's not a reasonable human being," remarked the inspector. "Anyway, it occurred to me that he might just possibly have brought it back to the house and then realized the danger of hiding it (as M. Poirot points out) in his room, and have looked about elsewhere. What place in the house would he be likely to select? I got it straightaway. The hall stand—no one ever moves a hall stand. With a lot of trouble I got it moved out from the wall—and there it was!"

"The knife?"

''The knife. Not a doubt of it. The dried blood's still on it."

"Good work, Crome," said the A.C. approvingly. "We only need one thing more now."

"What's that?"

"The man himself."

"We'll get him, sir. Never fear."

The inspector's tone was confident.

"What do you say, M. Poirot?"

Poirot started out of a reverie.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We were saying that it was only a matter of time before we get our man. Do you agree?"

"Oh, that—yes. Without a doubt." His tone was so abstracted that the others looked at him curiously.

"Is there anything worrying you, M. Poirot?"

"There is something that worries me very much. It is the why? The motive?"

"But, my dear fellow, the man's crazy," said the Assistant Commissioner impatiently.

"I understand what M. Poirot means," said Crome, coming graciously to the rescue. "He's quite right. There's got to be some definite obsession. I think we'll find the root of the matter in an intensified inferiority complex. There may be persecution mania, too, and if so he may possibly associate M. Poirot with it. He may have the delusion that M. Poirot is a detective employed on purpose to hunt him down."

"Hm," said the A.C.. "That's the jargon that's talked nowadays. In my day if a man was mad he was mad and we didn't look about for scientific terms to soften it down. I suppose a thoroughly up-to-date doctor would suggest putting a man like A.B.C. in a nursing home, telling him what a fine fellow he was for forty-five days on end and then letting him out as a responsible member of society."

Poirot smiled but did not answer.

The conference broke up.

"Well," said the Assistant Commissioner. "As you say, Crome, pulling him in is only a matter of time."

"We'd have had him before now," said the inspector, "if he wasn't so ordinary-looking. We've worried enough perfectly inoffensive citizens as it is."

"I wonder where he is at this minute," said the Assistant Commissioner.

Mr. Cust stood by a greengrocer's shop.

He stared across the road.

Yes, that was it.

Mrs. Ascher. Newsagent and Tobacconist . . . . In the empty window was a sign.

To Let.

Empty . . . .

Lifeless . . . .

"Excuse me, sir."

The greengrocer's wife, trying to get at some lemons.

He apologized, moved to one side.

Slowly he shuffled away—back towards the main street of the town . . . .

It was difficult—very difficult—now that he hadn't any money left . . . .

Not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and light-headed . . . .

He looked at a poster outside a newsagent's shop.

The A.B.C. Case. Murderer Still at Large. Interview with M. Hercule Poirot.

Mr. Cust said to himself: "Hercule Poirot. I wonder if he knows—"

He walked on again.

It wouldn't do to stand staring at that poster . . . .

He thought: "I can't go on much longer . . . ."

Foot in front of foot . . . what an odd thing walking was . . . .

Foot in front of foot—ridiculous.

Highly ridiculous . . . .

But man was a ridiculous animal anyway . . . .

And he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, was particularly ridiculous . . . .

He always had been . . . .

People had always laughed at him . . . .

He couldn't blame them . . . .

Where was he going? He didn't know. He'd come to the end. He no longer looked anywhere but at his feet.

Foot in front of foot.

He looked up. Lights in front of him. And letters . . . .

Police Station.

"That's funny," said Mr. Cust. He gave a little giggle.

Then he stepped inside. Suddenly, as he did so, he swayed and fell forward.

It was a clear November day. Dr. Thompson and Chief Inspector Japp had come round to acquaint Poirot with the result of the police court proceedings in the case of Rex v. Alexander Bonaparte Cust.

Poirot himself had had a slight bronchial chill which had prevented his attending. Fortunately he had not insisted on having my company.

"Committed for trial," said Japp. "So that's that."

"Isn't it unusual," I asked, "for a defence to be offered at this stage? I thought prisoners always reserved their defence."

"It's the usual course," said Japp. "I suppose young Lucas thought he might rush it through. He's a trier, I will say. Insanity's the only defence possible."

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "With insanity there can be no acquittal. Imprisonment during His Majesty's pleasure is hardly preferable to death."

"I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance," said Japp. "With a first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened. I don't think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway Lucas goes in for originality. He's a young man, and he wanted to hit the public eye."

Poirot turned to Thompson. "What's your opinion, doctor?"

"Of Cust? Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. He's playing the sane man remarkably well. He's an epileptic, of course."

"What an amazing denouement that was," I said.

"His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes—it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A.B.C. had always timed his effects well."

"Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?" I asked.

"His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them."

Dr. Thompson smiled a little. "You mustn't be taken in by that theatrical 'I swear by God' pose. It's my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the murders.''

"When they're as fervent as that they usually do," said Japp.

"As to your question," went on Thompson, "it's perfectly possible for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an action and be entirely unaware of having done so. But it is the general opinion that such an action must 'not be contrary to the will of the person in the waking state.'"