Chapter 22 Chapter Twenty-One Description of the Murderer

At this very moment, I think, the so-called human element of Poirot began to fade away again.It is as though the human mind cannot withstand sheer terror, and we thus acquire a period of normal human taste. Each of us felt that it was almost impossible to make a move.It wasn't until the fourth letter arrived, revealing the premeditated location of D's murder, that the atmosphere of waiting allowed the tension to ease. But now, those typewritten words on the paper mocked in the white cardboard, and the manhunt started again. Inspector Crome has returned from Scotland Yard.While he was still there, Franklin Clark and Megan Barnard walked in.

The girl explained that she too had just come from Bexhill. "I hope to ask Mr. Clark some questions." She seemed desperately looking for excuses and justifications for her course of action.I just noticed this fact and dismissed it. My mind was naturally filled with that letter, and I had nothing else on my mind. I don't think Crome was at all happy about seeing so many different players in this drama.He becomes extremely pompous and uncaring. "I would like to take this letter with me, M. Poirot. If you would be willing to leave a copy..." "No, no, it's not necessary."

"What's your plan, Inspector?" Clark asked. "There are quite comprehensive plans, Mr. Clark." "We're going to get him this time," said Clark. "I can tell you, Inspector. We've formed our own group for this matter, and it's a group of interested parties." Inspector Crome said in his most polite manner: "Really?" "I suppose you might disagree, Inspector?" "You don't have resources to direct, do you, Mr. Clark?" "We have our own plans—that should have some effect." "I don't think you'll have an easy task, Inspector. In fact, I still think that seasoned ABC will plot against you again."

I noticed that Crome was often prompted to speak when all else had failed. "I don't think there will be much public criticism of our arrangements this time around," he said. "That fool has given us plenty of warning. We're only eleventh until next Wednesday, and that will give us plenty of time for a public campaign in the press. Doncaster will be on full alert, each with a value of D. Be on the lookout for anyone with a last name - that would be nice. Also, we're going to have a massive police presence in the town, and police chiefs across the country have agreed to arrange this. Everyone in Doncaster , the police and civilians, will be out to catch a man. With a fair amount of luck, we should be able to catch him."

Clark said quietly: "Obviously, you don't look like a sportsman, Inspector." Crome stared at him. "What do you mean, Mr. Clark?" "My God, how did you not realize that next Wednesday the St. Leger's Derby will be in Doncaster?" The Inspector's jaw dropped.He couldn't say "oh yeah" anyway, and instead he said: "Yes. Yes, that complicates things..." "ABC is not an idiot, even though he is crazy." We all fell silent for a minute or two to appreciate the situation.Those crowds at the racetrack, those ebullient, sports-loving British masses, complicate things endlessly.

Poirot whispered: "Cest ingenieux.Tout de meme cest bien imagine, ca. "I am convinced," Clarke said, "that the murder will be committed at the racetrack—probably when the horses are racing." At this time, his sports-loving nature had a moment of joy in thinking... Inspector Crome stood up, holding the letter. "The St. Leger race made things complicated," he admitted. "It was just bad luck." He goes out.We heard a commotion in the passage.After a while Tora Gray entered the room. She said eagerly: "The superintendent told me there was another letter. Where will the murder be?"

It's raining outside.Torah Gray is wearing a black top and skirt with fur and a little black hat on her blond hair. He spoke to Franklin Clark, walked straight up to him, put a hand on his arm, and waited for his answer. "Doncaster—on St. Leger's day." We sit down and discuss.It goes without saying that we all intend to go to the scene of the crime, but the gathering at the races certainly complicates our tentative plans. A feeling of frustration swept over me.No matter how interested the six people in this group are in this matter, what can they finally do?There will be countless policemen there, and their eyes will be on the alert, watching every possible location.What could six more pairs of eyes do?

Poirot raised his voice, as if answering my thoughts.He spoke like a school principal or a priest. "Mes enfants (French, meaning: my children. - Annotation)," he said, "We cannot spread our forces. We have to deal with this matter in our heads. We have to discover the truth. We We have to say to ourselves—to each of us—what do we know about the killer? So we have to build a composite image of the person we're looking for." "I don't know anything about him," sighed Thora Gray helplessly. "No, no, miss, it is not so. Every one of us knows something about him—if only we could know what we know. I believe that if only we could know that, the truth will come out."

Clark shook his head. "We don't know anything—whether he's old or young, fair or dark! Not one of us has ever seen or spoken to him! We've gone over and over everything we know." "Not in all cases! For example, Miss Gray has told us that she did not see or speak to strangers on the day Sir Carmichael Clarke was murdered." Thora Gray nodded. "indeed so." "Did you? Lady Clark told us, miss, that she looked out of the window and saw you standing on the steps talking to a man." "She saw me talking to a man?" The girl looked genuinely shocked.It was evident that the innocent, clear look on her face could only be true and innocent.

She shook her head. "Lady Clark must be mistaken." She let out that exclamation suddenly, and a flush ran across her cheeks. "I remember now! What a fool! I forgot it all, but it doesn't matter. It was just a sock man—you know, you're a veteran. He's so stubborn, I've got to get rid of him Go. I was passing the hall when he came to the door, and he spoke to me instead of ringing the bell, but he was the kind of guy who didn't mean anything. I think that's why I'll forget him." Poirot rocked back and forth, clasping his head in his hands.He mumbled so violently that the others were silent and kept their eyes on him.

"Stockings," he whispered, "stockings... stockings... stockings... Ca vient (French, meaning: right.—Annotation)... stockings... stockings ...that's the theme - yes ... three months ago ... that day ... now, Bon Dieu, I know." He sat upright, watching me with a domineering gaze. "Do you remember, Hastings? We went upstairs in that little shop in Andover. In that bedroom there was a pair of little silk stockings on a chair. And now I've known for two days What caught my attention before. It was you, miss—" He turned to Megan, "you talked about your mother crying because she bought your sister some new stockings on the day of the murder. ..." He looked around at all of us. "Do you understand? It's a recurring theme in all three murders. It can't be a coincidence. I had a feeling the moment the lady spoke. There was something going on with what she was saying. I Now I know what it has to do with it. Mrs. Fowler, Mrs. Asher's next-door neighbor, said something about someone always trying to sell you a product--she also said about the long Socks. Please tell me, miss, that your mother didn't buy those socks from a store, but from someone who came to sell them. Is it true?" "Yeah, yeah, she did it... I think about it now. She said something about how she felt sorry for these hapless men running around trying to get orders." "But what's the connection?" cried Franklin. "A man selling stockings proves nothing!" "I tell you, my friends, it can't be a coincidence. Three crimes—in each case a man was there selling stockings, and peeping into the place." He walked around the Torah in a swirl. "A vous la parole (French, meaning: Please tell me.—Annotation)! Please describe this person." She looked at him blankly. "I don't... I don't remember how... He had glasses, I think—he had a shabby coat on..." "Mais que ca, mademoiselle" "He's hunched over...I don't know. I barely looked at him, he's not the type to get your attention..." Poirot said in a low voice: "You are quite right, miss. There is no doubt that the whole mystery of the murder rests on your description of the murderer. He is the murderer! He is not the kind of man to attract your attention! Yes—it is absolutely Doubt...you have described the murderer's appearance!"