Murder Killing
34. Alexander Bonaparte Cust's
I wasn't present at the interview between Poirot and that freak Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Due to his good relations with the police and due to the odd problem of the case, Poirot did not face any difficulty in obtaining a permit from the Head Office but the permit did not apply to me, and however, it did, according to Poirot, it is very important that the interview is really personal only four points.
But he had told me all the details of their conversation and I recorded them confidently, as if I were actually present there.
Mr. Cust seemed reluctant. His bow became increasingly visible. His fingers seemed to be tugging at his coat.
I guess for a while Poirot didn't speak. He sat down and looked at the man in front of him.
The atmosphere became calm and soothing...
Presumably the meeting of the two sworn enemies in this long drama is a dramatic moment. Had I been Poirot, I would have felt that dramatic passion.
But Poirot is just plain ordinary. He was fixated on his efforts to influence the man in front of him.
Finally gently she said, ”Is it you who I am?”
That guy shakes.
”No, no I don't know. Unless you are Mr. Lucas what did they call it? Juniors. Or maybe you're Mr.'s messenger. Maynard?”
(Maynard & Cole is the attorney's office that handles the defense.)
His tone was polite, but it was real that he was not so interested. It seemed that his concentration was being centered on the thoughts within himself.
”I Hercule Poirot.
Poirot spoke those words very gently, and watched his reaction.
Mr. Cust raised his head slightly. ”Oh, yes?”
He said those words naturally, just like Inspector Crome's style said them but without any conceit.
Then, a moment later, he repeated his words.
”Oh yes?” he said, and this time the tone of his voice changed there was a sense of interest arising. He lifted his head and looked at Poirot.
Hercule Poirot looked back at him and nodded slowly, once or twice.
”Ya,” said. ”To me are your letters addressed.”
Soon the relationship is broken. Mr. Cust looked down and suddenly spoke with a huff and raced.
”I've never written a letter to you. I am not the one who wrote those letters. I've said many times.”
”I know,” Poirot said. ”So who wrote it when it wasn't you?”
”An enemy. Maybe I have an enemy. They all antagonize me. The cops are all, all hostile to me. A big cabal.”
Poirot did not answer.
Mr. Cust said, ”Everyone hostile to me always.”
”Also when you were a child?” Mr. Cust seemed to think.
”No, not that time no. My mother loved me very much. But he is ambitious. So he gave me a ridiculous name. He had an absurd thought, that I would become a world figure. He always encouraged me to stand out talking about power. That everyone can be in power and determine his fate.
For a moment he was silent.
”Of course my mother was mistaken. I soon realized that. I am not a successful person in life. I always do stupid things to make myself look stupid. I am also shy about people. Unable to enjoy life in school other children know my little name they often make fun of me because of that name... I am not a good kid in school in games, in lessons, and in all things.”
She shook her head.
”Indeed my poor mother should have died. He was always disappointed... Even by the time I entered Commercial College, I was still a fool I needed more time to learn typing and shorthand than anyone else. But I don't also feel stupid you know what I mean, do you?”
Suddenly he threw a glance, which seemed to be begging to his interlocutor.
”Only a feeling that everyone thinks I'm stupid. That feeling is so paralyzing. In the office is the same.”
”And still so in war?” added Poirot.
Mr's Face. Cust suddenly beamed.
”Wah,” said. ”I enjoy the war time. With what I got from it.
For the first time I felt like a person, just like everyone else.
Smile disappeared.
”Then I got a wound on the head. Just little. But they found out that I was sick... Of course I know, many times I am not aware of what I have done. Suddenly unconscious, so. And a few times I fell. But I still feel like they shouldn't have fired me for that. No, I don't think it's true.”
”And after that?” ask Poirot.
”I work as a scribe. Of course, with enough salary. And my job was pretty good after the war, with a rather small salary... And I don't think I'm moving forward. I was always missed when there was an increase in the rank of employees. I'm not so fast forward. Then the situation gets harder and harder... Especially if the effort is falling. Frankly, I had a hard time maintaining my appearance (people should seem capable as a clerk) at a time when there were offers to run this stocking sales business. With salary and commission!”
Gently Poirot said, ”But you are aware
no, that the company you think hired you didn't recognize it?”
Mr. Cust got excited again.
”That's because they conspired they must have been a plot.”
He continued, ”I have written proof of written evidence. I keep their letters that give instructions to the places where I should go and a list of people to meet.”
”To be exact not written proof but typed proof.”
”Same. It is only natural for a large company to type its letters.”
”Do you know, Mr. Cust, a typewriter can be recognized? All the letters are typed with one type of machine.”
”How do you mean?”
”And the machine is yours the machine found in your room.”
”The machine was sent by the company to me at the beginning of my contract.”
”Yes, but the letters were received afterwards. So it seems as if you are typing it yourself and miming it yourself to yourself, right?”
”No—no! It was the work of the plotters to destroy me!”
Suddenly he added, ”In addition, their letters must have been typed with the same machine.”
”Same type, but not the same true machine.”
Mr. Cust repeating stubbornly, ”That's a plotter's work!”
”And the ABC found in the closet?” ”I don't know anything about it. I think everything contains stocking.”
”Why did you cross the name Mrs. Ascher was on the first list of people in Andover?”
”For I decided to start by visiting it. Shouldn't we start something from somewhere.”
”Yes, that's right. We have to start something from somewhere.”
”I mean not so!” said Mr. Custs. ”I mean nothing like what you mean!”
”But you know what I mean?”
