Understanding, I respected my friend’s weakness and I made no further reference to the case. I read in the paper the account of the inquest. It was very brief, no mention was made of the ABC letter, and a verdict was returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. The crime attracted very little attention in the press. It had no popular or spectacular features. The murder of an old woman in a side street was soon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics.

Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think, because I disliked to think of Poirot as being in any way associated with a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived.

I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away in Yorkshire for the weekend. I arrived back on Monday afternoon and the letter came by the six o’clock post. I remember the sudden, sharp intake of breath that Poirot gave as he slit open that particular envelope.

‘It has come,’ he said.

I stared at him—not understanding.

‘What has come?’

‘The second chapter of the ABC business.’

For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really passed from my memory.

‘Read,’ said Poirot and passed me over the letter.

As before, it was printed on good-quality paper.

‘Good God, Poirot,’ I cried. ‘Does this mean that this fiend is going to attempt another crime?’

‘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[121] of the CID, 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—the day after 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 be. Speaking fair and square[122], 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 sceptically.

‘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[123] 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[124] 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 Ascher himself. If they show any sign 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 man? I fear, Hastings—I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper[125].’

‘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 the 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 cafés, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11.30 and 1 am.’

‘They’re quite sure that this is the crime?’ I asked, as I hastily lathered my face.

‘An ABC open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body.’

I shivered.