A conversation between two old military gossips in my Club put me on the track of General Macarthur. A man who had recently returned from the Amazon gave me a devastating resume of the activities of one Philip Lombard. An indignant mem sahib in Majorca recounted the tale of the Puritan Emily Brent and her wretched servant girl. Anthony Marston I selected from a large group of people who had committed similar offences. His complete callousness and his inability to feel any responsibility for the lives he had taken made him, I considered, a type dangerous to the community and unfit to live. Ex-Inspector Blore came my way quite naturally, some of my professional brethren discussing the Landor case with freedom and vigour. I took a serious view of his offence. The police, as servants of the law, must be of a high order of integrity. For their word is perforce believed by virtue of their profession.

Finally there was the case of Vera Claythorne. It was when I was crossing the Atlantic. At a late hour one night the sole occupants of the smoking-room were myself and a good-looking young man called Hugo Hamilton.

Hugo Hamilton was unhappy. To assuage that unhappiness he had taken a considerable quantity of drink. He was in the maudlin confidential stage. Without much hope of any result I automatically started my routine conversational gambit. The response was startling. I can remember his words now. He said:

«You’re right. Murder isn’t what most people think – giving some one a dollop of arsenic – pushing them over a cliff – that sort of stuff.» He leaned forward, thrusting his face into mine. He said: «I’ve known a murderess – known her, I tell you. And what’s more I was crazy about her… God help me, sometimes I think I still am… It’s Hell, I tell you – Hell – You see, she did it more or less for me… Not that I ever dreamed. Women are fiends – absolute fiends – you wouldn’t think a girl like that – a nice straight jolly girl – you wouldn’t think she’d do that, would you? That she’d take a kid out to sea and let it drown – you wouldn’t think a woman could do a thing like that?»

I said to him:

«Are you sure she did do it?»

He said and in saying it he seemed suddenly to sober up:

«I’m quite sure. Nobody else ever thought of it. But I knew the moment I looked at her – when I got back – after… And she knew I knew… What she didn’t realize was that I loved that kid…»

He didn’t say any more, but it was easy enough for me to trace back the story and reconstruct it.

I needed a tenth victim. I found him in a man named Morris. He was a shady little creature. Amongst other things he was a dope pedlar and he was responsible for inducing the daughter of friends of mine to take to drugs. She committed suicide at the age of twenty-one.

During all this time of search my plan had been gradually maturing in my mind. It was now complete and the coping stone to it was an interview I had with a doctor in Harley Street. I have mentioned that I underwent an operation. My interview in Harley Street told me that another operation would be useless. My medical adviser wrapped up the information very prettily, but I am accustomed to getting at the truth of a statement.