He added suddenly:
“Besides, their letters would be written on the same kind of machine.”
“The same kind, but not the same actual machine.”
Mr. Cust repeated obstinately:
“It’s a plot!”
“And the A B C’s that were found in the cupboard?”
“I know nothing about them. I thought they were all stockings.”
“Why did you tick off the name of Mrs. Ascher in that first list of people in Andover?”
“Because I decided to start with her. One must begin somewhere.”
“Yes, that is true. One must begin somewhere.”
r /> “I don’t mean that!” said Mr. Cust. “I don’t mean what you mean!”
“But you know what I meant?”
Mr. Cust said nothing. He was trembling.
“I didn’t do it!” he said. “I’m perfectly innocent! It’s all a mistake. Why, look at that second crime—that Bexhill one. I was playing dominoes at Eastbourne. You’ve got to admit that!”
His voice was triumphant.
“Yes,” said Poirot. His voice was meditative—silky. “But it’s so easy, isn’t it, to make a mistake of one day? And if you’re an obstinate, positive man, like Mr. Strange, you’ll never consider the possibility of having been mistaken. What you’ve said you’ll stick to…He’s that kind of man. And the hotel register—it’s very easy to put down the wrong date when you’re signing it—probably no one will notice it at the time.”
“I was playing dominoes that evening!”
“You play dominoes very well, I believe.”
Mr. Cust was a little flurried by this.
“I—I—well, I believe I do.”
“It is a very absorbing game, is it not, with a lot of skill in it?”
“Oh, there’s a lot of play in it—a lot of play! We used to play a lot in the city, in the lunch hour. You’d be surprised the way total strangers come together over a game of dominoes.”
He chuckled.
“I remember one man—I’ve never forgotten him because of something he told me—we just got talking over a cup of coffee, and we started dominoes. Well, I felt after twenty minutes that I’d known that man all my life.”
“What was it that he told you?” asked Poirot.
Mr. Cust’s face clouded over.
“It gave me a turn—a nasty turn. Talking of your fate being written in your hand, he was. And he showed me his hand and the lines that showed he’d have two near escapes of being drowned—and he had had two near escapes. And then he looked at mine and he told me some amazing things. Said I was going to be one of the most celebrated men in England before I died. Said the whole country would be talking about me. But he said—he said….”
Mr. Cust broke down—faltered….
“Yes?”
Poirot’s gaze held a quiet magnetism. Mr. Cust looked at him, looked away, then back again like a fascinated rabbit.