Murder Killing
12. Third Letter
I remember the arrival of the third letter of ABC. It can be said that all precautions have been implemented, so that if the ABC acts again, there will be no need for a delay to act immediately. A young sergeant from Scotland Yard stood guard at home, and if Poirot and I were not around, it was his duty to open the letters that came, so that he could immediately communicate it to the headquarters without wasting much time.
The days changed and we got more and more anxious. Inspector Crome's attitude became increasingly haughty and closed after one by one the clues he expected faded away. The vague explanation of the men seen with Betty Barnard turned out to be useless. Various cars that are recognized around Bexhill and Cooden do not provide satisfactory information or not found traces. The investigation into the purchase of ABC's railroad guidebook resulted in anxiety and anxiety for many innocent people.
For ourselves, every time the ringing of the bicycle bell of the very well-known postman was heard at the door, our hearts pounded even more with anxiety. At least I feel that way, and I'm sure Poirot is going through the same thing.
I know my best friend is very concerned about this case. He refused to leave London, preferring to be in place in case of emergency. On hot days, his mustache drooped only this time ignored by the owner.
The third ABC letter came on Friday.
Post night arrived around 22:00.
As soon as I heard the familiar bell's steps and ringing, I got up and headed for the mailbox. There are four or five letters as I remember them. The last letter address is written in printed letters.
”Poirot,” shouts... My voice disappeared from hearing.
”Have come? Open, Hastings. Quick. Every second is precious. We have to make a plan.”
I tore off the cover (the other time Poirot did not denounce my carelessness) and took out the letter.
”Read,” Poirot said.
I read it out loud, though,
^^^Mr. Poor Poirot isn't as great at this trivial crime problem as you think, is he? ^^^
^^^Your jaya has somewhat faded away perhaps? Let's see if you succeed this time. Easy this time. Churston on the 30th. Try to do something to overcome it! It's kind of boring when everything's done my way!^^^
^^^Happy hunting.^^^
^^^My respect, ^^^
^^^ABC^^^
”Churston,” I said as I jumped to pick up the ABC book. ”Let's see where it is.”
”Hastings,” Poirot's voice so sharply interjected. ”When the letter was written, is there a date listed?”
”Written on 27,” tukasku.
”Get my hearing, Hastings? Did he mention the 30th as the date of the murder?”
”Betul. Let me see, date”
”Bon Dieu, my God, Hastings are you?
Today is 30.”
His hand pointed at the calendar on the wall. I picked up the newspaper that day to convince myself.
”Will but why how” I stammered.
Poirot picked up the torn cover of the letter from the floor. Something strange about the letter vaguely filled my mind, but because I was too eager to quickly find out the contents of the letter, then I only briefly noticed it.
Poirot lived in Whitehaven Mansions. The address written on the letter reads: M. Hercule Poirot, Whitehorse Mansions.
In the corner it says: ”Unknown in Whitehorse Mansions, E.C.1, or Whitehouse Court Try Whitehaven Mansions.”
”Mon Dieu!” poirot's Mumbles. ”This crazy guy didn't give me a chance at all? Fast vite-vite, we should contact Scotland Yard.” immediately
A few moments later we spoke to Crome over the phone. The inspector who was good at restraint did not immediately give an answer. ”Oh, yes?” Even his lips immediately muttered a curse. He heard our explanation, then cut off the connection to get a phone call to Churston as soon as possible.
”C’est trop tard very late,” murmured Poirot. ”You are sure of that?” I argue, even though it feels thin hope.
He looked at the wall clock.
”Jam ten past twenty minutes? An hour and forty minutes drive. Can ABC be held for so long?”
I opened the train guide I had taken from the bookshelf.
”Churston, Devon,” I read, ”from Paddington 204 3/4 mil. Population 544. Probably a small area. Surely our characters will be confined and easily recognizable.”
”Then one life must have been taken,” murmured Poirot. ”What train is there? I think trains can be faster than cars.”
”There is a midnight train complete with
the sleeping cabin to Newton Abbot arrives there at 06.08, and in Churston at 07.15.”
”From Paddington?” ”Betul, Paddington.”
”We took that train, Hastings.”
”There is no time to get information before we leave.”
”When the bad news we receive tonight or tomorrow, what's the difference?”
”There must be a difference.”
I arranged our belongings in one suitcase, while Poirot called Scotland Yard once again.
A few minutes later he returned to the bedroom and protested, ”Mais qu’s?
What are you doing?”
”Vous eprouvez trop d’emotion, Hastings you are too emotional. It requires skill and ingenuity of its own. Is that how you fold a suit? And look what you did to my pajamas. When my hair-paint bottle breaks, what happens?”
”Jeez, Poirot,” I shouted, ”this is about life and death.
What does our clothes mean?”
”You can't count on anything, Hastings. We cannot depart by train before the time of its departure, and making clothes tangle will also not prevent the occurrence of murder.”
He forced to take over the suitcase and fix it.
He explained that we would bring the letter and the cover to Paddington. A Scotland Yard officer will meet us there.
By the time we arrived at the platform, the first person we saw was Inspector Crome.
He answered Poirot's questioning gaze.
”No news yet. All officers are on standby. Everyone whose name starts with the letter C has received as many warnings as possible over the phone. It's just about chance. Where's the mail?”
Poirot gave the letter to her.
He watched her, cursing softly. ”Live fate only. All the forces have been deployed to conquer it.”
”Don't you think that this warning was done on purpose?” my many.
Crome shook his head.
”No. He's got crazy rules and he's obeying them. He stressed that warnings should be given to be fair. That way he can boast. But now I'm not sure I almost bet that the man drank whiskey cap White Horse.”
”Ah, c’est ingenieue. How smart!” poirot said, as usual, in awe. ”He wrote the letter and the bottle was in front of him.”
”Typically so,” says Crome. ”We all occasionally
must have experienced the same thing: unconsciously copying something visible in plain sight. She started writing White, then who should have had she wrote horse..”.
We just found out, the inspector was also going to take the train.
”Although we are lucky and nothing happened, Churston has been proclaimed as the scene. Our killer was there, or has gone there today. One of my men kept watch on the phone, just in case news came in. ”
Just before the train left the station, we saw a man running on the platform. He went to the inspector's window and called out to him.
By the time the train started to leave the station, Poirot and I rushed the way along the corridor and knocked on the door of the inspector's cabin.
”You've got word?” ask Poirot. Crome said slowly, ”As bad as we thought. Sir
Carmichael Clarke found with crushed head hit.”
Although the name of Sir Carmichael Clarke is not very well known, he was an influential person. In his day he was a doctor of mackerel specialists who had a name. After retiring from his profession, he was able to pursue his main hobby of a collection of chapped goods and Chinese porcelain. A few years later, he inherited his uncle's advanced fortune, and thus became more engaged in his hobby. He is now the owner of the most famous collection of Chinese art. He had a family, but had no children and lived in a house he had built himself near Devon Beach. He only goes to London occasionally, for example if there is a large auction.
It is easy to imagine that her death, after the death of the young and attractive Betty Barnard, would definitely be the biggest sensation of the year, especially since it was August, and that newspapers have trouble finding interesting topics.
”Eh bien,” Poirot said. ”Possible publications will succeed in doing what our own efforts fail to do. The whole country will now be looking for ABC.”
”Originally,” I said, ”that's what he wants.” ”Betul. But there may be no effort
whatever he did. After being satisfied with his success he became less cautious... It was my hope that he would get drunk by his own ingenuity.”
”That's weird, Poirot,” cried, suddenly something occurred. ”Do you, for this kind of crime, this is the first one we deal with together? All murders are usually murder due to personal issues.”
”You're right, man. We always work from within. Usually the victim's life history is important. Including the important factors are: ’Who was lucky with his death? What opportunities are there in people around the nva, if they are the ones doing the p-p
kill it?’ Always an intime crime of personal crime. Here, for the first time in our cooperation, we meet a cold-blooded and ruthless killer. Killer from outside.”
I shudder. ”Agrible..”
”Yes. From the beginning, when I read his first letter, I felt something strange a perversion.”.
He gave an impatient gesture.
”People should be able to hold back... This is no worse than ordinary crime.”.
”It... This..”
”Is it more cruel to take the life of someone or people we don't know than someone close and we love someone who trusts us, perhaps?”
”More cruel because it's a crazy deed.”.
”No, Hastings. Not more cruel. Just more
difficult.”
”No, no. I don't agree with you. It's really very scary.”
Hercule Poirot said in thought, ”It should be that the actions of a madman are easier to trace. A crime committed by a slippery and sane person would be much more complicated. If only someone could find his idea... This alphabet has something wrong. If only I could find his idea...everything would be clear and easy.”.
He sighed and shook his head.
”This crime cannot continue. I gotta
soon find the real situation... Come, Hastings. Go sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
