Chapter 34 Chapter Thirty-Three by Alexander Bonaparte Castells

I was not present when Poirot met with that eccentric, Alexander Bonaparte Cust.Because of Poirot's connections with the police and the particular circumstances of the case, he had no trouble obtaining a warrant from the Home Office—but I was not included in that warrant.In Poirot's view, this meeting must be absolutely private, that is, only two people face to face, which is necessary under any circumstances. Nevertheless, he related to me what happened between them in detail, and I recorded it with as much confidence as if I had been there myself. Mr Cust seemed to have recoiled.His hunched back was even more obvious, and his fingers were pulling at his clothes aimlessly.

I imagined that Poirot must have been silent for some time. He sat there, looking at the man across from him. The atmosphere in the house became serene and laid-back—calm and easy—full of endless ease. It was sure to be a dramatic moment—the meeting of two antagonists in one long play.If I had been in Poirot's position, I would have felt the dramatic shock. However, Poirot would be a nobody if he were not well known.He was concentrating on exerting some kind of influence over the man in front of him. At last he said gently: "Do you know who I am?" The other man shook his head.

"No, no, I should say I don't know, unless you're Mr. Lucas's—what do they call you?—squire. Or are you working for Mr. Maynard?" (Maynard and Cole are defense attorneys.) His tone was polite, but not very interested.He seemed distracted. "I am Hercule Poirot..." Poirot said the words gently... and watched his reaction. Mr Custer looked up quietly. "Really?" He spoke as naturally as Inspector Crome - only without the supercilious arrogance. After a moment, he repeated his words. "Oh, is it?" he said, and this time his tone was different—there was a disenchanted interest in the conversation.He raised his head and looked at Poirot.

Hercule Poirot nodded gracefully to his gaze. "Yes," he said, "I am the one you are writing to." The eye contact was broken in an instant.Mr. Custer lowered his eyes, and said angrily and fretfully: "I never wrote to you. I didn't write those letters. I've said it many times." "I know," said Poirot, "but if you hadn't written those letters, who would?" "It's an enemy, I'm sure I have an enemy. They're all against me, the police -- everybody -- is against me. It's a huge conspiracy." Poirot did not answer.

Mr Custer said: "Everyone is against me - that's always the case." "Was it like that when you were a child?" Mr. Custer appeared to be lost in thought. "No, no, it wasn't like that then. My mother liked me, but she was too ambitious--terribly ambitious. That's why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some ridiculous ideas, Think I'm going to be something big. She's always asking me to keep going, she's always talking about willpower...and saying everyone can be the master of their destiny...she says I can do anything!" He was silent for a minute.

"Of course, she was dead wrong. It didn't take long for me to find out about myself. In life, I'm not the type to keep going. I keep doing the wrong thing—making myself look ridiculous, and I'm a coward. Shyness - fear of dealing with people. I didn't have a good time at school - the boys found out my Christian name and they used to make fun of me for it... I was terrible at school - games, homework, everything Things are pretty bad." He shook his head. "Poor mother just passed away. She was full of disappointment...Even when I was in business school, I was pretty stupid - it took me longer than others to learn to type and shorthand, and I didn't Feeling stupid - if you know what I mean."

He suddenly looked earnestly at the other man. "I understand what you mean," said Poirot. "Go on." "It was exactly that feeling, and everyone else thought I was stupid, and it was very demoralizing. Later, when I was working in the office, it was the same." "Was it the same later in the war?" asked Poirot urgently. Mr. Custer's face suddenly brightened. "You know," he said, "I love war. It's the first time in war that I feel like everybody else. We're all in the same predicament. I'm as good as everybody else."

His smile disappeared. "Then I had a head injury, very minor. But they noticed I was having cramps... Of course, I always knew that sometimes I wasn't sure what I was doing. You know, there was a moment of inattention. Of course , I fell once or twice. I really thought they shouldn't be suing me for it. No, I don't think that's right." "And then?" asked Poirot. "I had a chance as a clerk, of course, and then a lot of lucrative jobs. After the war, I wasn't doing so badly. I always missed promotions, and I didn't go very far. Things It started to get really hard - really hard... especially when the depression set in. To tell you the truth, I almost couldn't make it through (and you're pretty decent as a clerk) until I got this A job selling stockings, with a salary and commission!"

Poirot said gently: "But are you aware that the company you speak of as employing you denies this fact?" Mr Cust was excited again. "That's because they were involved in the collusion -- they definitely were involved in the collusion." He continued: "I got written evidence — written evidence. I got letters from them telling me where to go, who to meet." "It's not really a written basis—it was typewritten." "That's all the same. A large business of wholesale manufacturers naturally uses a typewriter to write letters." "Mr. Custer, don't you know that typewriters are recognizable? All those letters were typed on some typewriter."

"What do you mean?" "On your typewriter—the one you found in your room." "That was sent by that company when I started working." "Yes, but the letters came afterward. So it's like, you typed the letters yourself and sent them to yourself, didn't you?" "No, no. It's part of the trick to frame me." He suddenly added: "Other than that, these may have been typed on the same typewriter." "Same kind, not the same typewriter." Mr. Cust repeated emphatically: "It's a conspiracy." "And what about those ABCs you found in the closet?"

"I didn't know them at all. I thought they were stockings." "Why did you tick Mrs. Ascher's name off the first Andover list?" "Because I decided to start selling from her, people always have a beginning." "Yes, that's right, there is always a beginning." "I don't mean that!" said Mr. Custer. "I don't mean what you say." "But do you know what I mean?" Mr Cust was speechless, he was shaking. "I didn't do it!" he said. "I'm totally innocent! It's all wrong. Why, look at that second murder—the one at Bexhill. I was in Eastbourne Play dominoes. You gotta admit it!" His voice was triumphant. "Yes," said Poirot, his voice thoughtful--pleasant, "but it's easy enough to get a day wrong, isn't it? And if you're an indomitable, positive person, Like Strange, you'd never consider the possibility of a mistake. You said you'd insist...he's that type of guy. That hotel receptionist - when you signed, extremely It's easy to write down the wrong date - and nobody will notice then." "I was playing dominoes that night." "Your dominoes must be playing well, I'm sure." Mr Cust panicked a little. "I, I—oh, I believe I am." "That's a fascinating game, isn't it? It's got lots of tricks?" "Oh, it's fun - it's fun! We used to play it a lot in the city, at lunchtime. Total strangers get together and play dominoes, and you'd be surprised the way it was .” He choked. "There was one guy I'll never forget because of something he said to me—we just had a cup of coffee together and talked and started playing dominoes. Oh, and in the next twenty Within minutes, I felt like I would know that person for the rest of my life." "What did he tell you?" asked Poirot. Castor's face darkened. "It made me a transformation—a dirty transformation. He said your fate was written in your own hands. He showed me his hand, and the lines showed that he had nearly drowned twice— But he narrowly escaped death both times. Then he looked at my palm and told me some ridiculous things. He said I would be one of the most famous people in England before I died, and the whole country would talk about me, but he Said—he said..." Mr. Custer is broken--hes and hems... "yes?" There was a calm magnetism in Poirot's stare.Mr. Custer looked at him, away, and back at him like a bewitched rabbit. "He said -- he said it looked like I was going to die a heroic death, and he laughed and said, 'It looks like you're going to die on the gallows.' And then he laughed and said it was just a joke... ..." He was suddenly silent, his eyes left Poirot's face - they floated to and fro... "My head—my head hurts me so badly...Sometimes a headache is a cruel thing. And sometimes I don't know—I don't know..." He stepped down. "But you know, don't you?" he said, "you did those murders?" Mr. Cust looked up, and his glance was rather simple and direct.All resistance was gone from him, and he looked strangely peaceful. "Yes," he said, "I know." "But—I'm right, aren't I?—You don't know why you do those things?" Mr Cust shook his head. "No," he said, "I don't know."