The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie Page B

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 patronising. He deferred to him as a younger man to an older one—in a rather self-conscious, “public school” way.
    â€œI’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 particular 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.”
    â€œEven in my day that happened sometimes,” said Poirot.
    Inspector Crome looked at him and murmured conversationally: “Oh, yes?”
    There was silence between us for some time. As we passed New Cross Station, Crome said:
    â€œIf there’s anything you want to ask me about the case, pray do so.”
    â€œYou have not, I presume, a description of the dead girl?”
    â€œShe was twenty-three years of age, engaged as a waitress at the Ginger Cat café—”
    â€œ Pas ça. I wondered—if she were pretty?”
    â€œAs to that I’ve no information,” said Inspector Crome with a hint of withdrawal. His manner said: “Really—these foreigners! All the same!”
    A faint look of amusement came into Poirot’s eyes.
    â€œIt does not seem to you important, that? Yet, pour une femme, it is of the first importance. Often it decides her destiny!”
    Another silence fell.
    It was not until we were nearing Sevenoaks that Poirot opened the conversation again.
    â€œWere you informed, by any chance, how and with what the girl was strangled?”
    Inspector Crome replied briefly.
    â€œStrangled with her own belt—a thick, knitted affair, I gather.”
    Poirot’s eyes opened very wide.
    â€œAha,” he said. “At last we have a piece of information that is very definite. That tells one something, does it not?”
    â€œI haven’t seen it yet,” said Inspector Crome coldly.
    I felt impatient with the man’s caution and lack of imagination.
    â€œIt gives us the hallmark of the murderer,” I said. “The girl’s own belt. It shows the particular beastliness of his mind!”
    Poirot shot me a glance I could not fathom. On the face of it it conveyed humorous impatience. I thought that perhaps it was a warning not to be too outspoken in front of the inspector.
    I relapsed into silence.
    At Bexhill we were greeted by Superintendent Carter. He had with him a pleasant-faced, intelligent-looking young inspector called Kelsey. The latter was detailed to work in with Crome over the case.
    â€œYou’ll want to make your own inquiries, Crome,” said the superintendent. “So I’ll just give you the main heads of the matter and then you can get busy right away.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” said Crome.
    â€œWe’ve broken the news to her father and mother,” said the superintendent. “Terrible shock to them, of course. I left them to recover a bit before questioning them, so you can start from the beginning there.”
    â€œThere are other members of the family—yes?” asked Poirot.
    â€œThere’s a sister—a typist in