was of modern design - a white rectangle that was
not unpleasing to the eye. Apart from two big galleries that housed his collection it was
not a large house.
Our arrival there took place about 8 A.M. A local police officer had met us at the station
and had put us au courant of the situation. Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in
the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up - at some
time after eleven - it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually
followed the same course, it was not long before a search-party discovered his body. Death
was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open
A.B.C. ad been placed face downwards on the dead body.
We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o'clock. The door was
opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the
tragedy had affected him.
“Good-morning, Deveril,” said the local police officer.
“Good-morning, Mr. Wells.”
“These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.”
“This way, sir.” He ushered us into a long dining-room where breakfast was laid. “I'll get
Mr. Franklin, sir.”
A minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room.
This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man's only brother.
He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies.
“Good-morning, gentlemen.”
Inspector Wells made the introductions.
“This is Inspector Crome of the C.I.D., Mr. Hercule Poirot and - er - Captain Hayter.”
“Hastings,” I corrected coldly.
Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was
accompanied by a piercing look.
“Let me offer you some breakfast,” he said. “We can discuss the position as we eat.”
There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and
bacon and coffee.
“Now for it,” said Franklin Clarke. “Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position
last night - though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I
really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal
maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A.B.C.
railway guide has been deposited beside the body?”
“That is substantially the position, Mr. Clarke.”
“But why? What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime - even in the most diseased
imagination?”
Poirot nodded his head in approval.
“You go straight to the point, Mr. Clarke,” he said.
“It's not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr. Clarke,” said Inspector Crome.
“That's a matter for an alienist - though I may say that I've had a certain experience of
criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to
assert one's personality, to make a splash in the public eye - in fact, to be a somebody
instead of a nonentity.”
“Is that true, M. Poirot?”
Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by
Inspector Crome, who frowned.
“Absolutely true,” replied my friend.
“At any rate such a man cannot escape detection long,” said Clarke thoughtfully.
“Vous croyez? Ah, but they are cunning - ces gens l
ˆ
. And you must remember such a type has usually all the outer signs of insignificance - he
belongs to the class of person who is usually passed over and ignored or even laughed at!”
“Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr. Clarke,” said Crome, breaking in on the
conversation.
“Certainly.”
“Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no
unexpected letters? Nothing to upset him?”
“No. I should say he was quite his usual self.”
“Not upset and worried in any
not unpleasing to the eye. Apart from two big galleries that housed his collection it was
not a large house.
Our arrival there took place about 8 A.M. A local police officer had met us at the station
and had put us au courant of the situation. Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in
the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up - at some
time after eleven - it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually
followed the same course, it was not long before a search-party discovered his body. Death
was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open
A.B.C. ad been placed face downwards on the dead body.
We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o'clock. The door was
opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the
tragedy had affected him.
“Good-morning, Deveril,” said the local police officer.
“Good-morning, Mr. Wells.”
“These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.”
“This way, sir.” He ushered us into a long dining-room where breakfast was laid. “I'll get
Mr. Franklin, sir.”
A minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room.
This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man's only brother.
He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies.
“Good-morning, gentlemen.”
Inspector Wells made the introductions.
“This is Inspector Crome of the C.I.D., Mr. Hercule Poirot and - er - Captain Hayter.”
“Hastings,” I corrected coldly.
Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was
accompanied by a piercing look.
“Let me offer you some breakfast,” he said. “We can discuss the position as we eat.”
There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and
bacon and coffee.
“Now for it,” said Franklin Clarke. “Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position
last night - though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I
really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal
maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A.B.C.
railway guide has been deposited beside the body?”
“That is substantially the position, Mr. Clarke.”
“But why? What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime - even in the most diseased
imagination?”
Poirot nodded his head in approval.
“You go straight to the point, Mr. Clarke,” he said.
“It's not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr. Clarke,” said Inspector Crome.
“That's a matter for an alienist - though I may say that I've had a certain experience of
criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to
assert one's personality, to make a splash in the public eye - in fact, to be a somebody
instead of a nonentity.”
“Is that true, M. Poirot?”
Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by
Inspector Crome, who frowned.
“Absolutely true,” replied my friend.
“At any rate such a man cannot escape detection long,” said Clarke thoughtfully.
“Vous croyez? Ah, but they are cunning - ces gens l
ˆ
. And you must remember such a type has usually all the outer signs of insignificance - he
belongs to the class of person who is usually passed over and ignored or even laughed at!”
“Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr. Clarke,” said Crome, breaking in on the
conversation.
“Certainly.”
“Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no
unexpected letters? Nothing to upset him?”
“No. I should say he was quite his usual self.”
“Not upset and worried in any
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