Conferences at Scotland Yard. At Poirot’s rooms. Official conferences. Unofficial conferences.
This particular conference was to decide whether or not the facts relative to the anonymous letters should or should not be made public in the press.
The Bexhill murder had attracted much more attention than the Andover one.
It had, of course, far more elements of popularity. To begin with the victim was a young and good-looking girl. Also, it had taken place at a popular seaside resort.
All the details of the crime were reported fully and rehashed daily in thin disguises. The A B C railway guide came in for its share of attention. The favourite theory was that it had been bought locally by the murderer and that it was a valuable clue to his identity. It also seemed to show that he had come to the place by train and was intending to leave for London.
The railway guide had not figured at all in the meagre accounts of the Andover murder, so there seemed at present little likelihood of the two crimes being connected in the public eye.
“We’ve got to decide upon a policy,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “The thing is—which way will give us the best results? Shall we give the public the facts—enlist their cooperation—after all, it’ll be the cooperation of several million people, looking out for a madman—”
“He won’t look like a madman,” interjected Dr. Thompson.
“—looking out for sales of A B C’s—and so on. Against that I suppose there’s the advantage of working in the dark—not letting our man know what we’re up to, but then there’s the fact that he knows very well that we know. He’s drawn attention to himself deliberately by his letters. Eh, Crome, what’s your opinion?”
“I look at it this way, sir. If you make it public, you’re playing A B C’s game. That’s what he wants—publicity—notoriety. That’s what he’s out after. I’m right, aren’t I, doctor? He wants to make a splash.”
Thompson nodded.
The Assistant Commissioner said thoughtfully:
“So you’re for balking him. Refusing him the publicity he’s hankering after. What about you, M. Poirot?”
Poirot did not speak for a minute. When he did it was with an air of choosing his words carefully.
“It is difficult for me, Sir Lionel,” he said. “I am, as you might say, an interested party. The challenge was sent to me. If I say ‘Suppress that fact—do not make it public,’ may it not be thought that it is my vanity that speaks? That I am afraid for my reputation? It is difficult! To speak out—to tell all—that has its advantages. It is, at least, a warning…On the other hand, I am as convinced as Inspector Crome that it is what the murderer wants us to do.”
“H’m!” said the Assistant Commissioner, rubbing his chin. He looked across at Dr. Thompson. “Suppose we refuse our lunatic the satisfaction of the publicity he craves. What’s he likely to do?”
“Commit another crime,” said the doctor promptly. “Force your hand.”
“And if we splash the thing about in headlines. Then what’s his reaction?”
“Same answer. One way you feed his megalomania, the other you balk it. The result’s the same. Another crime.”
“What do you say, M. Poirot?”
“I agree with Dr. Thompson.”
“A cleft stick—eh? How many crimes do you think this—lunatic has in mind?”
Dr. Thompson l
ooked across at Poirot.
“Looks like A to Z,” he said cheerfully.
“Of course,” he went on, “he won’t get there. Not nearly. You’ll have him by the heels long before that. Interesting to know how he’d have dealt with the letter X.” He recalled himself guiltily from this purely enjoyable speculation. “But you’ll have him long before that. G or H, let’s say.”
The Assistant Commissioner struck the table with his fist.
“My God, are you telling me we’re going to have five more murders?”
“It won’t be as much as that, sir,” said Inspector Crome. “Trust me.”
He spoke with confidence.