Mr. Cust stood as though turned to stone.
It had come—at last . . . .
He listened.
Were there voices—exclamations—feet mounting the stairs?
He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart . . . .
Then, suddenly, from frozen immobility he leaped into activity.
He slipped on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noise as yet except the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs . . . .
Still no one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way now?
He made up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering with cars and discussing winners and losers.
Mr. Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street.
Round the first corner to the right—then to the left—right again . . . .
Dare he risk the station?
Yes—there would be crowds there—special trains—if luck were on his side he would do it all right . . . .
If only luck were with him . . . .
XXVI. (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)
Inspector Crome was listening to the excited utterances of Mr. Leadbetter.
'I assure you, inspector, my heart misses a beat when I think of it. He must actually have been sitting beside me all through the programme!'
Inspector Crome, completely indifferent to the behaviour of Mr. Leadbetter's heart, said: 'Just let me have it quite clear. This man went out towards the close of the big picture—'
'
'He passed you and in doing so stumbled—'
'He pretended to stumble, I see it now. Then he leaned over the seat in front to pick up his hat. He must have stabbed the poor fellow then.'
'You didn't hear anything? A cry? Or a groan?'
Mr. Leadbetter had heard nothing but the loud, hoarse accents of Katherine Royal, but in the vividness of his imagination he invented a groan.
Inspector Crome took the groan at its face value and bade him proceed. 'And then he went out—'
'Can you describe him?'
'He was a very big man. Six foot at least. A giant.'
'Fair or dark?'
'I—well—I'm not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking fellow.'
'He didn't limp, did he?' asked Inspector Crome.
'Yes—yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half- caste.'
'Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?'
'No. He came in after the big picture began.'
Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr. Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him.
'That's about as bad a witness as you'll find,' he remarked pessimistically. 'He'd say anything with a little leading. It's perfectly clear that he hasn't the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let's have the commissionaire back.'
The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson.
'Now, then, Jameson, let's hear your story.'
Jameson saluted. 'Yes, sir. Close of the performance, sir, I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman's coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead—stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an A.B.C. railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred.'
'Very good, Jameson, you acted very properly.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Did you notice a man leaving the two and fourpennies about five minutes earlier?'
'There were several, sir.'
'Could you describe them?'
'Afraid not, sir. One was Mr. Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn't notice anybody else particular.'
'A pity. That'll do, Jameson.'
'Yes, sir.'
The commissionaire saluted and departed.
'The medical details we've got,' said Colonel Anderson. 'We'd better have the fellow that found him next.'
A police constable came in and saluted.
'Mr. Hercule Poirot's here, sir, and another gentleman.'
Inspector Crome frowned. 'Oh, well,' he said. 'Better have 'em in, I suppose.'
XXVII. The Doncaster Murder
Coming in hard on Poirot's heels, I just caught he fag end of Inspector Crome's remark.
Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried and pressed.
Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the head. 'Glad you've come, Mr. Poirot,' he said politely. I think he guessed that Crome's remark might have reached our ears. 'We've got it in the neck again, you see.'
'Another A.B.C. murder?'
'Yes. Damned audacious bit of work. Man leaned over and stabbed the fellow in the back.'
'Stabbed this time?'
'Yes, varies his methods a bit, doesn't he? Biff on the head, strangling, now a knife. Versatile devil—what? Here are the medical details if you care to see 'em.'
He shoved a paper towards Poirot.
'A.B.C. down on the floor between the dead man's feet,' he added.
'Has the dead man been identified?' asked Poirot.
'Yes. A.B.C.'s slipped up for once—if that's any satisfaction to us. Deceased's a man called Earlsfield—George Earlsfield. Barber by profession.'
'Curious,' commented Poirot.
'May have skipped a letter,' suggested the Colonel.
My friend shook his head doubtfully.
'Shall we have in the next witness?' asked Crome. 'He's anxious to get home.'
'Yes, yes—let's get on.'
A middle-aged gentleman strongly resembling the frog footman in Alice in Wonderland was led in. He was highly excited and his voice was shrill with emotion.
'Most shocking experience I have ever known,' he squeaked. 'I have a weak heart, sir—a very weak heart; it might have been the death of me.'
