“My energetic Hastings,” Poirot said and smiled at me.
“No, but what do we do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” My disappointment rang out clearly.
“Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?”
Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give an answer. Nevertheless I felt convinced that something ought to be done and that we should not allow the grass to grow under our feet.
I said:
“There is the A B C—and the notepaper and envelope—”
“Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their disposal for that kind of inquiry. If anything is to be discovered on those lines have no fear but that they will discover it.”
With that I was forced to rest content.
In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discuss the case. When I tried to reopen the subject he waved it aside with an impatient hand.
In my own mind I was afraid that I fathomed his motive. Over the murder of Mrs. Ascher, Poirot had sustained a defeat. A B C had challenged him—and A B C had won. My friend, accustomed to an unbroken line of successes, was sensitive to his failure—so much so that he could not even endure discussion of the subject. It was, perhaps, a sign of pettiness in so great a man, but even the most sober of us is liable to have his head turned by success. In Poirot’s case the head-turning process had been going on for years. Small wonder if its effects became noticeable at long last.
Understanding, I respected my friend’s weakness and I made no further reference to the case. I read in the paper the account of the inquest. It was very brief, no mention was made of the A B C letter, and a verdict was returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. The crime attracted very little attention in the press. It had no popular or spectacular features. The murder of an old woman in a side street was soon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics.
Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think, because I disliked to think of Poirot as being in any way associated with a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived.
I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away in Yorkshire for the weekend. I arrived back on Monday afternoon and the letter came by the six o’clock post. I remember the sudden, sharp intake of breath that Poirot gave as he slit open that particular envelope.
“It has come,” he said.
I stared at him—not understanding.
“What has come?”
“The second chapter of the A B C business.”
For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really passed from my memory.
“Read,” said Poirot and passed me over the letter.
As before, it was printed on good-quality paper.
Dear Mr. Poirot,—Well, what about it? First game to me, I think. The Andover business went with a swing, didn’t it?
But the fun’s only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea. Date, the 25th inst.
What a merry time we are having! Yours etc.
A B C
“Good God, Poirot,” I cried. “Does this mean that this fiend is going to attempt another crime?”
“Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think that the Andover business was an isolated case? Do you not remember my saying: ‘This is the beginning’?”
“But this is horrible!”
“Yes, it is horrible.”