I shivered.
“It’s rather horrible….”
“Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen….”
He made an impatient gesture.
“One must not give way to the nerves…This is no worse than any ordinary crime….”
“It is…It is….”
“Is it worse to take the life or lives of stran
gers than to take the life of someone near and dear to you—someone who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?”
“It’s worse because it’s mad….”
“No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult.”
“No, no, I do not agree with you. It’s infinitely more frightening.”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
“It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by someone shrewd and sane would be far more complicated. Here, if one could but hit on the idea…This alphabetical business, it has discrepancies. If I could once see the idea—then everything would be clear and simple….”
He sighed and shook his head.
“These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth…Go, Hastings. Get some sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow.”
Fifteen
SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE
Churston, lying as it does between Brixham on the one side and Paignton and Torquay on the other, occupies a position about halfway round the curve of Torbay. Until about ten years ago it was merely a golf links and below the links a green sweep of countryside dropping down to the sea with only a farmhouse or two in the way of human occupation. But of late years there had been big building developments between Churston and Paignton and the coastline is now dotted with small houses and bungalows, new roads, etc.
Sir Carmichael Clarke had purchased a site of some two acres commanding an uninterrupted view of the sea. The house he had built was of modern design—a white rectangle that was not unpleasing to the eye. Apart from two big galleries that housed his collection it was not a large house.
Our arrival there took place about 8 am. A local police officer had met us at the station and had put us au courant of the situation.
Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up—at some time after eleven—it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually followed the same course, it was not long before a search party discovered his body. Death was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open A B C had been placed face downwards on the dead body.
We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o’clock. The door was opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the tragedy had affected him.
“Good morning, Deveril,” said the police officer.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells.”
“These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.”
“This way, gentlemen.” He ushered us into a long dining room where breakfast was laid. “I’ll get Mr. Franklin.”
A minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room.
This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man’s only brother.
He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”