He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the other man’s, seemed to be exercising a mesmeric spell.
“I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But—but I was suspicious…I thought of going to the front and watching her when she left the café. I actually went there. Then I felt I couldn’t do that. Betty would see me and she’d be angry. She’d realize at once that I was watching her.”
“What did you do?”
“I went over to St. Leonards. Got over there by eight o’clock. Then I watched the buses—to see if she were in them…But there was no sign of her….”
“And then?”
“I—I lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I thought it probable he had taken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there—looked in hotels and restaurants, hung round cinemas—went on the pier. All damn foolishness. Even if she was there I was unlikely to find her, and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might have taken her to instead of Hastings.”
He stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of that blind, bewildering misery and anger that had possessed him at the time he described.
“In the end I gave it up—came back.”
“At what time?”
“I don’t know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when I got home.”
“Then—”
The kitchen door opened.
“Oh, there you are,” said Inspector Kelsey.
Inspector Crome pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at the two strangers.
“Miss Megan Barnard and Mr. Donald Fraser,” said Poirot, introducing them.
“This is Inspector Crome from London,” he explained.
Turning to the inspector, he said:
“While you pursued your investigations upstairs I have been conversing with Miss Barnard and Mr. Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find something that will throw light upon the matter.”
“Oh, yes?” said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon the two newcomers.
Poirot retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly as he passed:
“Get anything?”
But his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for a reply.
I joined Poirot in the hall.
“Did anything strike you, Poirot?” I inquired.
“Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings.”
I had not the courage to say that I had not the least idea what he meant.
Thirteen
A CONFERENCE
Conferences!
Much of my memories of the A B C case seem to be of conferences.