Murder Killing
32. Capturing a Fox I
”Your chance is now, Mr. Poirot,”. ”Crome
dead-end. Use the cells of your club, which I have heard much of its greatness. Show me how the killer did it.”
Japp is leaving.
”How, Poirot?” I said. ”Are your club cells worth this task?”
Poirot answered my question by asking another question.
”Tell me, Hastings, do you think the case is over?”
”Hm yes, practically already. We caught the culprit. And we have most of the evidence. Now just to select it.”
Poirot.
”The case is done! The case! His case is his manuésia, Hastings. Before we know about that person, the mystery remains as hidden as ever. It is not a victory if we have already succeeded in putting him in jail!”
”We know very little about him.”
”We don't know anything! We know where he was born. We know he fought on the battlefield and was wounded in the head, then fired from the army for epilepsy. We know he lives at Mrs' lodge. Marbury was two years old. We know he's quiet and closed off the type of person who doesn't attract attention. We know he planned and committed a murder so ingenious and systematic. We know that he's made some stupid mistakes. We know he kills without pity and with abomination. We also know, he was kind enough not to charge others for the crimes he committed. If he wants to kill without difficulty it is easy to let others bear the consequences of his criminal actions. Don't you see, Hastings, that this guy is full of contradictions? Stupid and slippery, vile and generous and that there is certainly a dominant factor that could explain why he has two different personalities
”Of course, if you consider it an object of psychological research,”.
”So, how exactly was this case from the beginning? All this time I was fumbling my way around trying to identify this killer. And now I realize, Hastings, that I don't actually know him at all! I'm completely submerged in the ocean.”
”Wish to rule” I said. ”Yes maybe it can give a lot of explanation...
But still not giving me satisfaction. There are things I want to know. Why did he commit all these murders? Why did he choose the victims?”
”According to alphabet” sequence I said.
”Is Betty Barnard the only person in Bexhill whose name starts with the letter B? Betty Barnard made me think...
It must be right, it must be right. However, if so”
He was silent for a moment. I don't want to disturb him.
In fact, I think I'm asleep.
I woke up and felt Poirot's hand shake my shoulder.
”Moncher, Hastings,” he said lovingly. ”My genius best friend.”
I was so confused to get such a sudden compliment.
”True,” firmly Poirot. ”Always you always help me you my angel of luck. You inspire me.”
”At a time when I struggled myself with various questions, I remember your comment—a comment that clearly illuminates a picture. Didn't I ever tell you that you're a genius when it comes to revealing something obvious? Instead, I just ignore the obvious.”
”What great comments did I make?” my many. ”Makes everything crystal clear. I found the answers to all my questions. Reason for the murder of Mrs. Ascher (that's right, I've seen it for a long time, though still vaguely), the reason for killing Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for Doncaster's murder, and finally, and most importantly, the reason for it, reasons to appoint Hercule Poirot.”
”Will you explain it to me?”
”Not now. First I need a little more information, which I can request from our ’Special Forces’. Then—then, if I've got an answer to a certain question, I'll go to ABC. Finally we will face ABC and Hercule Poirot arch-enemy.”
”Then?” my many.
”Then,” said Poirot, ”we will talk! Je vous assure I'm sure, Hastings there's nothing more dangerous to a man who hides anything but a conversation! A wise old Frenchman once told me that conversation is a human invention that he can use to prevent the mind from working. Conversation is also a tool to discover what a person wants to hide. That human, Hastings, could not avoid the opportunity to reveal himself and his personality in conversation. Whenever he would be inclined to unlock his personal secrets.”
”What do you expect Cust to reveal?” Poirot smiled.
”Lying,” he said. ”And thus I will know the truth!”
The next few days Poirot was very busy. He dodged mysteriously, spoke little, frowned, thought hard, and kept refusing to answer my natural curiosity about my genius, which he thought I had shown.
I wasn't invited to accompany her in her mysterious flurry and it made me a bit riled up.
But before the end of the week he told me about his plans to visit Bexhill and its surroundings, and suggested that I go with him. Immediately I agreed.
It turned out that the invitation was not just addressed to me. The members of ”Special Forces” are also invited.
Like me, Poirot also aroused curiosity in them. Nevertheless, not a single bit do I know where Poirot's thinking is going.
First he visited the Barnard Family and got a definite description of Mr. Cust and what he said. Then he went to the hotel where Cust used to stay and got a picture of the exact time when the man left the hotel. As far as my observations were concerned, no new facts were obtained with his questions, but Poirot himself seemed satisfied.
Next, he went to the beach where Betty Barnard's body was found. Here he walked around for a few minutes while closely observing the sand. I don't think it's any good because the tidal waves water the place twice a day.
But up to this point I understood that Poirot's actions were usually based on an idea even though that idea seemed meaningless at all.
Then he walked from the beach to the nearest place where the car could be parked. Again from there he went to the Eastbourne bus stop, before leaving Bexhill.
Finally he took us all to the Ginger Cat Cafeteria, where we drank a rather stale tea, served by the waitress Milly Higley.
Poirot praised the calf shape of the girl with her exaggerated French style.
”Calf the British, usually too thin! But you, Mademoiselle, have the perfect calf. There's his shape and his ankle is real.”
Milly Higley giggled and said to Poirot
not continuing his words. He knows the French habits.
Poirot did not bother to dispute the girl's mistake about her nationality. He even glanced at the girl in a style that left me flabbergasted and shocked.
