“I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long run on the black—but in the end red must turn up. It is the mathematical laws of chance.”
“You mean that luck turns?”
“Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler (and the murderer, who is, after all, only a supreme kind of gambler since what he risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligent anticipation. Because he has won he thinks he will continue to win! He does not leave the tables in good time with his pocket full. So in crime the murderer who is successful cannot conceive the possibility of not being successful! He takes to himself all the credit for a successful performance—but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned, no crime can be successful without luck!”
“Isn’t that going rather far?” demurred Franklin Clarke.
Poirot waved his hands excitedly.
“No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour. Consider! It might have happened that someone enters Mrs. Ascher’s shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman—and either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would have been arrested forthwith.”
“Yes, of course, that’s possible,” admitted Clarke. “What it comes to is that a murderer’s got to take a chance.”
“Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say ‘I have been clever and lucky!’ No, he says only ‘I have been clever!’ And his opinion of his cleverness grows and then, mes amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over—it drops into a new number and the croupier calls out ‘Rouge.’”
“You think that will happen in this case?” asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown.
“It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal—sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And he, too, will begin to make mistakes….”
“I will say you’re heartening,” said Franklin Clarke. “We all need a bit of comfort. I’ve had a paralysing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up.”
“It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value,” said Donald Fraser.
Megan rapped out:
“Don’t be a defeatist, Don.”
Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said:
“What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend’s in this place, and so are we—and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes.”
I fumed:
“If only we could do something more.”
“You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the race course. There will be plainclothesmen everywhere. There is also the press campaign. The public is fully warned.”
Donald Fraser shook his head.
“He’ll never attempt it, I’m thinking,” he said more hopefully. “The man would just be mad!”
“Unfortunately,” said Clarke dryly, “he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?”
“In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt to carry out his promise! Not to do so would be to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also Dr. Thompson’s opinion. Our hope is that he may be caught in the attempt.”
Donald shook his head again.
“He’ll be very cunning.”
Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that we were to make an all-day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various likely points on the race course.
I say “we.” Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A B C. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I had suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.
Poirot had agreed—I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye.
The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought.
Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot.