Nobody came, so I went out again.
That's all, and you can put it in your pipe and smoke it.”
“You didn't see the body fallen down behind the counter?”
“No, no more would you have done - unless you was looking for it, maybe.”
“Was there a railway guide lying about?”
“Yes, there was - face downwards. It crossed my mind like that the old woman might have
had to go off sudden by train and forgot to lock shop up.”
“Perhaps you picked up the railway guide or moved it along the counter?”
“Didn't touch the blasted thing. I did just what I said.”
“And you did not see any one leaving the shop before you yourself got there?”
“Didn't see any such thing. What I say is, why pitch on me?”
Poirot rose.
“Nobody is pitching upon you - yet. Bon soir, Monsieur.”
He left the man with his mouth open and I followed him. In the street he consulted his
watch.
“With great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the 7:20. Let us dispatch ourselves
quickly.”
The A B C Murders
Chapter 8
THE SECOND LETTER
“Well?” I demanded eagerly.
We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves. The train, an express,
had just drawn out of Andover.
“The crime,” said Poirot, “was committed by a man of medium height with red hair and a
cast in the left eye. He limps slightly on the right foot and has a mole just below the
shoulder-blade.”
“Poirot?” I cried.
For a moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my friend's eye undeceived me.
“Poirot!” I said again, this time in reproach.
“Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of dog-like devotion and demand of me a
pronouncement like in Sherlock Holmes! Now for the truth - I do not know what the murderer
looks like, nor where he lives, nor how to set hands upon him.”
“If only he had left some clue,” I murmured.
“Yes, the clue - it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas that he did not smoke the
cigarette and leave the ash, and then step in it with a shoe that has nails of a curious
pattern. No - he is not so obliging. But at least, my friend, you have the railway guide.
The A.B.C., that is a clue for you!”
“Do you think he left it by mistake then?”
“Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints tell us that.”
“But there weren't any on it.”
“That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm June night. Does a man stroll
about on such an evening in gloves? Such a man would certainly have attracted attention.
Therefore since there are no fingerprints on the A.B.C., it must have been carefully
wiped. A innocent man would have left prints - a guilty man would not. So the murderer
left it there for a purpose - but for all that it is none the less a clue. That A.B.C. was
bought by some one - it was carried by some one - there is a possibility there.”
“You think we may learn something that way?”
“Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this unknown X, obviously
prides himself on his abilities. He is not likely to blaze a trail that can be followed
straight away.”
“So that really the A.B.C. isn't helpful at all.”
“Not in the sense you mean.”
“In any sense?”
Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly:
“The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknown personage. He is in the
dark and seeks to remain in the dark. But in the very nature of things he cannot help
throwing light upon himself. In one sense we know nothing about him - in another sense we
know already a good deal. I see his figure dimly taking shape - a man who prints clearly
and well - who buys good quality paper - who is at great needs to express his personality.
I see him as a child possibly ignored and passed over - I see him growing up with an
inward sense of inferiority - warring with a sense of injustice... I see that inner urge -
to assert himself -