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.
XXXI. Hercule Poirot Asks Questions
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.''
He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand mal and petit mal and, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case when a learned person holds forth on his own subject.
'However, I'm against the theory that Cust committed these crimes without knowing he'd done them. You might put that theory forward if it weren't for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime.'
'And of the letters we have still no explanation,' said Poirot.
'That interests you?'
'Naturally—since they were written to me. And on the subject of the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved.'
'Yes—I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn't seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you in any way?'
'None whatever.'
'I might make a suggestion. Your name!'
'My name?'
'Yes. Cust is saddled apparently by the whim of his mother—(Oedipus complex there, I shouldn't wonder!) —with two extremely bombastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander— the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte—the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary—an adversary, one might say in his class. Well—there you are—Hercules the strong.'
'Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas—'
'Oh, it's only a suggestion. Well, I must be off.'
Dr. Thompson went out. Japp remained.
'Does this alibi worry you?' Poirot asked.
'It does a little,' admitted the inspector. 'Mind you, I don't believe in it, because I know it isn't true. But it is going to be the deuce to break it. This man Strange is a tough character.'
'Describe him to me.'
'He's a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining engineer. It's my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing might be settled out of hand.'
'He's one of the most positive people I've ever seen,' I said.
'The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken,' said Poirot thoughtfully.
'He sticks to his story and he's not one to be heckled. He swears by all that's blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne on the evening of July 24th. He was lonely and wanted someone to talk to. As far as I can see, Cust made an ideal listener. He didn't interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They'll play for hours. That's what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn't hear of it—swore they'd keep it up until midnight at least. And that's what they did do. They separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of the 25th he couldn't very well be strangling Betty Barnard on the beach at Bexhill between midnight and one o'clock.'
'The problem certainly seems insuperable,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'Decidedly, it gives one to think.'
'It's given Crome something to think about,' said Japp.
'This man Strange is very positive?'
'Yes. He's an obstinate devil. And it's difficult to see just where the flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn't Cust—why on earth should he say his name is Cust? And the writing in the hotel register is his all right. You can't say he's an accomplice—homicidal lunatics don't have accomplices! Did the girl die
