The A.B.C. Murders

He rose and shook hands.

'You may be quite satisfied you did the right thing in coming to us. Good morning, Mr. Hartigan.'

'Well, sir?' asked Jacobs, re-entering the room a few minutes later. 'Think it's the goods?'

'It's promising,' said Inspector Crome. 'That is, if the facts are as the boy stated them. We've had no luck with the stocking manufacturers yet. It was time we got hold of something. By the way, give me that file of the Churston case.'

He spent some minutes looking for what he wanted. 'Ah, here it is. It's amongst the statements made to the Torquay police. Young man of the name of Hill. Deposes he was leaving Torquay Pavilion after the film Not a Sparrow and noticed a man behaving queerly. He was talking to himself. Hill heard him say, 'That's an idea.' Not a Sparrow—that's the film that was on at the Regal in Doncaster?'

'Yes, sir.'

'There may be something in that. Nothing to it at the time—but it's possible that the idea of the modus operandi for his next crime occurred to our man then. We've got Hill's name and address, I see. His description of the man is vague but it links up well enough with the descriptions of Mary Stroud and this Tom Hartigan . . . .'

He nodded thoughtfully.

'We're getting warm,' said Inspector Crome—rather inaccurately, for he himself was always slightly chilly.

'Any instructions, sir?'

'Put on a couple of men to watch this Camden Town address, but I don't want our bird frightened. I must have a word with the A.C.. Then I think it would be as well if Cust was brought along here and asked if he'd like to make a statement. It sounds as though he's quite ready to get rattled.'

Outside Tom Hartigan had rejoined Lily Marbury who was waiting for him on the Embankment.

'All right, Tom?' Tom nodded.

'I saw Inspector Crome himself. The one who's in charge of the case.'

'What's he like?'

'A bit quiet and la-di-da—not my idea of a detective.'

'That's Lord Trenchard's new kind,' said Lily with respect. 'Some of them are ever so grand. Well, what did he say?' Tom gave her a brief resume of the interview.

'So they think as it really was him?'

'They think it might be. Anyway, they'll come along and ask him a question or two.'

'Poor Mr. Cust.'

'It's no good saying poor Mr. Cust, my girl. If he's A.B.C., he committed four terrible murders.'

Lily sighed and shook her head. 'It does seem awful,' she observed.

'Well, now you're going to come and have a bite of lunch, my girl. Just you think that if we're right I expect my name will be in the papers!''

'Oh, Tom, will it?'

'Rather. And yours, too. And your mother's. And I dare say you'll have your picture in, too.'

'Oh, Tom.' Lily squeezed his arm in an ecstasy.

'And in the meantime, what do you say to a bite at the Corner House?'

Lily squeezed tighter.

'Come on then!'

'All right—half a minute. I must just telephone from the station.'

'Who to?'

'A girl I was going to meet.' She slipped across the road, and rejoined him three minutes later, looking rather flushed.

'Now then, Tom.' She slipped her arm in his. 'Tell me more about Scotland Yard. You didn't see the other one there?'

'What other one?'

'The Belgian gentleman. The one that A.B.C. writes to always.'

'No. He wasn't there.'

'Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside? Who did you speak to and what did you say?'

Mr. Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook.

He turned to where Mrs. Marbury was standing in the doorway of a room, clearly devoured with curiosity.

'Not often you have a telephone call, Mr. Cust.'

'No—er—no, Mrs. Marbury. It isn't.'

'Not bad news, I trust?'

'No—no.' How persistent the woman was. His eye caught the legend on the newspaper he was carrying.

Births—Marriages—Deaths . . .

'My sister's just had a little boy,' he blurted out.

He—who had never had a sister!

'Oh, dear! Now—well, that is nice, I am sure. ('And never once mentioned a sister all these years,' was her inward thought. 'If that isn't just like a man!') I was surprised, I'll tell you, when the lady asked to speak to Mr. Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily's voice—something like hers, it was—but haughtier if you know what I mean—sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr. Cust, my congratulations, I'm sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and nieces?'

'It's the only one,' said Mr. Cust. 'The only one I've ever had or likely to have, and—er—I think I must go off at once. They—they want me to come. I—I think I can just catch a train if I hurry.'

'Will you be away long, Mr. Cust?' called Mrs. Marbury as he ran up the stairs.

'Oh, no—two or three days—that's all.'

He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs. Marbury retired into the kitchen, thinking sentimentally of 'the dear little mite.'

Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge.

Last night Tom and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying to make out that Mr. Cust was that dreadful monster, A.B.C.. Just because of his initials and because of a few coincidences.

'I don't suppose they meant it seriously,' she thought comfortably. 'And now I hope they'll be ashamed of themselves.'

In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr. Cust's statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any doubts Mrs. Marbury might have had of her lodger's bonafides.

'I hope she didn't have too bad a time of it, poor dear,' thought Mrs. Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out Lily's silk slip.

Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track.

Mr. Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes rested a minute on the telephone.

That brief conversation re-echoed in his brain.

'Is that you, Mr. Cust? I thought you might like to know there's an inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you.'

What had he said? He couldn't remember.

'Thank you—thank you, my dear . . . very kind of you.'

Something like that.

Why had she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did she just want to make sure he would stay in for the inspector's visit?

But how did she know the inspector was coming? And her voice—she'd disguised her voice from her mother . . . . It looked—it looked—as though she knew . . . . But surely if she knew, she wouldn't . . .

She might, though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel and unexpectedly kind. He'd seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a mousetrap.

A kind girl . . . .

A kind, pretty girl . . . .