"Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think that the Andover business was an isolated case? Do you not remember my saying: 'This is the beginning.'?"
"But this is horrible!"
"Yes, it is horrible."
"We're up against a homicidal maniac."
"Yes."
His quietness was more impressive than any heroics could have been. I handed back the letter with a shudder.
The following morning saw us at a conference of powers. The Chief Constable of Sussex, the Assistant Commissioner of the C.I.D., Inspector Glen from Andover, Superintendent Carter of the Sussex police, Japp and a younger inspector called Crome, and Dr. Thompson, the famous alienist, were all assembled together. The postmark on this letter was Hampstead, but in Poirot's opinion little importance could be attached to this fact.
The matter was discussed fully. Dr. Thompson was a pleasant middle-aged man who, in spite of his learning, contented himself with homely language, avoiding the technicalities of his profession.
"There's no doubt," said the Assistant Commissioner, "that the two letters are in the same hand. Both were written by the same person."
"And we can fairly assume that that person was responsible for the Andover murder."
"Quite. We've now got definite warning of a second crime scheduled to take place on the 25th—tomorrow—at Bexhill. What steps can be taken?"
The Sussex Chief Constable looked at his superintendent. "Well, Carter, what about it?"
The superintendent shook his head gravely. "It's difficult, sir. There's not the least clue towards whom the victim may he. Speaking fair and square, what steps can we take?"
"A suggestion," murmured Poirot.
Their faces turned to him.
"I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will begin with the letter B."
"That would be something," said the superintendent doubtfully.
"An alphabetical complex," said Dr. Thompson thoughtfully.
"I suggest it as a possibility—no more. It came into my mind when I saw the name Ascher clearly written over the shop door of the unfortunate woman who was murdered last month. When I got the letter naming Bexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well as the place might be selected by an alphabetical system."
"It's possible," said the doctor. "On the other hand, it may be that the name Ascher was a coincidence—that the victim this time, no matter what her name is, will again be an old woman who keeps a shop. We're dealing, remember, with a madman. So far he hasn't given us any clue as to motive."
"Has a madman any motive, sir?" asked the superintendent skeptically.
"Of course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the special characteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinely appointed to kill clergymen—or doctors—or old women in tobacco shops—and there's always some perfectly coherent reason behind it. We mustn't let the alphabetical business run away with us. Bexhill succeeding to Andover may be a mere coincidence."
"We can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a special note of the B's, especially small shopkeepers, and keep a watch on all small tobacconists and newsagents looked after by a single person. I don't think there's anything more we can do than that. Naturally keep tabs on all strangers as far as possible."
The superintendent uttered a groan. "With the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? People are fairly flooding into the place this week."
"We must do what we can," the Chief Constable said sharply.
Inspector Glen spoke in his turn.
"I'll have a watch kept on anyone connected with the Ascher business. Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course on Ascher himself. If they show any signs of leaving Andover they'll be followed."
The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little desultory conversation.
"Poirot," I said as we walked along by the river, "surely this crime can be prevented?"
He turned a haggard face to me. "The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one? I fear, Hastings—I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper."
"It's horrible," I said.
"Madness, Hastings, is a terrible thing. I am afraid . . . I am very much afraid . . . ."
I still remember my awakening on the morning of the 25th of July. It must have been about seven-thirty.
Poirot was standing by my bedside gently shaking me by the shoulder.
One glance at his face brought me from semi-consciousness into full possession of my faculties.
"What is it?" I demanded, sitting up rapidly.
His answer came quite simply, but a wealth of emotion lay behind the three words he uttered.
"It has happened."
"What?" I cried. "You mean—but today is the 25th."
"It took place last night—or rather in the early hours of this morning.''
As I sprang from bed and made a rapid toilet, he recounted briefly what he had just learnt over the telephone.
"The body of a young girl has been found on the beach at Bexhill. She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of the cafйs, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11:30 and 1 A.M.."
"They're quite sure that this is the crime?" I asked, as I hastily lathered my face.
"An A.B.C. open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body."
I shivered.
"This is horrible!"
"Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy in my rooms!" I wiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully.
"What is our plan of campaign?" I asked.
"The car will call for us in a few moments' time. I will bring you a cup of coffee here so that there will be no delay in starting."
Twenty minutes later we were in a fast police car crossing the Thames on our way out of London.
With us was Inspector Crome, who had been present at the conference the other day, and who was officially in charge of the case.
Crome was a very different type of officer from Japp. A much younger man, he was the silent, superior type. Well educated and well read, he was, for my taste, several shades too pleased with himself. He had lately gained kudos over a series of child murders, having patiently tracked down the criminal who was now in Broadmoor.
He was obviously a suitable person to undertake the present case, but I thought that he was just a little too aware of the fact himself.
His manner to Poirot was a shade patronizing. He deferred to him as a younger man to an older one—in a rather self-conscious, "public-school" way.
"I've had a good long talk with Dr. Thompson," he said. "He's very interested in the 'chain' or 'series' type of murder. It's the product of a particularly distorted type of mentality. As a layman one can't, of course, appreciate the finer points as they present themselves to a medical point of view." He coughed. "As a matter of fact—my last case—I don't know whether you read about it—the Mabel Homer case, the Muswell Hill schoolgirl, you know—that man Capper was extraordinary. Amazingly difficult to pin the crime on to him—it was his third, too! Looked as sane as you or I. But there are various tests—verbal traps, you know—quite modern, of course, there was nothing of that kind in your day. Once you can induce a man to give himself away, you've got him! He knows that you know and his nerve goes. He starts giving himself away right and left."