narrative

mr alexander bonaparte cust sat very still. his breakfast lay cold and untasted on his plate. a newspaper was propped up against the teapot and it was this newspaper that mr cust was reading with avid interest.

suddenly he got up, paced to and fro for a minute, then sank back into a chair by the window. he buried his head in his hands with a stifled groan.

he did not hear the sound of the opening door. his landlady, mrs marbury, stood in the doorway.

‘i was wondering, mr cust, if you’d fancy a nice—why, whatever is it? aren’t you feeling well?’

mr cust raised his head from his hands.

‘nothing. it’s nothing at all, mrs marbury. i’m not—feeling very well this morning.’

mrs marbury inspected the breakfast tray.

‘so i see. you haven’t touched your breakfast. is it your head troubling you again?’

‘no. at least, yes…i—i just feel a bit out of sorts.’

‘well, i’m sorry, i’m sure. you’ll not be going away today, then?’

mr cust sprang up abruptly.

‘no, no. i have to go. it’s business. important. very important.’

his hands were shaking. seeing him so agitated, mrs marbury tried to soothe him.

‘well, if you must—you must. going far this time?’

‘no. i’m going to’—he hesitated for a minute or two—‘cheltenham.’

there was something so peculiar about the tentative way he said the word that mrs marbury looked at him in surprise.

‘cheltenham’s a nice place,’ she said conversationally. ‘i went there from bristol one year. the shops are ever so nice.’

‘i suppose so—yes.’

mrs marbury stooped rather stiffly—for stooping did not suit her figure—to pick up the paper that was lying crumpled on the floor.

‘nothing but this murdering business in the papers nowadays,’ she said as she glanced at the headlines before putting it back on the table. ‘gives me thecreeps, it does. i don’t read it. it’s like jack the ripper all over again.’

mr cust’s lips moved, but no sound came from them.

‘doncaster—that’s the place he’s going to do his next murder,’ said mrs marbury. ‘and tomorrow! fairly makes your flesh creep, doesn’t it? if i lived in doncaster and my name began with a d, i’d take the first train away, that i would. i’d run no risks. what did you say, mr cust?’

‘nothing, mrs marbury—nothing.’

‘it’s the races and all. no doubt he thinks he’ll get his opportunity there. hundreds of police, they say, they’re drafting in and—why, mr cust, you dolook bad. hadn’t you better have a little drop of something? really, now, you oughtn’t to go travelling today.’

mr cust drew himself up.

‘it is necessary, mrs marbury. i have always been punctual in my—engagements. people must have—must have confidence in you! when i have undertaken to do a thing, i carry it through. it is the only way to get on in—in—business.’

‘but if you’re ill?’

‘i am not ill, mrs marbury. just a little worried over—various personal matters. i slept badly. i am really quite all right.’

his manner was so firm that mrs marbury gatheredup the breakfast things and reluctantly left the room.

mr cust dragged out a suitcase from under the bed and began to pack. pyjamas, sponge-bag, spare collar, leather slippers. then unlocking a cupboard, he transferred a dozen or so flattish cardboard boxes about ten inches by seven from a shelf to the suitcase.

he just glanced at the railway guide on the table and then left the room, suitcase in hand.

setting it down in the hall, he put on his hat and overcoat. as he did so he sighed deeply, so deeply that the girl who came out from a room at the side looked at him in concern.

‘anything the matter, mr cust?’

‘nothing, miss lily.’

‘you were sighing so!’

mr cust said abruptly:

‘are you at all subject to premonitions, miss lily? to presentiments?’

‘well, i don’t know that i am, really…of course, there are days when you just feel everything’s going wrong, and days when you feel everything’s going right.’

‘quite,’ said mr cust.

he sighed again.

‘well, goodbye, miss lily. goodbye. i’m sure you’ve been very kind to me always here.’

‘well, don’t say goodbye as though you were going away for ever,’ laughed lily.

‘no, no, of course not.’

‘see you friday,’ laughed the girl. ‘where are you going this time? seaside again.’

‘no, no—er—cheltenham.’

‘well, that’s nice, too. but not quite as nice as torquay. that must have been lovely. i want to go there for my holiday next year. by the way, you must have been quite near where the murder was—the a b c murder. it happened while you were down there, didn’t it?’

‘er—yes. but churston’s six or seven miles away.’

‘all the same, it must have been exciting! why, you may have passed the murderer in the street! you may have been quite near to him!’

‘yes, i may, of course,’ said mr cust with such a ghastly and contorted smile that lily marbury noticed it.

‘oh, mr cust, you don’tlook well.’

‘i’m quite all right, quite all right. goodbye, miss marbury.’

he fumbled to raise his hat, caught up his suitcase and fairly hastened out of the front door.

‘funny old thing,’ said lily marbury indulgently. ‘looks half batty to my mind.’

ii

inspector crome said to his subordinate:

‘get me out a list of all stocking manufacturing firms and circularize them. i want a list of all their agents—you know, fellows who sell on commission and tout for orders.’

‘this the a b c case, sir?’

‘yes. one of mr hercule poirot’s ideas.’ the inspector’s tone was disdainful. ‘probably nothing in it, but it doesn’t do to neglect any chance, however faint.’

‘right, sir. mr poirot’s done some good stuff in his time, but i think he’s a bit gaga now, sir.’

‘he’s a mountebank,’ said inspector crome. ‘always posing. takes in some people. it doesn’t take in me. now then, about the arrangement for doncaster…’

iii

tom hartigan said to lily marbury:

‘saw your old dugout this morning.’

‘who? mr cust?’

‘cust it was. at euston. looking like a lost hen, as usual. i think the fellow’s half loony. he needs someone to look after him. first he dropped his paper and thenhe dropped his ticket. i picked that up—he hadn’t the faintest idea he’d lost it. thanked me in an agitated sort of manner, but i don’t think he recognized me.’

‘oh, well,’ said lily. ‘he’s only seen you passing in the hall, and not very often at that.’

they danced once round the floor.

‘you dance something beautiful,’ said tom.

‘go on,’ said lily and wriggled yet a little closer.

they danced round again.

‘did you say euston or paddington?’ asked lily abruptly. ‘where you saw old cust, i mean?’

‘euston.’

‘are you sure?’

‘of course i’m sure. what do you think?’

‘funny. i thought you went to cheltenham from paddington.’

‘so you do. but old cust wasn’t going to cheltenham. he was going to doncaster.’

‘cheltenham.’

‘doncaster. i know, my girl! after all, i picked up his ticket, didn’t i?’

‘well, he told mehe was going to cheltenham. i’m sure he did.’

‘oh, you’ve got it wrong. he was going to doncaster all right. some people have all the luck. i’ve got a bit on firefly for the leger and i’d love to see it run.’

‘i shouldn’t think mr cust went to race-meetings,he doesn’t look the kind. oh, tom, i hope he won’t get murdered. it’s doncaster the a b c murder’s going to be.’

‘cust’ll be all right. his name doesn’t begin with a d.’

‘he might have been murdered last time. he was down near churston at torquay when the last murder happened.’

‘was he? that’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

he laughed.

‘he wasn’t at bexhill the time before, was he?’

lily crinkled her brows.

‘he was away…yes, i remember he was away…because he forgot his bathing-dress. mother was mending it for him. and she said: “there—mr cust went away yesterday without his bathing-dress after all,” and i said: “oh, never mind the old bathing-dress—there’s been the most awful murder,” i said, “a girl strangled at bexhill.”’

‘well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to the seaside. i say, lily’—his face crinkled up with amusement. ‘what price your old dugout being the murderer himself?’

‘poor mr cust? he wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ laughed lily.

they danced on happily—in their conscious minds nothing but the pleasure of being together.

in their unconscious minds something stirred…