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Note from a Killer


Poor Mr. Pelter--


Not so good et these little criminol motters os you
thoucjht yourself, ore you? Rother post your prime,
perhops? Let us see if you con do any better this
time. This time it's on eosy one. Churston on the
30th. Do Iy end do something obout it! It's o bit dull
hoving it oil my own woy, you knou!


Good hunting. Ever yours,
A.B.C.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


Berkley Books by Agatha Christie


AND THEN THERE WERE NONE THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES
THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN
N OR M? PARKER PYNE INVESTIGATES (also published as

MR. PARKER PYNE, DETECTIVE) PARTNERS IN CRIME
THE SECRET ADVERSARY THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS
TIlE SITTAFORD MYSTERY (also published as THE MURDER AT HAZELMOOR) THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD TOWARDS ZERO
WHY DIDN'T THEY ASK EVANS? (also published as THE BOOMERANG CLUE)


AGATHA CHRISTIE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY


STAR OVER BETHLEHEM


Featuring Hercule Poirot


THE A.B.C. MURDERS APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH
THE BIG FOUR CARDS ON THE TABLE
DEATH IN THE CLOUDS (also published as DEATH IN THE AIR)
DUMB WITNESS (also published as POIROT LOSES A CLIENT)
ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER EVIL UNDER THE SUN
FIVE LITTLE PIGS (also published as MURDER IN RETROSPECT) HALLOWE'EN PARTY THE HOLLOW THE LABORS Oi: HERCULES LORD EDGWARE DIES (also published as THIRTEEN AT DINNER)
MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA MURDER IN THE MEWS

(also published as DEAD MAN'S MIRROR) THE MURDER ON THE LINKS
THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES THE MYSTERY OF THE BLUE TRAIN ONE. TWO. BUCKLE MY SHOE (also published as THE PATRIOTIC MURDERS)

PERIL AT END HOUSE TAKEN AT THE FLOOD (also published as

THERE IS A TIDE...) THREE ACT TRAGEDY (also published as
MURDER IN THREE ACTS) THE UNDERDOG AND OTHER STORIES
THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION AND OTHER STORIES


Featuring Miss Jane Marple


DOUBLE SIN AND OTHER STORIES
MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES THE MOVING FINGER
MURDER AT THE VICARAGE A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED
A POCKET PULL OE RYE THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
THE THIRTEEN PROBLEMS (also published as THE TUESDAY CLUB MURDERS) THREE BLIND MICE AND OTHER STORIES


TheA,B,C,


BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK


If Jalrchased this book without a cor you should be aware that
payment for this "stripped book."


This Berkley book contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition. It has been

completely reset in a typeface designed

for easy reading and was printed from new film.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


A Ierkley Book / published by arrangement with
G. P. Putnam's Sons


Pn,rnNo mSTORV

Dodd, Mead edition published 1936
Berkley edition /November 1991


All rights reserved

Copyright 1935, 1936 by Agatha Christie.

Copyright renewed 1962, 1963 by Agatha Christie Mallowan.
'rhis book may not be reproduced in whole or in pan, by
mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: G. P. Putnam's Sons,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.


ISBN: 0-425-13024-X


A BERKLEY BOOK TM 757, 375

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name "BERKLEY" and the "B" logo

are tradenarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.


RINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AM pounds ICA


10


Foreword
by Captain Arthur Hastings, O.B.E.

In this narrative of mine I have departed from my usual practice of re-
!atirttg only those incidents and scenes at which i myself was present.
Certain chapters, therefore, are written in the third person.
I ,█sh to assure my readers that I can vouch for the occurrences related
in these chapters. If I have taken a certain poetic license in de-scriling
the thoughts and feelings of various persons, it is because I
believe I have set them down with a reasonable amount of accuracy. I
may add that they have been "vetted" by my friend Hercule Poirot
himself.
Irt conclusion, I will say that if I have described at too great length
some of the secondary personal relationships which arose as a consequeoe
of this strange series of crimes, it is because the human and personal
element can never be ignored. Hercule Poirot once taught me in a
very dramatic manner that romance can be a by-product of crime.
s to the solving of the A.B.C. mystery, I can only say that in my
oirtion Poirot showed real genius in the way he tackled a problem entirely
unhke any which had previously come hs way.


Contents


I. The Letter

II.
(Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

II1.
Rndover

IV.
Mm. Rscher

V.
Mary DrouJer

VI.
The Scene of the Crime

VII.
Mr. Partridge and Mr. Riddell

VIII.
The Second Letter

DC.
The Bexhill-on-Sea Murder

X.
The Barnards

](1.
Megan Bamard

XlI.
Donald Fraser

XlIt.
R Conference

XIV.
The Third Letter

XV.
Sir Carmichael Clarke

XVl.
(Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

XVI!.
Manning Time

XVIII.
Poirot Makes a Speech

XIX.
By Way of Sweden

XX.
Lady Clarke


vii


1


7

8

13

18

93

31

36

43

5O

55

6O

64

70

76


83

86

91

100

104


vii{
CONTENTS


X3(!II.

OIV.


XXVlI.
XL'VlII.


XXXl.

XCXII,

XXXlII.

XXXlV.

XXXV. --


Description of a Murclerer
(Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)
September 11 th. Doncastr
(Nat from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

(Nat from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

(Not from Coptain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

The Doncaster Murder

(Nat from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

Fit Scotland Yard

(Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

Hercule Poirot Fisks Questions
Find Catch a Fox

Alexander Bonaparte Cust
Poirot Explains


I. The Letter

It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South America
for a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for us out
there. Like every one else, we had suffered from world depression. I
had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful
if a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage
the ranch.
I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England
was to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot.
I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats in
London. I accused him (and he admitted the fact) of having chosen this
particular building entirely on account of its strictly geometrical
pearance and proportions.
"But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you not
find it so?"
I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alluding
to an old joke, I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managed
to induce hens to lay square eggs?
Poirot laughed heartily.
"Ah, you remember that? Alas! no--science has not yet induced the
hens to conform to modern tastes, they still lay eggs of different sizes
and colours!"
I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking
wonderfully well--hardly a day older than when I had last seen him.


AGATHA CHRISTIE


"You're looking in fine fettle, Poirot," I said. "You've hardly aged
at all. In fact, if it were possible, I should say that you had fewer grey

hairs than when I saw you last."

Poirot beamed on me.

"And why is that not possible? It is quite true."

"Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of

from black to grey?"

"Precisely."

"But surely that's a scientific impossibility!"

"Not at all."

"But that's very extraordinary. It seems against nature."

"As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind.
Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention the
solution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doing
SO!"

I stared at him puzzled.

Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bot-tle
in his hand which he handed to me.

I took it, for the moment uncomprehending.

It bore the words:


REVlVlT.--To bring back the natural tone of the hair. REVlVIT is

NOT a dye. In five shades, Ash, Chestnut, 7tian, Brown, Black.


"Poirot," I cried. "You have dyed your hair!"

"Ah, the comprehension comes to you!"

"So thatwhy your hair looks so much blacker than it did last time
I was back."

"Exactly."

"Dear me," I said, recovering from the shock. "I suppose next time I
come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches---or are you
doing so now?"

Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point.
He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw.

"No, no, indeed, mort ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far
off. The false moustaches! Quelle horreur?'

He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine charac-ter.

"Well, they are very luxuriant still," I said.

"N'est-ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of
moustaches to equal mine."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

A good job too, I thought privately. But I would not for the world
have hurt Poirot's feelings by saying so.
Instead I asked if he still practiced his profession on occasions.
"I know," I said, "that you actually retired years agog"
"C'est vrai. To grow the vegetable marrows! And immediately a
murder occurs--and I send the vegetable marrows to promenade
themselves to the devil. And since then--I know very well what you
will say--I am like the Prima Donna who makes positively the farewell
performance! That farewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinite
number of times!"
I laughed.
"In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: This is the end.
But no, something else arises! And I will admit it, my friend, the retirement
I care for it not at all. If the little grey cells are not exercised, they
grow the rust."
"I see," I said. "You exercise them in moderation."
"Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only the
cream of crime."
"Has there been much cream about?"
"Pas mai. Not long ago I had a narrow escape."
"Of failure?"
"No, no." Poirot looked shocked. "But I--l, Hercule Poirot, was
nearly exterminated."
I whistled.
"An enterprising murderer!"
"Not so much enterprising as careless," said Poirot. "Precisely
that---careless. But let us not talk of it. You know, Hastings, in many
ways I regard you as my mascot."
"Indeed?" I said. "In what ways?"
Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on:
"As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: Something
will arise. As in former days we will hunt together, we two. But if
so it must be no common affair. It must be something"--he waved his
hands excitedly--"something recherchd--delicate--fine..." He gave
the last untranslatable word its full fiavour.
"Upon my word, Poirot," I said. "Any one would think you were ordering
a dinner at the Ritz."
"Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true." He
sighed. "But I believe in luck--in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny
to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivable
error."


4

AGATHA CHRISTIE


"What do you call the unforgivable error?

"Overlooking the obvious."

I turned this over in my mind without quite seeing the point.

"Well," I said presently, smiling, "has this super crime turned up
yet?"

"Pas encore. At least--that

He paused. A frown of perplexity creased his forehead. His hands
automatically straightened an object or two that I had inadvertently
pushed awry.

"I am not sure," he said slowly.

There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him in
surprise.

The frown still iingered.

Suddenly with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the room
to a desk near the window. Its contents', I need hardly say, were all
neatly docketed and pigeon-holed so that he was able at once to lay his
hand upon the paper he wanted.

He came slowly across to me, an open letter in his hand. He read it
through himself, then passed it to me.

"Tell me, rnon ami," he said. "What do you make of thisT'

I took it from him with some interest.

It was written on thickish white notepaper in printed characters:


MR. HERCULE POIROT--You fancy yourself, don't you, at solving
mysteries that are too dicult for our poor thick-headed British po-lice
? Let us see, Mr. Clever Poirot, just how clever you can be. Per-haps
you 'll find this nut too hard to craclc Look out for Andover on
the 21st of the month.

Yours, etc.,

A.B.C.


I glanced at the envelope. That also was printed.

"Postmarked W.C. 1," said Poirot as I turned my attention to the
postmark. "Well, what is your opinion.'?"

I shrugged my shoulders as I handed it back to him.
"Some madman or other, I suppose."
"That is all you have to say.'?"

"Well--doesn't it sound like a madman to youT'

"Yes, my friend, it does."

His tone was grave. I looked at him curiously.

"You take this very seriously, Poirot."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
5

"A madman, mon ami, is to be taken seriously. A madman is a very
dangerous thing."
"Yes, of course, that is true .... I hadn't considered that point ....
But what I meant was, it sounds more like a rather idiotic kind of hoax.
Perhaps some convivial idiot who had had one over the eight." "Comment? Nine7 Nine what?
"Nothing--just an expression. I meant a fellow who was tight. No,
damn it, a fellow who had had a spot too much to drink."
"Merci, Hastings--the expression 'tight' I am acquainted with it. As
you say, there may be nothing more to it than that .... "
"But you think there isT" I asked, struck by the dissatisfaction of his
tone.
Poirot shook his head doubtfully, but he did not speak.
"What have you done about it.'?" I inquired.
"What can one do.'? I showed it to Japp. He was of the same opinion
as you--a stupid hoax--that was the expression he used. They get
these things every day at Scotland Yard. I, too, have had my share '
"But
you take this one seriously?
Poirot
replied slowly.
"There
is something about that letter, Hastings, that I do not like
.... "
In
spite of myself, his tone impressed me.
"You
think--what?"
He
shook his head, and picking up the letter, put it away again in the desk.
"If
you really take it seriously, can't you do something?" I asked. "As
always, the man of action! But what is there to do? The county police
have seen the letter but they, too, do not take it seriously. There are
no fingerprints on it. There are no local clues as to the possible writer."
"In
fact there is only your own instinct.'?"
"Not
instinct, Hastings. Instinct is a bad word. It is my knowledge--my
experience--that tells me that something about that letter
is wrong--"
He
gesticulated as words failed him, then shook his head again.
"I
may be making the mountain out of the anthill. In any case there is
nothing to be done but wait."
"Well,
the 21 st is Friday. If a whacking great robbery takes place near
Andover then--"
"Ah,
what a comfort that would be I "


AGATHA CHRISTIE


"A comfort.'?" I stared. The word seemed to be a very extraordinary
one to use.

"A robbery may be a thrill but it can hardly be a comfort!" I pro-tested.

Poirot shook his head energetically.

"You are in error, my friend. You do not understand my meaning. A
robbery would be a relief since it would dispossess my mind of the fear

of something else."

"Of what?"

"Murder," said Hercule Poirot.


II. (Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)


Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust rose from his seat and peered near-sightedly
round the shabby bedroom. His back was stiff from sitting in
a cramped position and as he stretched himself to his full height an on-looker
would have realized that he was, in reality, quite a tall man. His
stoop and his near-sighted peering gave a delusive impression.

Going to a well-worn overcoat hanging on the back of the door, he
took from the pocket a packet of cheap cigarettes and some matches.
He lit a cigarette and then returned to the table at which he had been
sitting. He picked up a railway guide and co0sulted it, then he returned
to the consideration of a typewritten list of names. With a pen, he made
a tick against one of the first names on the list.

It was Thursday, June 20th.


III. Andover


I had been impressed at the time by Poirot's forebodings about the
anonymous letter he had received, but I must admit that the matter had
passed from my mind when the 21st actually arrived and the first re-minder
of it came with a visit paid to my friend by Chief Inspector
Japp of Scotland Yard. The C.I.D. inspector had been known to us for
many years and he gave me a hearty welcome.

"Well, I never," he exclaimed. "If it isn't Captain Hastings back
from the wilds of the what do you call it! Quite like old days seeing
you here with Monsieur Poirot. You're looking well, too. Just a little
bit thin on top, eh? Well, that's what we're all coming to. I'm the
same."

I winced slightly. I was under the impression that owing to the care-ful
way I brushed my hair across the top of my head that thinness re-ferred
to by Japp was quite unnoticeable. However, Japp had never
been remarkable for tact where I was concerned so I put a good face
upon it and agreed that we were none of us getting any younger.

"Except Monsieur Poirot here," said Japp. "Quite a good advertise-ment
for a hair tonic, he'd be. Face fungus sprouting finer than ever.
Coming out into the limelight, too, in his old age. Mixed up in all the
celebrated cases of the day. Train mysteries, air mysteries, high society
deaths--oh, he's here, there and everywhere. Never been so celebrated
as since he retired."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

"I have already told Hastings that I am like the Prima Donna who
makes always one more appearance," said Poirot, smiling.
"Shouldn't wonder if you ended by detecting your own death," said
Japp, laughing heartily. "That's an idea, that is. Ought to be put in a
book."
"It will be Hastings who will have to do that," said Poirot, twinkling
at me.
"Ha ha! That would be a joke, that would," laughed Japp.
I failed to see why the idea was so extremely amusing, and in any
case I thought the joke was in poor taste. Poirot, poor old chap, is getting
on. Jokes about his approaching demise can hardly be agreeable to
him.
Perhaps my manner showed my feelings, for Japp changed the subject.

"Have you heard about Monsieur Poirot's anonymous letter? he
asked.
"I showed it to Hastings the other day," said my friend.
"Of course," I exclaimed. "It had quite slipped my memory. Let me
see, what was the date mentioned?"
"The 21st," said Japp. "That's what I dropped in about. Yesterday
was the 21st and just out of curiosity I rang up Andover last night. It
was a hoax all right. Nothing doing. One broken shop window--kid
throwing stones--and a couple of drunk and disorderlies. So just for
once our Belgian friend was barking up the wrong tree."
"I am relieved, I must confess," acknowledged Poirot.
"You'd quite got the wind up about it, hadn't you?" said Japp affectionately.
"Bless you, we get dozens of letters like that coming in every
day! People with nothing better to do and a bit weak in the top story sit
down and write 'em. They don't mean any harm! Just a kind of excitement.''
"I have indeed been foolish to take the matter so seriously," said
Poirot. "It is the nest of the horse that I put my nose into there."
"You're mixing up mares and wasps," said Japp. "Pardon ?"
"Just a couple of proverbs. Well, I must be off. Got a little business
in the next street to see to---receiving stolen jewelry. I thought I'd just
drop in on my way and put your mind at rest. Pity to let those grey cells
function unnecessarily."
With which words and a hearty laugh, Japp departed.
"He does not change much, the good Japp, eh?" asked Poirot.


l0

AGATHA CHRISTIE

"He looks much older," I said. "Getting as grey as a badger," I
added vindictively.
Poirot coughed and said:
"You know, Hastings, there is a little device--my hairdresser is a
man of great ingenuity---one attaches it to the scalp and brushes one's
own hair over it--it is not a wig, you comprehend--but--"
"Poirot," I roared. "Once and for all I will have nothing to do with
the beastly inventions of your confounded hairdresser. What's the matter
with the top of my head?"
"Nothing--nothing at all."
"It's not as though I were going bald."
"Of course not! Of course not!"
"The hot summers out there naturally cause the hair to fall out a bit.
I shall take back a really good hair tonic."
"Prdcisdment. "
"And, anyway, what business is it of Japp's? He always was an offensive
kind of devil. And no sense of humour. The kind of man who
laughs when a chair is pulled away just as a man is about to sit down."
"A great many people would laugh at that."
"It's utterly senseless."
"From the point of view of the man about to sit, certainly it is."
"Well," I said, slightly recovering my temper. (I admit that I am
touchy about the thinness of my hair.) "I'm sorry that anonymous letter
business came to nothing."
"I have indeed been in the wrong over that. About that letter, there
was, I thought, the odour of the fish. Instead a mere stupidity. Alas, I
grow old and suspicious like the blind watch-dog who growls when
there is nothing there."
"If I'm going to co-operate with you, we must look about for some
other 'creamy' crime," I said with a laugh.
"You remember your remark of the other day? If you could order a
crime as one orders a dinner, what would you choose?"
I fell in with his humour.
"Let me see now. Let's review the menu. Robbery? Forgery? No, I
think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder--red-blooded
murder--with trimmings, of course."
"Naturally. The hors d'oeuvres."
"Who shall the victim be-man or woman? Man, I think. Some bigwig.
American millionaire. Prime Minister. Newspaper proprietor.
Scene of the crime--well, what's wrong with the good old library?
Nothing like it for atmosphere. As for the weapon--well, it might be a


TIlE A.B.C. MURDERS


curiously twisted dagger---or some blunt instrument--a carved stone
idol--"

Poirot sighed.

"Or, of course," I said, "there's poison--but that's always so techni-cal.
Or a revolver shot echoing in the night. Then there must be a beau-tiful
girl or two--"

"With auburn hair," murmured my friend.

"Your same old joke. One of the beautiful girls, of course, must be
unjustly suspected--and there's some misunderstanding between her
and the young man. And then, of course, there must be some other
suspects--an older womark, dangerous type--and some friend
or rival of the dead man's--and a quiet secretary--dark horse--and a
hearty man with a bluff manner--and a couple of discharged servants
or gamekeepers or something--and a damn fool of a detective rather
like Japp---and well--that's about all."

"That is your idea of the cream, eh?"
"I gather you don't agree."
Poirot looked at me sadly.

"You have made there a very pretty r6sum6 of nearly all the detec-tive
stories that have ever been written."

"Well," I said. "What would you order?"

Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came
puningly from between his lips.

"A very simple crime. A crime with no complications. A crime of

quiet domestic life.., very unimpassioned--very intime."

"How can a crime be intime?"

"Supposing," murmured Poirot, "that four people sit down to play
bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of
the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he
is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and, intent on the play of the
hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for
you! Which of the four was it?"

"Well," I said. "I can't see any excitement in that!"

Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.

"No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail,
no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poi-sons.
You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not
one murder, but a series of murders."

"I admit," I said, "that a second murder in a book often cheers things
up. If the murder happens in the first chapter, and you have to follow


AGATHA CHRISTIE

up everybody's alibi until the last page but one--well, it does get a bit
tedious."
The telephone rang and Poirot rose to answer.
"'Allo," he said." 'Ailo. Yes, it is Hercule Poirot speaking."
He listened for a minute or two and then I saw his face change.
His own side of the conversation was short and disjointed. "Mais oui . . . "Yes, of course...
"But yes, we will come...
"Naturally...
"It may be as you say...
"Yes, I will bring it. A tout l'heure then."
He replaced the receiver and came across the room to me.
"That was Japp speaking, Hastings."
"Yes.*"
"He had just got back to the Yard. There was a message from Andover....
"Andover?' I cried excitedly.
Poirot said slowly:
"An old woman of the name of Ascher who keeps a little tobacco
and newspaper shop has been found murdered."
I think I felt ever so slightly damped. My interest, quickened by the
sound of Andover, suffered a faint check. I had expected something
fantastic---out oftbe way! The murder of an old woman who kept a lit-
fie tobacco shop seemed, somehow, sordid and uninteresting.
Poirot continued in the same slow, grave voice:
"The Andover police believe they can put their hand on the man
who did it--"
I felt a second throb of disappointment.
"It seems the woman was on bad terms with her husband. He drinks
and is by way of being rather a nasty customer. He's threatened to take
her life more than once.
"Nevertheless," continued Poirot, "in view of what has happened, the
police there would like to have another look at the anonymous letter l
received. I have said that you and I will go down to Andover at once ?'
My spirits revived a little. After all, sordid as this crime seemed
be, it was a crime, and it was a long time since I had had any associ,ltion
with crime and criminals.
I hardly listened to the next words Poirot said. But they were to
come back to me with significance later.
''This is the beginning," said Hercule Poirot.


IV. Mrs. Rscher


We were received at Andover by Inspector Glen, a tall, fair-haired m
with a pleasant smile.

For the sake of conciseness I think I had better give a brief r6sum6
the bare facts of the case.

The crime was discovered by Police Constable Dover at I A.M. '

the morning of the 22nd. When on his round he tried the door of t
shop and found it unfastened. He entered and at first thought the pla
was empty. Directing his torch over the counter, however, he cau
sight of the huddled-up body of the old woman. When the police s
geon arrived on the spot it was elicited that the woman had been stru
down by a heavy blow on the back of the head, probably while she n
reaching down a packet of cigarettes from the shelf behind the count
Death must have occurred about nine to seven hours previously.

"But we've been able to get it down a bit nearer than that," e
plained the inspector. "We've found a man who went in and boug
some tobacco at 5:30. And a second man went in and found the sh
empty, as he thought, at five minutes past six. That puts the time at b
tween 5:30 and 6:05. So far I haven't been able to find any one wi
saw this man Ascher in the neighbourhood, but, of course, it's early
yet. He was in the Three Crowns at nine o'clock pretty far gone

drink. When we get hold of him he'll be detained on suspicion."
"Not a very desirable character, inspector?" asked Poirot.
"Unpleasant bit of goods."

15


14

AGATHA CHRISTIE

"He didn't live with his wife?"
"No, they separated some years ago. Ascher's a German. He was
waiter at one time, but he took to drink and gradually became unenployable.
His wife went into service for a bit. Her last place was as
cook-housekeeper to an old lady, Miss Rose. She allowed her husband
so much out of her wages to keep himself, but he was always getting
drunk and coming round and making scenes at the places where she
was employed. That's why she took the post with Miss Rose at The
Grange. It's three miles out of Andover, dead in the country. He
couldn't get at her there so well. When Miss Rose died, she left Mrs.
Ascher a small legacy, and the woman started this tobacco and newsagent
business--quite a tiny place--just cheap cigarettes and a few
newspapers--that sort of thing. She just about managed to keep going.
Ascher used to come round and abuse her now and again and she used
to give him a bit to get rid of him. She allowed him fifteen shillings a
week regular."
"Had they any children?" asked Poirot.
"No. There's a niece. She's in service near Overton. Very superior
steady young woman." ,
"And you say this man Ascher used to threaten his wife?"
"That's fight. He was a terror when he was in drink---cursing and
swearing that he'd bash her head in. She had a hard time, did Mrs.
Ascher."
"What age of woman was she?"
"Close on sixty--respectable and hardworking."
Poirot said gravely:
"It is your opinion, inspector, that this man Ascher committed the
crime?"
The inspector coughed cautiously.
"It's a bit early to say that, Mr. Poirot, but I'd like to hear Franz
Ascher's own account of how he spent yesterday evening. If he can
give a satisfactory account of himself, well and good--if not--"
His pause was a pregnant one.
"Nothing was missing from the shop?"
"Nothing. Money in the till quite undisturbed. No signs of robbery."
"You think that this man Ascher came into the shop drunk, started
abusing his wife and finally struck her down?"
"It seems the most likely solution. But I must confess, sir, I'd like to
have another look at that very odd letter you received. I was wondering
if it was just possible that it came from this man Ascher."
Poirot handed over the letter and the inspector read it with a frown.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 15

"It doesn't read like Ascher," he said at last. "I doubt if Ascher
vouid use the term 'our' British police--not unless he was trying to be
xtra cunning--and I doubt if he's got the wits for that. Then the man's
wreck--all to pieces. His hand's too shaky to print letters clearly like
this. It's good quality notepaper and ink, too. It's odd that the letter
should mention the 21st of the month. Of course it might be a coinci-dence.''

"That is possibleyes."

"But I don't like this kind of coincidence, Mr. Poirot. It's a bit too
pat."

He was silent for a minute or two---a frown creasing his forehead.
"A.B.C. Who the devil could A.B.C. be? We'll see if Mary Drower
(that's the niece) can give us any help. It's an odd business. But for this

letter I'd have put my money on Franz Ascher for a certainty."

"Do you know anything of Mrs. Ascher's past?"

"She's a Hampshire woman. Went into service as a girl up in
London--that's where she met Ascher and married him. Things must
have been difficult for them during the war. She actually left him for
good in 1922. They were in London then. She came back here to get
away from him, but he got wind of where she was and followed her
down here, pestering her for money--" A constable came in. "Yes,
Briggs, what is it?"

"It's the man Ascher, sir. We've brought him in."
"Right. Bring him in here. Where was he?"
"Hiding in a truck on the railway siding."
"He was, was he? Bring him along."

Franz Ascher was indeed a miserable and unprepossessing speci-men.
He was blubbering and cringing and blustering alternately. His
bleary eyes moved shiftily from one face to another.

"What do you want with me? I have not done nothing. It is a shame
and a scandal to bring me here! You are swine, how dare you? His
manner changed suddenly. "No, no, I do not mean that--you would
not hurt a poor old man--not be hard on him. Every one is hard on

poor old Franz. Poor old Franz."

Mr. Ascher started to weep.

"That'll do, Ascher," said the inspector. "Pull yourself together. I'm
aot charging you with anything--yet. And you're not bound to make a
ttatement unless you like. On the other hand, if you're not concerned
in the murder of your wife--"


AGATHA CHRISTIE

Ascher interrupted him--his voice rising to a scream.
"I did not kill her! I did not kill her! It is all lies! You are goddamned
English pigs--all against me. I never kill her--never."
"You threatened to often enough, Ascher.'
"No, no. You do not understand. That was just a joke---a good joke
between me and Alice. She understood."
"Funny kind of joke! Do you care to say where you were yesterday
evening, AscherT'
"Yes, yes--1 tell you everything. I did not go near Alice. I am with
friends--good friends. We are at the Seven Stars--and then we are at
the Red Dog--"
He hurried on, his words tumbling over each other.
"Dick Willows--he was with me--and old Curdie--and George--and
Platt and lots of the boys. I tell you I do not never go near Alice. Ach Gott, it is the truth I am telling you."
His voice rose to a scream. The inspector nodded to his underling.
"Take him away. Detained on suspicion."
"I don't know what to think," he said as the unpleasant shaking old
man with the malevolent, mouthing jaw was removed. "If it wasn't for
the letter, I'd say he did it."
"What about the men he mentionsT'
"A bad crowd--not one of them would stick at perjury. I've no
doubt he was with them the greater part of the evening. A lot depends
on whether any one saw him near the shop between half-past five and six."
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.
"You are sure nothing was taken from the shop?"
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "That depends. A packet or
two of cigarettes might have been taken--but you'd hardly commit
murder for that."
"And there was nothing--how shall I put it--introduced into the
shop. Nothing that was odd there--incongruousT'
"There was a railway guide," said the inspector.
"A railway guide?"
"Yes. It was open and turned face downward on the counter. Looked
as though some one had been looking up the trains from Andover. Either the old woman or a customer."
"Did she sell that type of thing.9''
The inspector shook his head.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


"She sold penny time-tables. This was a big one--kind of thing o,nly

Smith's or a big stationer would keep."
/

A light came into Poirot's eyes. He leant forward.

"A railway guide, you say. A Bradshaw---or an A.B.C. ?"

A light came into the inspector's eyes also.

"By the Lord," he said. "h was an A.B.C."


V. Mary Drower


I think that I can date my interest in the case from the first mention of
the A.B.C. railway guide. Up till then I had not been able to raise much
enthusiasm. This sordid murder of an old woman in a back street shop
was so like the usual type of crime reported in the newspapers that it
failed to strike a significant note. In my own mind I had put down the
anonymous letter with its mention of the 21st as a mere coincidence.
Mrs. Ascber, I felt reasonably sure, had been the victim of her drunken
brute of a husband. But now the mention of the railway guide (so fa
miliarly known by its abbreviation of A.B.C., listing as it did all rail-way
stations in their alphabetical order) sent a quiver of excitement

through me. Surely--surely this could not be a second coincidence?
The sordid crime took on a new aspect.

Who was the mysterious individual who had killed Mrs. Ascher and
left an A.B.C. railway guide behind him?

When we left the police station our first visit was to the mortuary to
see the body of the dead woman. A strange feeling came over me as I
gazed down on that wrinkled old face with the scanty grey hair drawn
back tightly from the temples. It looked so peaceful, so incredibly re-mote
from violence.

"Never knew who or what struck her," observed the sergeant.
"That's what Dr. Kerr says. I'm glad it was that way, poor old soul. A
decent woman she was."

"She must have been beautiful once," said Poirot.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


"Really?" I murmured incredulously.

"But yes, look at the line of the jaw, the bones, the moulding of the
head."

He sighed as he replaced the sheet and we left the mortuary.

Our next move was a brief interview with the police surgeon.

Dr. Kerr was a competent-looking middle-aged man. He spoke
briskly and with decision.

"The weapon wasn't found," he said. "Impossible to say what it
may have been. A weighted stick, a club, a form of sandbag--any of
those would fit the case."

"Would much force be needed to strike such a blow?"

The doctor shot a keen glance at Poirot.

"Meaning, I suppose, could a shaky old man of seventy do it? Oh,
yes, it's perfectly possible--given sufficient weight in the head of the
weapon, quite a feeble person could achieve the desired result."

''Then the murderer could just as well be a woman as a man?"
The suggestion took the doctor somewhat aback.

"A woman, eh? Well, I confess it never occurred to me to connect a
woman with this type of crime. But of course it's possible--perfectly
possible. Only, psychologically speaking, I shouldn't say this was a
woman's crime."

Poirot nodded his head in eager agreement.

"Perfectly, perfectly. On the face of it, highly improbable. But one
must take all possibilities into account. The body was lying--how?"

The doctor gave us a careful description of the position of the vic-tim.
It was his opinion that she had been standing with her back to the
counter (and therefore to her assailant) when the blow had been struck.
She had slipped down in a heap behind the counter quite out of sight of
any one entering the shop casually.

When we had thanked Dr. Kerr and taken our leave, Poirot said:
"You perceive, Hastings, that we have already one further point in
favour of Ascher's innocence. If he had been abusing his wife and

threatening her, she would have been facing him over the counter. In- stead, she had her back to her assailant--obviously she is reaching

down tobacco or cigarettes for a customer."


I gave a little shiver.

"Pretty gruesome."

Poirot shook his head gravely.

"Pauvrefemme," he murmured.

Then he glanced at his watch.


AATHA CHRISTIE


"Overton is not, I think, many miles from here. Shall we run over
there and have an interview with the niece of the dead womanT'

"Surely you will go first to the shop where the crime took placeT'
"I prefer to do that later. I have a reason."

He did not explain further, and a few minutes later we were driving
on the London road in the direction of Overton.

The address which the inspector had given us was that of a good-sized
house about a mile on the London side of the village.

Our ring at the bell was answered by a pretty dark-haired girl whose

eyes were red with recent weeping.

Poirot said gently:

"Ah! I think it is you who are Miss Mary Drower, the parlourmaid
here?"

"Yes, sir, that's fight. I'm Mary, sir."

"Then perhaps I can talk to you for a few minutes if your mistress
will not object. It is about your aunt, Mrs. Ascher."

"The mistress is out, sir. She wouldn't mind, I'm sure, if you came
in here."

She opened the door of a small morning-room. We entered and
Poirot, seating himself on a chair by the window, looked up keenly into
the girl's face.

"You have heard of your aunt's death, of course?"

The girl nodded, tears coming once more into her eyes.

"This morning, sir. The police came over. Oh! it's terrible! Poor
auntie! Such a hard life as she'd had, too. And now this--it's too aw-ful.''

"The police did not suggest your returning to Andover?"

"They said I must come to the inquest--that's on Monday, sir. But
I've nowhere to go there--I couldn't fancy being over the shop--now--and
what with the housemaid being away. I didn't want to put
the mistress out more than may be."

"You were fond of your aunt, Mary? said Poirot gently.

"Indeed I was, sir. Very good she's been to me always, auntie has. I
went to her in London when I was eleven years old, after mother died.
I started in service when I was sixteen, but I usually went along to
auntie's on my day out. A lot of trouble she went through with that
German fellow. 'My old devil,' she used to call him. He'd never let her

be in peace anywhere. Sponging, cadging old beast."

The girl spoke with vehemence.

"Your aunt never thought of freeing herself by legal means from this
persecutionT'


THE A.B.C- MURDERS
,'Well, you see, he was her husband, sir, you couldn't get away ftc that."
The girl spoke simply but with finality.
"Tell me, Mary, he threatened her, did he not?"
"Oh, yes, sir, it was awful the things he used to say. That he'd cut h
throat, and such like. Cursing and swearing too--both in German a
in English. And yet auntie says he was a fine handsome figure of a m
when she married him. It's dreadful to think, sir, what people come t "Yes, indeed. And so, I suppose, Mary, having actually heard the
threats, you were not so very surprised when you learnt what had hal
pened?"
"Oh, but I was, sir. You see, sir, I never thought for one moment th
he meant it. I thought it was just nasty talk and nothing more to it. AJ
it isn't as though auntie was afraid of him. Why, I've seen him sli
away like a dog with its tail between its legs when she turned on hi He was afraid of her if you like."
"And yet she gave him money?"
"Well, he was her husband, you see, sir."
"Yes, so you said before." He paused for a minute or two. Then I
said. Suppos that, after alt, he did not kill her."
"Didn't kill her?"
She stared.
"That is what I said. Supposing some one else killed her.... Ha'
you any idea who that some one else could be?"
She stared at him with even more amazement.
"I've no idea, sir. It doesn't seem likely, though, does itT'
"There was no one your aunt was afraid of?."
Mary shook her head.
"Auntie wasn't afraid of people. She'd a sharp tongue and she
stand up to anybody."
"You never heard her mention any one who had a grudge again
her?"
No, indeed, sin
"Did she ever get anonymous letters?"
"What kind of letters did you say, sir?"
"Letters that weren't signed-or only signed by something In
A.B.C." He watched her narrowly, but plainly she was at a loss. SI
shook her head wonderingly.
"Has your aunt any relations except you?"
"Not now, sir. One of ten she was, but only three lived to grow u
My Uncle Torn was killed in the war, and my Uncle Harry went


South America and no one's heard of him since, and mother's dead, of
course, so there's only me."
"Had your aunt any savings? Any money put byT'
"She'd a little in the Savings Bank, sir--enough to bury her proper,
that's what she always said. Otherwise she didn't more than just make
ends meet--what with her old devil and all."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He said---perhaps more to himself than
to her:
"At present one is in the dark--there is no direction--if things get
clearer "He got up. "If I want you at any time, Mary, I will write to
you here."
"As a matter of fact, sir, I'm giving in my notice. I don't like the
country. I stayed here because I fancied it was a comfort to auntie to
have me near by. But now"--again the tears rose in her eyes--"there's
no reason I should stay, and so I'll go back to London. It's gayer for a
girl there."
"I wish that, when you do go, you would give me your address. Here
is my card."
He handed it to her. She looked at it with a puzzled frown.
"Then you're not--anything to do with the police, sir?
"I am a private detective."
She stood there looking at him for some moments in silence.
She said at last:
"Is there anything--queer going on, sir?"
"Yes, my child. There is--something queer going on. Later you may
he able to help me."
"I--I'll do anything, sir. It--it wasn't right, sir, auntie being killed."
A strange way of putting it--but deeply moving.
A few seconds later we were driving back to Andover.


VI. The Scene of the Crime


The street in which the tragedy had occurred was a turning offthe main
street. Mrs. Ascher's shop was situated about half-way down it on the
right-hand side.

As we turned into the street Poirot glanced at his watch and I real-ized
why he had delayed his visit to the scene of the crime until now. It
was just on half-past five, He had wished to reproduce yesterday's at-mosphere
as closely as possible.

But if that had been his purpose it was defeated. Certainly at this
moment the road bore very little likeness to its appearance on the pre-vious
evening. There were a certain number of small shops inter-spersed
between private houses of the poorer class. I judged that
ordinarily there would be a fair number of people passing up and
down--mostly people of the poorer classes, with a good sprinkling of
children playing on the pavements and in the road.

At this moment there was a solid mass of people standing stating at
one particular house or shop and it took little perspicuity to guess
which that was. What we saw was a mass of average human beings
looking with intense interest at the spot where another human being
had been done to death.

As we drew nearer this proved to be indeed the case. In front of a
small dingy-looking shop with its shutters now closed stood a
harassed-looking young policeman who was stolidly adjuring the
crowd to "pass along there." By the help of a colleague, displacements
23


il
AGATHA CHRISTIE

took place--a certain number of people grudgingly sighed and betook
themselves to their ordinary vocations, and almost immediately other
persons came along and took up their stand to gaze their full on the
spot where murder had been committed.
Poirot stopped a little distance from the main body of the crowd.
From where we stood the legend painted over the door could be read
plainly enough. Poirot repeated it under his breath.
"A. Ascher. Oui, c 'est peut-tre /a--" He broke off.
"Come, let us go inside, Hastings."
I was only too ready.
We made our way through the crowd and accosted the young policeman.
Poirot produced the credentials which the inspector had given
him. The constable nodded, and unlocked the door to let us pass
within. We did so and entered to the intense interest of the lookers-on.
Inside it was very dark owing to the shutters being closed. The
constable found and switched on the electric light. The bulb was a low-
powered one so that the interior was still dimly lit.
I looked about me.
A dingy little place. A few cheap magazines strewn about, and yesterday's
newspapers--all with a day's dust on them. Behind the
counter a row of shelves reaching to the ceiling and packed with tobacco
and packets of cigarettes. There were also a couple of jars o'
peppermint humbugs and barley sugar. A commonplace little shop,
one of many thousand such others.
The constable in his slow Hampshire voice was explaining the mist'
en scbne.
"Down in a heap behind the counter, that's where she was. Doctor
says as how she never knew what hit her. Must have been reaching up
to one of the shelves."
"There was nothing in her hand?"
"No, sir, but there was a packet of Players down beside her."
Poirot nodded. His eyes swept round the small space observing-noting.
"And the railway guide was--where?"
"Here, sir." The constable pointed out the spot on the counter. "It
was open at the right page for Andover and lying face down. Seems
though he must have been looking up the trains to London. If so
'twasn't an Andover man at all. But then, of course, the railway gui&
might have belonged to some one else what had nothing to do with the
murder at all, but just forgot it here."


"Fingerprints.'?" I suggested.
The man shook his head.
"The whole place was examined straight away, sir. There weren't
none."
"Not on the counter itself?." asked Poirot.
"A long sight too many, sir! All confused and jumbled up."
"Any of Ascber's among themT"
"Too soon to say, sir."
Poirot nodded, then asked if the dead woman lived over the shop.
"Yes, sir, you go through that door at the back, sir. You'll excuse me
from coming with you, but I've got to stay--"
Poirot passed through the door in question and I followed him. Behind
the shop was a microscopic sort of parlour and kitchen
combined it was neat and clean but very dreary-looking and scantily
furnished. On the mantelpiece were a few photographs. I went up and
looked at them and Poirot joined me.
The photographs were three in all. One was a cheap portrait of the
girl we had been with that afternoon, Mary Drower. She was obviously
wearing her best clothes and had the self-conscious, wooden smile on
her face that so often disfigures the expression in posed photography,
and makes a snapshot preferable.
The second was a more expensive type of picture--an artistically
blurred reproduction of an elderly woman with white hair. A high fur
collar stood up round the neck.
I guessed that this was probably the Miss Rose who had left Mrs.
Ascher the small legacy which had enabled her to start in business.
The third photograph was a very old one, now faded and yellow. It
represented a young man and woman in somewhat old-fashioned
clothes standing arm in arm. The man had a flower in his buttonhole
and there was an air of bygone festivity about the whole pose.
"Probably a wedding picture," said Poirot. "Regard, Hastings, did I
not tell you that she had been a beautiful womanT'
He was right. Disfigured by old-fashioned hair-dressing and weird
clothes, there was no disguising the handsomeness of the girl in the
picture with her clear-cut features and spirited bearing. I looked
closely at the second figure. It was almost impossible to recognize the
seedy Ascher in this smart young man with the military beating.
I recalled the leering drunken old man, and the worn, toil-worn face
of the dead woman--and I shivered a little at the remorselessness of
tinle ....
From the parlour a stair led to two upstairs rooms. One was empty


AGATHA CHRISTIE

and unfurnished, the other had evidently been the dead woman's bedroom.
After being searched by the police it had been left as it was. A
couple of old worn blankets on the bed--a little stock of well-darned
underwear in a drawer--cookery recipes in another--a paperbacked
novel entitled The Green Oasis--a pair of new stockings--pathetic in
their cheap shininess--a couple of china ornaments--a Dresden shepherd
much broken, and a blue and yellow spotted dog--a black rain.
coat and a woolly jumper hanging on pegs--such were the worldly
possessions of the late Alice Ascher.
If there had been any personal papers, the police had taken them.
"Pauvrefemme," murmured Poirot. "Come, Hastings, there is nothing
for us here."
When we were once more in the street, he hesitated for a minute or
two, then crossed the road. Almost exactly opposite Mrs. Ascher's was
a greengrocer's shop--of the type that has most of its stock outside
rather than inside.
In a low voice Poirot gave me certain instructions. Then he himself
entered the shop. After waiting a minute or two I followed him in. He
was at the moment negotiating for a lettuce. I myself bought a pound
of strawberries.
Poirot was talking animatedly to the stout lady who was serving
him.
"It was just opposite you, was it not, that this murder occurred?
What an affair! What a sensation it must have caused you!"
The stout lady was obviously tired of talking about the murder. She
must have had a long day of it. She observed:
"It would be as well if some of that gaping crowd cleared off. What
is there to look at, I'd like to know.'?"
"It must have been very different last night," said Poirot. "Possibly
you even observed the murderer enter the shopa tall, fair man with a
beard, was he not? A Russian, so I have heard."
"What's that? The woman looked up sharply. "A Russian did it.
you sayT'
"I understand that the police have arrested him."
"Did you ever nowT' The woman was excited, voluble. "A foreigner."
"Mais oui. I thought perhaps you might have noticed him last
night?
"Well, I don't get much chance of noticing, and that's a fact. The
evening's our busy time and there's always a fair few passing along


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


and getting home after their work. A tall, fair man with a beard--no, I

can't say I saw any one of that description anywhere about."

I broke in on my cue.

"Excuse me, sir," I said to Poirot. "I think you have been misin-formed.
A short dark man I was told."

An interested discussion intervened in which the stout lady, her lank
husband and a hoarse-voiced shopboy all participated. No less than
four short dark men had been observed, and the hoarse boy had seen a
tall fair one, "but he hadn't got no beard," he added regretfully.

Finally, our purchases made, we left the establishment, leaving our
falsehoods uncorrected.

"And what was the point of all that, Poirot?" I demanded somewhat
reproachfully.

"Parbleu, I wanted to estimate the chances of a stranger being no-ticed
entering the shop opposite."

"Couldn't you simply have asked--without all that tissue of lies?"
"No, mon ami. If I had 'simply asked,' as you put it, I should have
got no answer at all to my questions. You yourself are English and yet
you do not seem to appreciate the quality of the English reaction to a
direct question. It is invariably one of suspicion and the natural result
is reticence. If I had asked those people for information they would
have shut up like oysters. But by making a statement (and a somewhat
out-of-the-way and preposterous one) and by your contradiction of it,
tongues are immediately loosened. We know also that that particular
time was a 'busy time'--that is, that every one would be intent on their
own concerns and that there would be a fair number of people passing

along the pavements. Our murderer chose his time well, Hastings."
He paused and then added on a deep note of reproach:

"Is it that you have not in any degree the common sense, Hastings? I
say to you: 'Make the purchase quel conque'--and you deliberately
choose the strawberries! Already they commence to creep through
their bag and endanger your good suit."

With some dismay, I perceived that this was indeed the case.

I hastily presented the strawberries to a small boy who seemed
highly astonished and faintly suspicious.

Poirot added the lettuce, thus setting the seal on the child's bewilder-ment.

He continued to drive the moral home.

"At a cheap greengrocer's--not strawberries. A strawberry, unless
fresh picked, is bound to exude juice. A banana--some apples---even a
cabbage--but strawberries--"


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"It was the first thing I thought of," I explained by way of excuse.
"That is unworthy of your imagination," returned Poirot sternly.
He paused on the sidewalk.
The house and shop on the right of Mrs. Ascher's was empty. A "To
Let" sign appeared in the windows. On the other side was a house with
somewhat grimy muslin curtains.
To this house Poirot betook himself and, there being no bell, executed
a series of sharp flourishes with the knocker.
The door was opened after some delay by a very dirty child with a
nose that needed attending to.
"Good-evening," said Poirot. "Is your mother within?"
"Ay?" said the child.
It stared at us with disfavour and deep suspicion.
"Your mother," said Poirot.
This took some twelve seconds to sink in, then the child turned
and, bawling up the stairs, "Mum, you're wanted," retreated to some
fastness in the dim interior.
A sharp-faced woman looked over the balusters and began to descend.
"No good you wasting your time--" she began, but Poirot interrupted
her.
He took off his hat and bowed magnificently.
"Good-evening, madame. I am on the staff of the Evening Flicker. I want to persuade you to accept a fee of five pounds and let us have an
article on your late neighbour, Mrs. Ascher."
The irate words arrested on her lips, the woman came down the
stairs smoothing her hair and hitching at her skirt.
"Come inside, please--on the left there. Won't you sit down, sir."
The tiny room was heavily over-crowded with a massive pseudo-Jacobean
suite, but we managed to squeeze ourselves in and on to a
hard-seated sofa.
"You must excuse me," the woman was saying. "I am sure I'm sorry
I spoke so sharp just now, but you'd hardly believe the worry one has
to put up with--fellows coming along selling this, that and the other--vacuum
cleaners, stockings, lavender bags and such like foolery--and all so plausible and civil spoken. Got your name, too, pat they have.
It's Mrs. Fowler this, that and the other."
Seizing adroitly on the name, Poirot said:
"Well, Mrs. Fowler, I hope you're going to do what I ask."
"I don't know, I'm sure." The five pounds hung alluringly before


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

Mrs. Fowler's eyes. "I knew Mrs. Ascher, of course, but as to writing anything."
Hastily Poirot reassured her. No labour on her part was required. He
would elicit the facts from her and the interview would be written up.
Thus encouraged, Mrs. Fowler plunged willingly into reminiscence,
conjecture and hearsay.
Kept to herself, Mrs. Ascher had. Not what you'd call really friendly, but there, she'd had a lot of trouble, poor soul, every one
knew that. And by right Franz Ascher ought to have been locked up
years ago. Not that Mrs. Ascher had been afraid of him--a real tartar
she could be when roused! Give as good as she got any day. But there it
was--the pitcher could go to the well once too often. Again and again,
she, Mrs. Fowler, had said to her: "One of these days that man will do
for you. Mark my words." And he had done, hadn't he? And there had
she, Mrs. Fowler, been right next door and never heard a sound.
In a pause Poirot managed to insert a question.
Had Mrs. Ascher ever received any peculiar letters---letters without
a proper signature--just something like A.B.C.?
Regretfully, Mrs. Fowler returned a negative answer.
"I know the kind of thing you mean--anonymous letters they call
them--mostly full of words you'd blush to say out loud. Well, I don't
know, I'm sure, if Franz Ascher ever took to writing those. Mrs.
Ascher never let on to me if he did. What's that? A railway guide, an
A.B.C.? No, I never saw such a thing about--and I'm sure if Mrs.
Ascher had been sent one I'd have heard about it. I declare you could
have knocked me down with a feather when I heard about this whole
business. It was my girl Edie what came to me. 'Mum,' she says,
'there's ever so many policemen next door.' Gave me quite a turn, it
did. 'Well,' I said, when I heard about it, 'it does show that she ought
never to have been alone in the house--that niece of hers ought to have
been with her. A man in drink can be like a ravening wolf,' I said, 'and
in my opinion a wild beast is neither more nor less than what that old
devil of a husband of hers is. I've warned her,' I said, 'many times and
now my words have come true. He'll do for you,' I said. And he has
done for her! You can't rightly estimate what a man will do when he's
in drink and this murder's a proof of it."
She wound up with a deep gasp.
"Nobody saw this man Ascher go into the shop, I believe.9'' said
Poirot.
Mrs. Fowler sniffed scornfully.
"Naturally he wasn't going to show himself," she .aid.


30
AGATHA CHRISTIE


How Mr. Ascher had got there without showing himself she did not
deign to explain.

She agreed that there was no back way into the house and that
Ascher was quite well known by sight in the district.

"But he didn't want to swing for it and he kept himself well hid."
Poirot kept the conversational ball rolling some little time longer but
when it seemed certain that Mrs. Fowler had told all that she knew not
once but many times over, he terminated the interview, first paying out
the promised sum.

"Rather a dear five pounds' worth, Poirot," I ventured to remark

when we were once more in the street.

"So far, yes."

"You think she knows more than she has told?"

"My friend, we are in the peculiar position of not knowing what
questions to ask. We are like little children playing Cache Cache in the
dark. We stretch out our hands and grope about. Mrs. Fowler has told
us all that she thinks she knows--and has thrown in several conjec-tures
for good measure! In the future, however, her evidence may be
useful. It is for the future that I have invested that sum of five pounds."

I did not quite understand the point, but at this moment we ran into
Inspector Glen.


VII. Mr. Partridge and
Mr. Riddell

Inspector Glen was looking rather gloomy. He had, I gathered, spent
the afternoon trying to get a complete list of persons who had been noticed
entering the tobacco shop.
"And nobody has seen any one?" Poirot inquired.
"Oh, yes, they have. Three tall men with furtive expressions four
short men with black moustaches--two beards---three fat men--all
strangers--and all, if I'm to believe witnesses, with sinister expressions!
I wonder somebody didn't see a gang of masked men with revolvers
while they were about it!"
Poirot smiled sympathetically.
"Does anybody claim to have seen the man AscherT'
"No, they don't. And that's another point in his favour. I've just told
the Chief Constable that I think this is a job for Scotland Yard. I don't
believe it's a local crime."
Poirot said gravely:
"I agree with you."
The inspector said:
"You know, Monsieur Poirot, it's a nasty business--a nasty
business... I don't like it .... "
We had two more interviews before returning to London.
The first was with Mr. James Partridge. Mr. Partridge was the last
person known to have seen Mrs. Ascher alive. He had made a purclase
from her at 5:30.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

Mr. Partridge was a small, spare man, a bank clerk by profession. He
wore pince-nez, was very dry and spare-looking and extremely precise
in all his utterances. He lived in a small house as neat and trim as himself.
"Mr.--er--Poirot," he said, glancing at the card my friend had
handed to him. "From Inspector Glen? What can I do for you, Mr.
Poirot?"
"I understand, Mr. Partridge, that you were the last person to see
Mrs. Ascher alive."
Mr. Partridge placed his finger-tips together and looked at Poirot as
though he were a doubtful cheque.
"That is a very debatable point, Mr. Poiro," he said. "Many people
may have made purchases from Mrs. Ascher after I did so."
"If so, they have not come forward to say so."
Mr. Partridge coughed.
"Some people, Mr. Poirot, have no sense of public duty."
He looked at us owlishly through his spectacles.
"Exceedingly true," murmured Poirot. "You, I understand, went to
the police of your own accord?"
"Certainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence I
perceived that my statement might be helpful and came forward accordingly.''
"A very proper spirit," said Poirot solemnly. "Perhaps you will be
so kind as to repeat your story to me."
"By all means. I was returning to this house and at 5:30 precisely--"Pardon,
how was it that you knew the time so accurately?"
Mr, Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted.
"The church clock chimed. I looked at my watch and found I was a
minute slow. That was just before I entered Mrs. Ascher's shop."
"Were you in the habit of making purchases there?"
"Fairly frequently. It was on my way home. About once or twice a
week I was in the habit of purchasing two ounces of John Ce!tn
mild."
"Did you know Mrs. Ascber at all? Anything of her circumsta:ces
or her history?"
"Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional reI
as to the state of the weather, I had never spoken to her."
"Did you know she had a drunken husband who was in the habit of
threatening her life?"
"No, I knew nothing whatever about her."
"You knew her by sight, however. Did anything about her appear
THE A.B.C. MURDERS
33


ance strike you as unusual yesterday evening? Did she appear flurried
or put out in any way?"

Mr. Partridge considered.

"As far as I noticed, she seemed exactly as usual," he said.
Poirot rose.

"Thank you, Mr. Partridge, for answering these questions. Have
you, by any chance, an A.B.C. in the house? I want to look up my re-turn
train to London."

"On the shelf just behind you," said Mr. Partridge.

On the shelf in question were an A.B.C., a Bradshaw, the Stock
Exchange Year Book, Kelly's Directory, a Who's Who and a local di-rectory.

Poirot took down the A.B.C., pretended to look up a train, then
thanked Mr. Partridge and took his leave.

Our next interview was with Mr. Albert Riddell and was of a highly
different character. Mr. Albert Riddell was a plate-layer and our con-versation
took place to the accompaniment of the clattering of plates
and dishes by Mr. Riddell's obviously nervous wife, the growling of
Mr. Riddell's dog and the undisguised hostility of Mr. Riddell himself.

He was a big clumsy giant of a man with a broad face and small sus-picious
eyes. He was in the act of eating meatpie, washed down by ex-ceedingly
black tea. He peered at us angrily over the rim of his cup.

"Told all I've got to tell once, haven't I?" he growled. "What's it to
do with me, anyway? Told it to the blarsted police, I 'ave, and now I've
got to spit it all out again to a couple of blarsted foreigners."

Poirot gave a quick amused glance in my direction and then said:

"In truth I sympathize with you, but what will you? It is a question
of murder, is it not? One has to be very, very careful."

"Best tell the gentleman what he wants, Bert," said the woman nerv-ously.

"You shut your blarsted mouth," roared the giant.

"You did not, I think, go to the police of your own accord." Poirot
slipped the remark in neatly.

"Why the hell should I? It were no business of mine."

"A matter of opinion," said Poirot indifferently. "There has been a
murder--the police want to know who has been in the shopI myself
think it would have--what shall I say?--looked more natural if you
had come forward."

"I've got my work to do. Don't say I shouldn't have come forward
in my own time--"

"But as it was, the police were given your name as that of a person


^ATHA


,seen to go into Mrs. Ascher's and they had to come to you. Were they
satisfied with your account?"

"Why shouldn't they be?" demanded Bert truculently.

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders.

"What are you getting at, mister? Nobody's got anything against
me! Every one knows who did the old girl in, that b---- of a husband
of hers."

"But he was not in the street that evening and you were."

"Trying to fasten it on me are you? Well, you won't succeed. What
reason had I got to do a thing like that? Think I wanted to pinch a tin of
her bloody tobacco? TMnk I'm a bloody homicidal maniac as they call
it? Think I--?"

He rose threateningly from his seat. His wife bleated out:

"Bert, Bert--don't say such things. Bert--they'll think--"

"Calm yourself, Monsieur," said Poirot. "I demand only your ac-count
of your visit. That you refuse it seems to me--what shall we
say--a little odd?"

"Who said I refused anything?" Mr. Riddell sank back again into his
seat. "I don't mind."

"It was six o'clock when you entered the shop?"

"That's right--a minute or two after, as a matter of fact. Wanted a

packet of Gold Hake. I pushed open the door--"

"It was closed, then?"

''That's fight. I thought shop was shut, maybe. But it wasn't. I went
in, there wasn't any one about. I hammered on the counter and waited a
bit. Nobody came, so I went out again. That's all, and you can put it in
your pipe and smoke it."

"You didn't see the body fallen down behind the counter?"

"No, no more would you have done--unless you was looking for it,
maybe."

"Was there a railway guide lying about?"

"Yes, there was--face downwards. It crossed my mind like that the
old woman might have had to go off sudden by train and forgot to lock
shop up."

"Perhaps you picked up the railway guide or moved it along the
counter?"

"Didn't touch the b------ thing. I did just what I said."

"And you did not see any one leaving the shop before you yourself
got there?"

"Didn't see any such thing. What I say is, why pitch on

Poirot rose.


THE
A.B.C. MURDERS


"Nobody is pitching upon you--yet. Bon soir, Monsieur."
He left the man with his mouth open and I followed him.
In the street he consulted his watch.

"With great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the '
Let us dispatch ourselves quickly."


VIII. The Second Letter


"Well?" I demanded eagerly.

We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves.
The train, an express, had just drawn out of Andover.

"The crime," said Poirot, "was committed by a man of medium
height with red hair and a cast in the left eye. He limps slightly on the

right foot and has a mole just below the shoulder-blade."

"Poirot?" I cried.

For a moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my
friend's eye undeceived me.

"Poirot!" I said again, this time in reproach.

"Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of doglike dew-tion
and demand of me a pronouncement h ia Sherlock Holmes! Now
for the truth---/do not know what the murderer looks like, nor whet't'
he lives, nor how to set hands upon him."

"If only he had left some clue," I murmured.

"Yes, the clue--it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas that he
did not smoke the cigarette and leave the ash, and then step in it with a
shoe that has nails of a curious pattern. No---he is not so obliging. But
at least, my friend, you have the railway guide. The A.B.C., that is a
clue for you!"

"Do you think he left it by mistake then?"

"Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints tell us that."
"But there weren't any on it."

36


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

"That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm June
night. Does a man stroll about on such an evening in gloves? Such a
man would certainly have attracted attention. Therefore since there are
no fingerprints on the A.B.C., it must have been carefully wiped. A
innocent man would have left prints--a guilty man would not. So
murderer left it there for a purpose--but for all that it is none the less a
clue. That A.B.C. was bought by some one--it was carried by some
one--there is a possibility there."
"You think we may learn something that way?"
"Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this un.
known X, obviously prides himself on his abilities. He is not likely to
blaze a trail that can be followed straight away."
"So that really the A.B.C. isn't helpful at all."
"Not in the sense you mean."
"In any sense?"
Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly:
"The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknow,
personage. He is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark. But in the
very nature of things he cannot help throwing light upon himself. one sense we know nothing about him--in another sense we know already
a good deal. I see his figure dimly taking shape--a man who
prints clearly and well--who buys good quality paper--who is at great
needs to express his personality. I see him as a child possibly ignored
and passed over--I see him growing up with an inward sense of
inferiority--warring with a sense of injustice .... I see that inner
urge--to assert himself--to focus attention on himself ever becoming
stronger, and events, circumstances--crushing it down--heaping, perhaps,
more humiliations on him. And inwardly the match is set to the
powder train .... "
"That's all pure conjecture," I objected. "It doesn't give you any
practical help."
"You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! Yo0
always have. But at least we can ask ourselves some practical questions.
Why the A.B.C.? Why Mrs. Ascher? Why Andover?"
"The woman's past life seems simple enough," I mused. "The interviews
with those two men were disappointing. They couldn't tell us
anything more than we knew already."
''To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we could
not neglect two possible candidates for the murder."
"Surely you don't think--"
'q'here is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near An
AGATHA CHRISTIE

dover. That is a possible answer to our question: 'Why Andover?' Well , here were two men known to have been in the shop at the requisite
time of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there is
nothing as yet to show that one or other of them is not the murderer."
"That great hulking brute, Riddell, perhaps," I admitted.
"Oh, I am inclined to acquit Riddell off-hand. He was nervous, blustering,
obviously uneasy---"
"But surely that just shows---"
"A nature diametrically opposed to that which penned the A.B.C.
letter. Conceit and self-confidence are the characteristics that we must
look for."
"Some one who throws his weight about?'
"Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing man-
her, conceal a great deal of vanity and self-satisfaction."
"You don't think that little Mr. Partridge--?"
"He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as the
writer of the letter would act--goes at once to the police--pushes himself
to the fore-enjoys his position."
"Do you really think--?"
"No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came from
outside Andover, but we must neglect no avenue of research. And although
I say 'he' all the time, we must not exclude the possibility of a
woman being concerned."
"Surely not!"
"The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous letters
are written by women rather than by men. We must bear that in
mind."
I was silent for a few minutes, then I said:
"What do we do next.'?"
"My energetic Hastings," Poirot said and smiled at me.
"No, but what do we doT'
"Nothing."
"NothingT' My disappointment rang out clearly.
"Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?"
Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give answer.
Nevertheless I felt convinced that something ought to be done
and that we should not allow the grass to grow under our feet.
I said:
"There is the A.B.C.---and the notepaper and envelope---"
"Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 39

the means at their disposal for that gind of inquiry. If anything is to be
discovered on those lines have no fear but that they will discover it."
With that I was forced to rest cootent.
In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discuss
the case. When I tried to reopert the subject he waved it aside with
an impatient hand.
In my own mind I was afraid th0t I fathomed his motive. Over the
murder of Mrs. Ascher, Poirot had sustained a defeat. A.B.C. had challenged
him--and A.B.C. had won. My friend, accustomed to an unbroken
line of successes, was sensitive to his failure--so much so that
he could not even endure discussion of the subject. It was, perhaps, a
sign of pettiness in so great a man, Iut even the most sober of us is liable
to have his head turned by success. In Poirot's case the head-turning
process had been going on for years. Small wonder if its effects
became noticeable at long last.
Understanding, I respected my friend's weakness and I made no further
reference to the case. I read in tlae paper the account of the inquest.
It was very brief, no mention was made of the A.B.C. letter, and a verdict
was returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. The
crime attracted very little attention in the press. It had no popular or
spectacular features. The murder of an old woman in a side street was
soon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics.
Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think,
because I disliked to think of Poirot as being in any way associated
with a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived.
I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away in
Yorkshire for the week-end. I arrived back on Monday afternoon and
the letter came by the six o'clock post. I remember the sudden, sharp
intake of breath that Poirot gave as he slit open that particular envelope.
"It has come," he said.
I stared at him--not understandirg.
"What has come?"
"The second chapter of the A.B. business."
For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really
passed from my memory.
"Read," said Poirot and passed ne over the letter.
As before, it was printed on good-quality paper.

DEAR MR. PoIRoT--Weli, what about it? First game to me, I think.
The Andover business went with t swing, didn it?


AGATHA CHRISTIE

But the fun only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to
Bexhill-on-Sea, the 25th inst.
What a merry time we are having,t Yours, etc.,
A.B.C.

"Good God, Poirot," I cried. "Does this mean that this fiend is going
to attempt another crime?
"Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think that
the Andover business was an isolated case? Do you not remember my
saying: 'This is the beginning'.9"
"But this is horrible!"
"Yes, it is horrible."
"We're up against a homicidal maniac."
"Yes."
His quietness was more impressive than any heroics could have
been. I handed back the letter with a shudder.
The following morning saw us at a conference of powers. The Chief
Constable of Sussex, the Assistant Commissioner of the C.LD., Inspector
Glen from Andover, Superintendent Carter of the Sussex police,
Japp and a younger inspector called Crome, and Dr. Thompson,
the famous alienist, were all assembled together. The postmark on this
letter was Hampstead, but in Poirot's opinion little importance could
be attached to this fact.
The matter was discussed fully. Dr. Thompson was a pleasant
middle-aged man who, in spite of his learning, contented himself with
homely language, avoiding the technicalities of his profession.
"There's no doubt," said the Assistant Commissioner, "that the two
letters are in the same hand. Both were written by the same person."
"And we can fairly assume that that person was responsible for the
Andover murder."
"Quite. We've now got definite warning of a second crime scheduled
to take place on the 25th-to-morrow--at Bexhill. What steps
can be taken?"
The Sussex Chief Constable looked at his superintendent.
"Well, Carter, what about it?"
The superintendent shook his head gravely.
"It's difficult, sir. There's not the least clue towards whom the x lc-
tim may he. Speaking fair and square, what steps can we takeT'
"A suggestion," murmured Poirot.
Their faces turned to him.


TH A.B.C. MURDERS


"I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will be-gin
with the letter B."

"That would be something," said the superintendent doubtfully.
"An alphabetical complex," said Dr. Thompson thoughtfully.

"I suggest it as a possibility--no more. It came into my mind when I
saw the name Ascher clearly written over the shop door of the unfortu-nate
woman who was murdered last month. When I got the letter nam-ing
Bexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well as
the place might be selected by an alphabetical system."

"It's possible," said the doctor. "On the other hand, it may be that
the name Ascher was a coincidence-that the victim this time, no mat-ter
what her name is, will again be an old woman who keeps a shop.
We're dealing, remember, with a madman. So far he hasn't given us
any clue as to motive."

"Has a madman any motive, sir.'?" asked the superintendent skepti-cally.

"Of course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the special
characteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinely ap-pointed
to kill clergymen--or doctors---or old women in tobacco
shops--and there's always some perfectly coherent reason behind it.
We mustn't let the alphabetical business run away with us. Bexhill suc-ceeding
to Andover may be a mere coincidence."

"We can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a special
note of the B's, especially small shopkeepers, and keep a watch on all
small tobacconists and newsagents looked after by a single person. I
don't think there's anything more we can do than that. Naturally keep

tabs on all strangers as far as possible."

The superintendent uttered a groan.

"With the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? People
are fairly flooding into the place this week."

"We must do what we can," the Chief Constable said sharply.
Inspector Glen spoke in his turn.

"I'll have a watch kept on any one connected with the Ascher busi-ness.
Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course on
Ascher himself. If they show any signs of leaving Andover they'll be
followed."

The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little
desultory conversation.

Porot, I said as we walked along by the river, "surely this crime
can be prevented?"

He turned a haggard face to me.


AGATHA CHRISTIE


"The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one? I fear,

Hastings--I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes

of ] ack the Ripper."

"It's horrible," I said.

"Madness, FIastings, is a terrible thing I
am afraid.. I am very
much
afraid...."

IX. The Bexhill-on-Sea Murder


I still remember my awakening on the morning of the 25th of July. It
must have been about seven-thirty.

Poirot was standing by my bedside gently shaking me by the shoul-der.
One glance at his face brought me from semiconsciousness into
full possession of my faculties.

"What is it?" I demanded, sitting up rapidly.

His answer came quite simply, but a wealth of emotion lay behind

the three words he uttered.

"It has happened."

"What?" I cried. "You mean--but to-day is the 25th."

"It took place last night--or rather in the early hours of this morn-ing.''

As I sprang from bed and made a rapid toilet, he recounted briefly
what he had just learnt over the telephone.

"The body of a young girl has been found on the beach at Bexhi!l.
She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of the
cafts, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow.
Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11:30 and 1 A.M."

"They're quite sure that this is the crime?" I asked, as I hastily lath-ered
my face.

"An A.B.C. open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under
the body."

I shivered.

43


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"This is horrible!"
"Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy i tv
rooms!" I
wiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully.
"What is our plan of campaignT' I asked.
"The car will call for us in a few moments' time. I will bring you
cup of coffee here so that there will be no delay in starting."
Twenty minutes later we were in a fast police car crossing the
Thames on our way out of London.
With us was Inspector Crome, who had been present at the conference
the other day, and who was officially in charge of the case.
Crome was a very different type of officer from Japp. A much younger
man, he was the silent, superior type. Well educated and well read,
he was, for my taste, several shades too pleased with himself. He had
lately gained kudos over a series of child murders, having patiently
tracked down the criminal who was now in Broadmoor.
He was obviously a suitable person to undertake the present cay;e,
but I thought that he was just a little too aware of the fact himself.
manner to Poirot was a shade patronizing. He deferred to him as
younger man to an older one--in a rather self-conscious, "public-school"
way.
"I'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
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."
"Even 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:
"If there's anything you want to ask me about the case, pray do so."
"You have not, I presume, a description of the dead girl?"


THE A.B.C. MLIRDEIS 45

"She ,,vas twenty-three years of age, engaged as a waitress at the
oinger Cat cafe--"
,'pas -a. I wondered--if she were pretty?"
"As to that I've no information," said Inspector Crome with a hint of
withdrawal. His manner said: "Really--these foreigners! All the
sane!'
A final look of amusement came into Poirot's eyes.
"It does not seem to you important, that? Yet, pour unefemme, it is
of the first importance. Often it decides her destiny!"
Inspector Crome fell back on his conversational full stop.
"Oh, yes?" he inquired politely.
Another silence fell.
It was not until we were nearing Sevenoaks that Poirot opened the
conversation again.
"Were you informed, by any chance, how and with what the girl was strangled?"
Inspector Crome replied briefly.
"Strangled with her own belt--a thick, knitted affair, I gather."
Poirot's eyes opened very wide.
"Aha," he said. "At last we have a piece of information that is very
definite. That tells one something, does it not?"
"I haven't seen it yet," said Inspector Crome coldly.
I felt impatient with the man's caution and lack of imagination.
"It gives us the hall-mark 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.
"You'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."
"Thank you sir," said Crome.
"We've broken the news to her father and mother," said the superintendent.
"Terrible shock to them, of course. 1 left them to recover a bit
before questioning them, so you can start from the beginning there."
"There are other members of the familyyes?" asked Poirot.
''There's a sister--a typist in London. She's been communicated


AGATHA CHRISTIE

with. And there's a young man--in fact, she was supposed to be out
with him last night, I gather."
"Any help from the A.B.C. guide?" asked Crome.
"It's there," the superintendent nodded towards the table. "No fingerprints.
Open at the page for Bexhill. A new copy, I should say--doesn't
seem to have been opened much. Not bought anywhere round
here. I' we tried all the likely stationers!"
"Who discovered the body, sir?"
"One of these fresh-air, early-morning old colonels. Colonel
Jerome. He was out with his dog about 6 A.M. Went along the front in
the direction of Cooden, and down on to the beach. Dog went off and
sniffed at something. Colonel called it. Dog didn't come. Colonel had
a look and thought something queer was up. Went over and looked
Behaved very properly. Didn't touch her at all and rang us up immedi.
ately."
"And the time of death was round about midnight last night?"
"Between midnight and 1 A.M.--that's pretty certain. Our homicidal
joker is a man of his word. If he says the 25th, it is the 25th--though it
may have been only by a few minutes."
Crome nodded.
"Yes, that's his mentality all right. There's nothing else? Nobody
saw anything helpful?"
"Not as far as we know. But it's early yet. Every one who saw a girl
in white walking with a man last night will be along to tell us about
soon, and as I imagine there were about four or five hundred girls i
white walking with young men last night, it ought to be a nice business.''
"Well, sir, I'd better get down to it," said Crome. "There's the caf
and there's the girl's home. I'd better go to both of them. Kelsey can
come with me."
"And Mr. Poirot?" asked the superintendent.
"I will accompany you," said Poirot to Crome with a little bow.
Crome, I thought, looked slightly annoyed. Kelsey, who had not
seen Poirot before, grinned broadly.
It was an unfortunate circumstance that the first time people saw my
friend they were always disposed to consider him as a joke of the first
water.
"What about this belt she was strangled with?" asked Crome.
Poirot is inclined to think it's a valuable clue. I expect he'd like to see it."
"Du tout," said Poirot quickly. "You misunderstood me."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 47


"You'll get nothing from that," said Carter. "It wasn't a leather
belt--might have got fingerprints if it had been. Just a thick so of

knitted silk--ideal for the purpose."

I gave a shiver.

"Well," said Crome, "we'd better be getting along."

We set out forthwith.

Our first visit was to the Ginger Cat. Situated on the sea front, this
was the usual type of small tea-room. It had little tables covered with
orange-checked cloths and basket-work chairs of exceeding discom-fort
with orange cushions on them. It was the kind of place that spe-cialized
in morning coffee, five different kinds of teas (Devonshire,
farmhouse, fruit, Carlton and plain), and a few sparing lunch dishes for
females such as scrambled eggs and shrimps and macaroni au gratin.

The morning coffees were just getting under way. The manageress

ushered us hastily into a very untidy back sanctum.
"Miss---er--Men'ion?" inquired Crome.

Miss Merrion bleated out in a high, distressed gentlewoman voice:

"That is my name. This is a most distressing business. Most dis-tressing.
How it will affect our business I really cannot think!"

Miss Men'ion was a very thin woman of forty with wispy orange
hair (indeed she was astonishingly like a ginger cat herself). She
played nervously with various fichus and frills that were part of her of-ficial
costume.

"You'll have a boom," said Inspector Kelsey encouragingly. "You'll
see! You won't be able to serve teas fast enough!"

"Disgusting," said Miss Men'ion. "Truly disgusting. It makes one
despair of human nature."

But her eye brightened nevertheless.

"What can you tell me about the dead girl, Miss Merrion?"
"Nothing," said Miss Men'ion positively. "Absolutely nothing!"
"How long had she been working here?"
"This was the second summer."
"You were satisfied with her?"

"She was a good waitress--quick and obliging."

"She was pretty, yes?" inquired Poirot.

Miss Men-ion, in her turn, gave him an "Oh, these foreigners" look.
"She was a nice, clean-looking girl," she said distantly.
"What time did she go off duty last night?" asked Crome.

"Eight o'clock. We close at eight. We do not serve dinners. There is
no demand for them. Scrambled eggs and tea [Poirot shuddered] peo

AGATHA CHRISTIE

pie come in for up to seven o'clock and sometimes after, but our rush is
over by 6:30."
"Did she mention to you how she proposed to spend her evening?"
"Certainly not," said Miss Merrion emphatically. "We were not on
those terms."
"No one came in and called for her? Anything like that?"
"No."
"Did she seem quite her ordinary self?. Not excited or depressed?"
"Really I could not say," said Miss Men'ion aloofly.
"How many waitresses do you employ.9''
"Two normally, and an extra two after the 20th of July until the end
of August."
"But Elizabeth Barnard was not one of the extras?"
"Miss Barnard was one of the regulars."
"What about the other one?"
"Miss Higley? She is a very nice young lady."
"Were she and Miss Barnard friends?"
"Really I could not say."
"Perhaps we'd better have a word with her."
"Now?"
"If you please."
"I will send her to you," said Miss Merrion, rising. "Please keep her
as short a time as possible. This is the morning coffee rush hour."
The feline and gingery Miss Merrion left the room.
"Very refined," remarked Inspector Kelsey. He mimicked the lady's
mincing tone. "Really I could not say."
A plump girl, slightly out of breath, with dark hair, rosy cheeks and
dark eyes goggling with excitement, bounced in.
"Miss Men-ion sent me," she announced breathlessly.
"Miss Higley?"
"Yes, that's me."
"You knew Elizabeth Barnard?"
"Oh, yes, I knew Betty. Isn't it awful? It's just too awful! I can't believe
it's true. I've been saying to the girls all the morning I just can :t believe it! 'You know, girls,' I said, 'it just doesn't seem real.' Betty! I
mean, Betty Barnard, who's been here all along, murdered! 'I just can't
believe it,' I said. Five or six times I've pinched myself just to see if l
wouldn't wake up. Betty murdered ... It's--well, you know what l
mean--it doesn't seem real."
"You knew the dead girl well?" asked Crome.
"Well, she's worked here longer than I have. I only came this March.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


She was here last year. She was rather quiet, if you know what I mean.
She wasn't one to joke or laugh a lot. I don't mean that she was exactly
quiet--she'd plenty of fun in her and all that--but she didn't--well,
she was quiet and she wasn't quiet, if you know what I mean."

I will say for Inspector Crome that he was exceedingly patient. As a
witness the buxom Miss Higley was persistently maddening. Every
statement she made was repeated and qualified half a dozen times. The
net result was meagre in the extreme.

She had not been on terms of intimacy with the dead gift. Elizabeth
Barnard, it could be guessed, had considered herself a cut above Miss
Higley. She had been friendly in working hours, but the gifts had not
seen much of her out of them. Elizabeth Bamard had had a "friend"-worked
in the estate agents near the station. Court & Brunskill. No, he
wasn't Mr. Court nor Mr. Brunskill. He was a clerk there. She didn't
know his name. But she knew him by sight well. Good-looking---oh,
very good-looking, and always so nicely dressed. Clearly, there was a
tinge of jealousy in Miss Higley's bean.

In the end it boiled down to this. Elizabeth Barnard had not confided
in any one in the caf as to her plans for the evening, but in Miss
Higley's opinion she had been going to meet her "friend." She had had
on a new white dress, "ever so sweet with one of the new necks."

We had a word with each of the other two girls but with no further
results. Betty Barnard had not said anything as to her plans and no one
had noticed her in Bexhill during the course of the evening.


The Barnards


Elizabeth Barnard's parents lived in a minute bungalow, one of fifty or
so recently run up by a speculative builder on the confines of the town.
The name of it was Llandudno.

Mr. Barnard, a stout, bewildered-looking man of fifty-five or so, had

noticed our approach and was standing waiting in the doorway.
"Come in, gentlemen," he said.
Inspector Kelsey took the initiative.

"This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir," he said. "He's
come down to help us over this business."

"Scotland Yard?" said Mr. Barnard hopefully. "That's good. This
murdering villain's got to be laid by the heels. My poor little girl--"
His face was distorted by a spasm of grief.

"And this is Mr. Hereule Poirot, also from London, and er--"
"Captain Hastings," said Poirot.

"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen," said Mr. Barnard mechanically.
"Come into the snuggery. I don't know that my poor wife's up to see-ing
you. All broken up, she is."

However, by the time that we were ensconced in the living-room of
the bungalow, Mrs. Barnard had made her appearance. She had evi-dently
been crying bitterly, her eyes were reddened and she walked
with the uncertain gait of a person who had had a great shock.

"Why, Mother, that's fine," said Mr. Barnard. "You're sure you're
all fight-eh?"

5O


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

He patted her shoulder and draw her down into a chain
"The superintendent was very kind," said Mr. Bamard. "After he'd
broken the news to us, he said he'd leave any questions till later when
we'd got over the first shock."
"It is too creel. Oh, it is too cruel," cried Mrs. Barnard tearfully.
"The cruelest thing that ever was, it is."
Her voice had a faintly sing-song intonation that I thought for a moment
was foreign till I remembered the name on the gate and realized
that the "effer wass" of her speech was in reality proof of her Welsh origin.
"It's very painful, madam, I know," said Inspector Crome. "And
we've every sympathy for you, but we want to know all the facts we
can so as to get to work as quick as possible."
''That's sense, that is," said Mr. Barnard, nodding approval.
"Your daughter was twenty-three, I understand. She lived here with
you and worked at the Ginger Cat cafe, is that right?"
"That's it."
"This is a new place, isn't it? Where did you live before?"
"I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired two
years ago. Always meant to live near the sea."
"You have two daughters?"
"Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London in the City."
"Weren't you alarmed when your daughter didn't come home last
night?"
"We didn't know she hadn't," said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. "Dad and
I always go to bed early. Nine o'clock's our time. We never knew Betty
hadn't come home till the police officer came and said--and said--"
She broke down.
"Was your daughter in the habit of--er--returning home lateT'
"You know what girls are nowadays, inspector," said Barnard. "Independent,
that's what they are. These summer evenings they're not
going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven."
"How did she get in? Was the door open.*"
"Left the key under the mat--that's what we always did."
"There is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to
be married?"
"They don't put it as formally as that nowadays," said Mr. Bamard.
"Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much,"
!l
said Mrs. Bamard. "Poor fellow, it'll be terrible for him--this news.
Does he know yet, I wonder?"
"He works in Court & Brunskill's, I understand.*"


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"Yes, they're the estate agents."
"Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after
her work?"
"Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer."
"Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday.'?"
"She didn't say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or
where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can't
believe--"
Mrs. Barnard started sobbing again.
"Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, Mother," urged her
husband. "We' we got to get to the bottom of this .... '
"I'm sure Donald would never--would never--" sobbed Mrs.
Barnard.
"Now just you pull yourself together," repeated Mr. Barnard.
He turned to the two inspectors.
"I wish to God I could give you some help--but the plain fact is I
know nothing--nothing at all that can help you to the dastardly scoundrel
who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl--with a decent
young fellow that she was--well, we'd have called it walking out with
in my young days. Why any one should want to murder her simply
beats me--it doesn't make sense."
"You're very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard," said Crome. "I tell
you what I'd like to do--have a look over Miss Barnard's room. There
may be something--letters---or a diary."
"Look over it and welcome," said Mr. Barnard, rising.
He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I
brought up the rear.
I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelace, and as I did so, a taxi
drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and
hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered
the door she saw me and stopped dead.
There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me.
"Who are you?" she said.
I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply.
Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come here with the
police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision.
"Oh, well," she said, "I can guess."
She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and
threw it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a little
so that the light fell on her.
My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used to


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 53


play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob
and a bang across the forehead. Her cheekbones were high and her
whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow,
unattractive. She was not good-looking--plain rather--but there was
an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite im-possible
to overlook.

"You are Miss BarnardT' I asked.

"I am Megan Barnard. You belong to the police, I suppose."
"Well," I said, "not exactly--"
She interrupted me.

"I don't think I've got anything to say to you. My sister was a nice
bright girl with no men friends. Good-morning."

She gave a short laugh as she spoke and regarded me challengingly.
"That's the correct phrase, I believe?" she said.
"I'm not a reporter, if that's what you're getting at."

"Well, what are you?" She looked round. "Where's mum and dad?"

"Your father is showing the police your sister's bedroom. Your
mother's in there. She's very upset."

The girl seemed to make a decision.

"Come in here," she said.

She pulled open a door and passed through. I followed her and
found myself in a small, neat kitchen.

I was about to shut the door behind me--but found an unexpected
resistance. The next moment Poirot had slipped quietly into the room
and shut the door behind him.

"Mademoiselle Barnard?" he said with a quick bow.

"This is M. Hercule Poirot," I said.

Megan Barnard gave him a quick, appraising glance.

"I've heard of you," she said. "You're the fashionable private
sleuth, aren't you?"

"Not a pretty description--but it suffices," said Poirot.

The girl sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. She felt in her bag
for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips, lighted it, and then said
in between two puffs of smoke:

"Somehow, I don't see what M. Hrcule Poirot is doing in our hum-ble
little crime."

"Mademoiselle," said Poirot, "what you do not see and what I do
not see would probably fill a volume. But all that is of no practical im-portance.
What is of practical importance is something that will not be
easy to find."

"What's that?"


AGATHA CHRISTIE


'Dcatlq, mademoiselle, unfortunately creates a prejudice. A preju-dice
in favour of the deceased. I heard what you said just now to my
friend Hastings. 'A nice bright girl with no men friends.' You said that
in mockery of the newspapers, And it is very true--when a young girl
is dead, chat is the kind of thing that is said. She was bright. She was
happy. Slqe was sweet-tempered. She had not a care in the world. She
had no undesirable acquaintances. There is a great charity always to
the dead. Do you know what I should like this minute71 should like to
find some one who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know
she is derd.t Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me--the


Megan Bamard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilst
she smoked. Then, at last, she spoke. Her words made me jump.

"Betty," she said, "was an unmitigated little ass!"


XI. fi/ gan I arnard

As I said, Megan Barnard's words, and still more the crisp businesslike
tone in which they were uttered, made me jump.
Poirot, however, merely bowed his head gravely.
"A la bonne heure,' he said. "You are intelligent, mademoiselle."
Megan Barnard said, still in the same detached tone:
"I was extremely fond of Betty. But my fondness didn't blind me
from seeing exactly the kind of silly little fool she was--and even telling
her so upon occasion! Sisters are like that."
"And did she pay any attention to your advice?" "Probably not," said Megan cynically.
"Will you, mademoiselle, be precise."
The girl hesitated for a minute or two.
Poirot said with a slight smile:
"I will help you. I heard what you said to Hastings. That your sister
was a bright, happy girl with no men friends. It was--un peu--the opposite
that was true, was it notT'
Megan said slowly:
"There wasn't any harm in Betty. I want you to understand that.
She'd always go straight. She's not the week-ending kind. Nothing of
that sort. But she liked being taken out and dancing and--oh, cheap
flattery and compliments and all that sort of thing."
"And she was pretty--yes?"
55


AGATHA CHRISTIE

This uesfion, the third time I had heard it, met this time with a practical
resonse'
,Mega slipped off the table, went to her suitcase, snapped it open
aha extracted something which she handed to Poirot.
. In a leather frame was a head and shoulders of a fair-haired, smiling
girl. H. er hair had evidently recently been permed; it stood out from her
head in mass of rather frizzy curls. The smile was arch and artificial.
It was certainly not a face that you could call beautiful, but it had an
obvious and cheap prettiness.
Poirt handed it back, saying:
"You and she do not resemble each other, mademoiselle."
"Oh, I'm the plain one of the family. I've always known that." She
seemed to brush aside the fact as unimportant.
foo",I.n,hat way exactly do you consider your sister was behaving
llsni3'a Do you mean nerhans, in relation to Mr. Donald Fraser?"
'That s it, exactly. Don's a very quiet sort of person--but he--well,
naturally he'd resent certain things--and then--"
"And then what, mademoiselle?"
His eyes were on her very steadily.
It may have been my fancy but it seemed to me that she hesitated a
second before answering.
"I afraid that he might---chuck her altogether. And that would
have n a pity. He's a very steady and hard-working man and would
have mqle her a good husband."
Poiro continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glance
but retu%ed it with one of her own equally steady and with something
else in i{something that reminded me of her first defiant, disdainful
manner.
"So it is like that," he said at last. "We do not speak the truth any
longer."
,S,.he al'lrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door.
Well,,, she said, "I've done what I could to help you."
P迺rcl?s voice arrested her.
"Wai, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back."
Rathe, unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed.
S逅xhat to my surorise Poirot oluned into the whole story of the
. '.' ' Itters, the murder at Andover, and the railway guide found by the Ixlis'
He htl no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Her
lip,s,.pa. d, her eyes gleaming, she hung on his words.
s this all tree, M. Poirot?'


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

57

"Yes, it is true."
"You really mean my sister was killed by some horrible homicidal
maniac?
"Precisely."
She drew a deep breath.
"Oh! Betty--Betty--How---how ghastly!"
"You see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask you
can give freely without wondering whether or not it will hurt any one."
"Yes, I see that now."
"Then let us continue our conversation. I have formed the idea that
this Donald Fraser has, perhaps, a violent and jealous temper, is that
right?"
Megan Barnard said quietly:
"I'm trusting you now, M. Poirot. I'm going to give you the absolute
truth. Don is, as I say, a very quiet persona bottled-up person if you
know what I mean. He can't always express what he feels in words.
But underneath it all he minds things terribly. And he's got a jealous
nature. He was always jealous of Betty. He was devoted to her--and of
course she was very fond of him, but it wasli't in Betty to be fond of
one person and not notice anybody else. She wasn't made that way.
She'd got a--well, an eye for any nice-looking man who'd pass the
time of day with her. And of course, working in the Ginger Cat, she
was always running up against men--especially in the summer holidays.
She was always very pat with her tongte and if they chaffed her
she'd chaff back again. And then perhaps she'd meet them and go to
the pictures or something like that. Nothing serious--never anything
of that kind--but she just liked her fun. She used to say that as she'd
got to settle down with Don one day she might as well have her fun
now while she could."
Megan paused and Poirot said:
"I understand. Continue."
"It was just that attitude of mind of hers that Don couldn't understand.
If she was really keen on him he couldn't see why she wanted to
go out with other people. And once or twice they had flaming big rows
about it."
"M. Don, he was no longer quiet?"
"It's like all those quiet people, when they do lose their tempers they
lose them with a vengeance. Don was so violent that Betty was frightened.''
"Wlen was this?
"There was one row nearly a year ago and another--a worse one--
AGATHA CHRISTIE

just over a month ago. I was home for the weekend--and I got them to
patch it up again, and it was then that I tried to knock a little sense into
Betty--told her she was a little fool. All she would say was that there
hadn't been any harm in it. Well, that was true enough, but all the same
she was riding for a fall. You see, after the row a year ago, she'd got
into the habit of telling a few useful lies on the principle that what the
mind doesn't know the heart doesn't grieve over. This last flare-up
came because she'd told Don she was going to Hastings to see a girl
pal and he found out that she'd really been over to Eastbourne with
some man. He was a married man, as it happened, and he'd been a bit
secretive about the business anyway--and so that made it worse. They
had an awful scene--Betty saying that she wasn't married to him yet
and she had a right to go about with whom she pleased and Don all
white and shaking and saying that one day---one day--"
"Yes?"
"He'd commit murder--" said Megan in a lowered voice.
She stopped and stared at Poirot.
He nodded his head gravely several times.
"And so, naturally, you were afraid..."
"I didn't think he'd actually done it--not for a minute! But I was
afraid it might be brought up--the quarrel and all that he'd said--several
people knew about it."
Again Poirot nodded his head gravely.
"Just so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egotistical
vanity of a killer, that is just what would have happened. If Donald Fraser
escapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A.B.C.'s maniacal boasting."
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
"Do you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man,
lately?"
Megan shook her head.
"I don't know. I've been away, you see."
"But what do you think?"
"She mayn't have met that particular man again. He'd probably
sheer off if he thought there was a chance of a row, but it wouldn't surprise
me if Betty had--well, been telling Don a few lies again. You
see, she did so enjoy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Don
couldn't afford to take her all the time."
"If so, is she likely to have confided in any one? The girl at the cafe,
for instance?"
"I don't think that's likely. Betty couldn't bear the Higley girl. She


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
59


thought her common. And the others would be new. Betty wasn't the
confiding sort anyway."

An electric bell trilled sharply above, the girl's head.

She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her head
sharply.

"It's Don.. "

"Bring him in here," said Poirot quickly. "I would like a word with
him before our good inspector takes him in hand."

Like a flash Megan Bamard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of
seconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand.


XII. Donald Fraser


I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and be-wildered
eyes showed how great a shock he had had.

He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing close on
six foot, not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled face, high
cheekbones and flaming red hair.

"What's this, Megan?" he said. "Why in here? For God's sake, tell

me--I've only just heard--Betty..."

His voice trailed away.

Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it.

My friend then extracted a small flask from his pocket, poured some
of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser
and said:

"Drink some of this, Mr. Fraser. It will do you good."

The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a little colour back into
his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His man-ner
was quite quiet and self-controlled.

"It's true, I suppose?" he said. "Betty is--dead--killed?"

"It's true, Don."

He said as though mechanically:

"Have you just come down from London?

"Yes. Dad phoned me."

"By the 9:20, I suppose?" said Donald Fraser.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant
details.
"Yes."
There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said:
'`The police? Are they doing anything?
"They're upstairs now. Looking through Betty's things, I suppose."
"They've no idea who--? They don't know--.'?"
He stopped.
He had all a sensitive, shy person's dislike of putting violent facts
into words.
Poirot moved forward a little and asked a question. He spoke in a
business-like, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an un-impoctant
detail.
"Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night.'?"
Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically.
"She told me she was going with a girl friend to St. Leonards.'
"Did you believe her?"
"I--" Suddenly the automaton came to life. "What the devil do you
mean?"
His face then, menacing, convulsed by sudden passion, made me
understand that a girl might well be afraid of rousing his anger.
Poirot said crisply:
"Betty Barnard was killed by a homicidal murderer. Only by speaking
the exact truth can you help us to get on his track."
His glance for a minute turned to Megan.
''That's right, Don," she said. "It isn't a time for considering one's
own feelings or any one else's. You've got to come clean."
Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot.
"Who are you? You don't belong to the police?"
"I am better than the police," said Poirot. He said it without conscious
arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact.
''Tell him," said Megan.
Donald Fraser capitulated.
"I--wasn't sure," he said. "I believed her when she said it. Never
thought of doing anything else. Afterwards--perhaps it was something
in her manner. I--I, well, I began to wonder."
"Yes.'?" said Poirot.
He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the
other man's, seemed to be exercising a mesmeric spell.
"I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But-but I was


69
AGATHA CHRISTIE

suspicious... I thought of going down to the front and watching her

when she left the cafe. I actually went there. Then I felt I couldn't do

that. Betty would see me and she'd be angry. She'd realize at once that

l was watching her."

"What did you do?"

"I went over to St. Leonards. Got over there by eight o'clock. Then
I watched the buses--to see if she were in them But
there was no
sign
of her...."
"And
then?"
"l--I
lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I
thought it probable he had taken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there--looked
in hotels and restaurants, hung round cinemas--went on
the pier. All damn foolishness. Even if she was there I was unlikely to
find her, and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might have taken
her to instead of Hastings."
He
stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of
that blind, bewildering misery and anger that had possessed him at the
time he described.
"In
the end I gave it up--came back."
"At
what time?"
"I
don't know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when l
got
home "
"Then--"
The
kitchen
door opened.
"Oh, there
you are," said Inspector Kelsey.
Inspector Crome
pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at
the two strangers.
"Miss
Megan Barnard and Mr. Donald Fraser," said Poirot, introducing
them.
"This
is Inspector Crome from London," he explained.
Turning
to the inspector, he said:
"While
you pursued your investigations upstairs I have been conversing
with Miss Barnard and Mr. Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find
something that will throw light upon the matter."
"Oh,
yes?" said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon
the two newcomers.
Poirot
retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly as he passed:
"Get
anything?
But
his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for
a reply.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
63


I joined Poirot in the hall.

"Did anything strike you, Poirot.'?" I inquired.

"Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings."

I had not the courage to say that I had not the least idea what he
[lleant.


XIII. A Conference


Conferences!

Much of my memories of the A.B.C. case seem to be of confer-ences.

Conferences at Scotland Yard. At Poirot's rooms. Official con-ferences.
Unofficial conferences.

This particular conference was to decide whether or not the facts
relative to the anonymous letters should or should not be made public
in the press.

The Bexhill murder had attracted much more attention than the An-dover
one.

It had, of course, far more elements of popularity. The victim was a
young and good-looking girl to begin with. Also, it had taken place at a
popular seaside resort.

All the details of the crime were reported fully and rehashed daily in
thin disguises. The A.B.C. railway guide came in for its share of atten-tion.
The favourite theory was that it had been bought locally by the
murderer and that it was a valuable clue to his identity. It also seemed
to show that he had come to the place by train and was intending to
leave for London.

The railway guide had not figured at all in the meagre accounts of
the Andover murder so there seemed at present little likelihood of the
two crimes being connected in the public eye.

"We've got to decide upon a policy," said the Assistant Commis

THE A.B.C. MURDERS 65


sioner. "The thing is--which way will give us the best results? Shall
we give the public the facts---enlist their co-operation--after all, it'll
be the co-operation of several million people, looking out for a
madman--"

"He won't look like a madman," interjected Dr. Thompson.
"---looking out for sales of A.B.C.'s--and so on. Against that I SUlY-pose
there's the advantage of working in the dark--not letting our man
know what we're up to, but then there's the fact that he knows very well
that we know. He's drawn attention to himself deliberately by his let-ters.
Eh, Crome, what's your opinion?"

"I look at it this way, sir. If you make it public, you're playing
A.B.C. game. That's what he wants--publicity--notoriety. That's
what he's out after. I'm right, aren't I, doctor? He wants to make a
splash ."

Thompson nodded.

The Assistant Commissioner said thoughtfully:

"So you're for baulking him. Refusing him the publicity he's han-kering
after. What about you, M. Poirot?"

Poirot did not speak for a minute. When he did it was with an air of
choosing his words carefully.

"It is difficult for me, Sir Lionel," he said. "I am, as you might say,
an interested party. The challenge was sent to me. If I say, 'Suppress
that fact--do not make it public,' may it not be thought that it is my
vanity that speaks? That I am afraid for my reputation? It is difficult!
To speak out--to tell all--that has its advantages. It is, at least, a warn-ing
.... On the other hand, I am as convinced as Inspector Crome that
it is what the murderer wants us to do."

"H'm!" said the Assistant Commissioner, rubbing his chin. He
looked across at Dr. Thompson. "Suppose we refuse our lunatic the
satisfaction of the publicity he craves. What's he likely to do?"

"Commit another crime," said the doctor promptly. "Force your
hand."

"And if we splash the thing about in headlines. Then what's his re-action?"

"Same answer. One way you feed his megalomania, the other you

baulk it. The result's the same. Another crime."
"What do you say, M. Poirot?"
"I agree with Dr. Thompson."

"A cleft stick---eh? How many crimes do you think this--lunatic
has in mind?"

Dr. Thompson looked across at Poirot.


66
AGATHA CHRISTIE

"Looks like A to Z," he said cheerfully.
"Of course," he went on, "he won't get there. Not nearly. You'll
have him by the heels long before that. Interesting to know how he'd
have dealt with the letter X." He recalled himself guiltily from this
purely enjoyable speculation. "But you'll have him long before that. G
or H, let's say."
The Assistant Commissioner struck the table with his fist.
"My God, are you telling me we're going to have five more murders?''
"It won't be as much as that, sir," said Inspector Crome. "Trust me."
He spoke with confidence.
"Which letter of the alphabet do you place it at, inspector?" asked
Poirot.
There was a slight ironic note in his voice. Cromc, I thought, looked
at him with a tinge of dislike adulterating the usual calm superiority.
"Might get him next time, M. Poirot. At any rate I'd guarantee to get
him by the time he gets to E"
He turned to the Assistant Commissioner.
"I think I've got the psychology of the case fairly clear. Dr. Thompson
will correct me if I'm wrong. I take it that every time he brings a
crime off, his self-confidence increases about a hundred per cent. Every
time he feels 'I'm clever--they can't catch meI' he becomes so
overweeningly confident that he also becomes careless. He exaggerates
his own cleverness and every one clse's stupidity. Very soon he'll
be hardly bothering to take any precautions at all. That's right, isn't it,
doctor?"
Thompson nodded.
"That's usually the case. In non-medical terms it couldn't have been
put better. You know something about such things, M. Poirot. Don't
you agree?"
I don't think that Crome liked Thompson's appeal to Poirot. He considered
that he and he only was the expert on this subject.
"It is as Inspector Crome says," agreed Poirot.
"Paranoia," murmured the doctor.
Poirot turned to Crome.
"Are there any material facts of interest in the Bexhill case?"
"Nothing very definite. A waiter at the Splendide at Eastbourne recognizes
the dead girl's photograph as that of a young woman who
dined there in company with a middle-aged man in spectacles. It's also
been recognized at a roadhouse place called the Scarlet Runner, halfway
between Bexhill and London. There they say she was with a man


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
67

who looked like a naval officer. They can't both be right, but either of
them's probable. Of course, there's a host of other identifications, but
most of them not good for much. We haven't been able to trace the
A.B.C."
"Well, you seem to be doing all that can be done, Crome," said the
Assistant Commissioner. "What do you say, M. Poirot? Does any line
of inquiry suggest itself to you?"
Poirot said slowly:
"It seems to me that there is one very important clue--the discovery
of the motive."
"Isn't that pretty obvious? An alphabetical complex. Isn't that what
you called it, doctor?"
"a, oui," said Poirot. "There is an alphabetical complex. A madman
in particular has always a very strong reason for the crimes he
commits."
"Come, come, M. Poirot," said Crome. "Look at Stoneman in 1929.
He ended by trying to do away with any one who annoyed him in the
slightest degree."
Poirot turned to him.
"Quite so. But if you are a sufficiently great and important person, it
is necessary that you should be spared small annoyances. If a fly settles
on your forehead again and again, maddening you by its tickling--what
do you do? You endeavour to kill that fly. You have no qualms
about it. You are important--the fly is not. You kill the fly and the annoyance
ceases. Your action appears to you sane and justifiable. Another
reason for killing a fly is if you have a strong passion for hygiene.
The fly is a potential source of danger to the community--the fly must
go. So works the mind of the mentally deranged criminal. But consider
now this case--if the victims are alphabetically selected, then they are
not being removed because they are a source of annoyance to him personally. It would be too much of a coincidence to combine the two."
"That's a point," said Dr. Thompson. "I remember a case where a
woman's husband was condemned to death. She started killing the
members of the jury one by one. Quite a time before the crimes were
connected up. They seemed entirely haphazard. But as M. Poirot says,
there isn't such a thing as a murderer who commits crimes at random.
Either he removes people who stand (however insignificantly) in his
path, or else he kills by conviction. He removes clergymen, or policemen,
or prostitutes because he firmly believes that they should be removed.
That doesn't apply here either as far as I can see. Mrs. Ascher
and Betty Barnard cannot be linked as members of the same class. Of


AGATHA CHRISTIE

course, it's possible that there is a sex complex. Both victims have
been women. We can tell better, of course, after the next crime--"
"For God's sake, Thompson, don't speak so glibly of the next
crime," said Sir Lionel irritably. "We're going to do all we can to prevent
another crime."
Dr. Thompson held his peace and blew his nose with some violence.
"Hfive it your own ,way," the noise seemed to say. "If you won't face
facts---"
The Assistant Commissioner turned to Poirot.
"I see what you're driving at, but I'm not quite clear yet."
"I ask myself," said Poirot, "what passes in itself exactly in the
mind of the murderer? He kills, it would seem from his letters, pour le
sport--to amuse himself. Can that really be true? And even if it is true,
on what principle does he select his victims apart from the merely alphabetical
one? If he kills merely to amuse himself he would not advertise
the fact, since, otherwise, he could kill with impunity. But no,
he seeks, as we all agree, to make the splash in the public eye---to assert
his personality. In what way has his personality been suppressed
that one can connect with the two victims he has so far selected? A final
suggestion--Is his motive direct personal hatred of me, of Hercule
Poirot? Does he challenge me in public because I have (unknown to
myself) vanquished him somewhere in the course of my career? Or is
his animosity impersonal--directed against a foreigner? And if so,
what again has led to that? What injury has he suffered at a foreigner's
hand?"
"All very suggestive questions," said Dr. Thompson.
Inspector Crome cleared his throat.
"Oh, yes? A little unanswerable at present, perhaps."
"Nevertheless, my friend," said Poirot, looking straight at him, "it is
there in those questions that the solution lies. If we knew the exact
reason--fantastic, perhaps, to us--but logical to him----of why our
badman commits these crimes, we should know, perhaps, who the
next victim is likely to be."
Crome shook his head.
"He selects them haphazard--that's my opinion."- 'l'be.magnanimous
murderer," said Poirot.
"What's that you say?"
"I said--the magnanimous murderer! Franz Ascber would have been
arrested for the murder of his wife--Donald Fraser might have been arrested
for the murder of Beuy Barnard--if it had not been for the warn
THE A.B.C. MURDERS


ing letters of A.B.C. Is he, then, so soft-heacted that he cannot bear
others to suffer for something they did not do?"

"I've known stranger things happen," said Dr. Thompson. "I've
known men who've killed half a dozen victims all broken up because
one of their victims didn't die instantaneously and suffered pain. All
the same, I don't think that that is our fellow's reason. He wants the
credit of these crimes for his own honour and glory. That's the expla-nation
that fits best."

"We've come to no decision about the publicity business," said the
Assistant Commissioner.

"If I may make a suggestion, sir," said Crome. "Why not wait fill the
receipt of the next letter? Make it public then--special editions, etc. It
will make a bit of a panic in the particular town named, but it will put
every one whose name begins with C on his guard, and it'll put A.B.C.
on his mettle. He'll be determined to succeed. And that's when we'll
get him."

How little we knew what the future held.


XlV. The Third Letter

I well remember t:he arrival of A.B.C.'s third letter.
I may say that all precautions had been taken so that when A.B.C.
resumed his camffaign there should be no unnecessary delays. A young
sergeant from Scotland Yard was attached to the house and if Poirot
and I were out it was his duty to open anything that came so as to be
able to communicate with headquarters without loss of time.
As the days suo'ceeded each other we had all grown more and more
on edge. Inspector' Crome's aloof and superior manner grew more and
more aloof and stPerior as one by one his more hopeful clues petered
out. The vague dSCriPtious of men said to have been seen with Betty
Barnard proved uless- Various ears noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill
and Cooden were either accounted for or could not be traced. The investigation
of pm-chases of A.B.C. railway guides caused inconvenience
and trouble go heaps of innocent people.
As for ourselvaS, each time the postman's familiar rat-tat sounded
on the door, our hearts beat faster with apprehension. At least that was
true for me, and I cannot but believe that Poirot experienced the same
sensation.
He was, I knew, deeply unhappy over the case. He refused to leave
London, preferring to be on the spot in case of emergency. In those hot
dog days even his moustaches drooped--neglected for once by their
owner.
70


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
71

It was on a Friday that A.B.C.'s third letter came. The evening post
arrived about ten o'clock.
When we heard the familiar step and the brisk rat-tat, I rose and
went along to the box. There were four or five letters, I remember. The
last one I looked at was addressed in printed characters.
"Poirot," I cried .... My voice died away.
"It has come? Open it, Hastings. Quickly. Every moment may be
needed. We must make our plans."
I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me for untidiness)
and extracted the printed sheet.
"Read it," said Poirot.
I read aloud:

POOR MR. POIROT--Not SO good at these little criminal matters as
you thought yourself, are you ? Rather past your prime, perhaps ? Let
us see if you can do any better this time. This time its an easy one.
Churston on the 30th. Do try and do something about it.t ItS a bit
dull having it all my own way, you know.t
Good hunting. Ever yours,
A.B.C.

"Churston," I said, jumping to our own copy of an A.B.C. "Let's see
where it is."
"Hastings," Poirot's voice came sharply and interrupted me. "When
was that letter written? Is there a date on it?"
I glanced at the letter in my hand.
"Written on the 27th," I announced.
"Did I hear you aright, Hastings? Did he give the date of the murder
as the 30th?"
"That's right. Let me see, that's--"
"Bon Dieu, Hastings---do you not realize? To-day is the 30th."
His eloquent hand pointed to the calendar on the wall. I caught up
the daily paper to confirm it.
"But why--how--" I stammered.
Poirot caught up the torn envelope from the floor. Something unusual
about the address had registered itself vaguely in my brain, but I
had been too anxious to get at the contents of the letter to pay more
than fleeting attention to it.
Poirot was at the time living in Whitehaven Mansions. The address
ran: M. Hercule Poirot, Whitehorse Mansions. Across the corner was


AGATHA CHRISTIE

scrawled: "Not known at Whitehorse Mansions, E.C. i, nor at White-hore
Court--try Whitehaven Mansions."
"Mon DieM" murmured Poirot. "Does even chance aid this madman?
Vite rite--we must get on to Scotland Yard."
A minute or two later we were speaking to Crome over the wire. For
once the self-controlled inspector did not reply "Oh, yes? Instead a
quickly stifled curse came to his lips. He heard what we had to say,
then rang off in order to get a U'un& connection to Churston as rapidly
as possible.
"C'est trop tard, " murmured Poirot.
"You can't be sure of that," I argued, though without any great hope.
He glanced at the clock.
"Twenty minutes past ten? An hour and forty minutes to go. Is it
likely that A.B.C. will have held his hand so long?"
I opened the railway guide I had previously taken from its shelfi
"Churstou, Devon," I read, "from Paddington 204 miles. Population
544. It sounds a fairly small place. Surely our man will be bound
to be noticed there."
"Even so, another life will have been taken," murmured Poirot.
"What are the trains? I imagine train will be quicker than car."
"There's a midnight train--sleeping-car to Newton Abbot--gets
there 6:08 A.M., and to Churston at 7:15."
"That is from Paddington?"
"Paddington, yes."
"We will take that, Hastings."
"You'll hardly have time to get news before we start."
"If we receive bad news to-night or to-morrow morning, does it
matter which?
"There's something in that."
I put a few things together in a suitcase whilst Poirot once more rang
up Scotland Yard.
A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and demanded: "Mais qu 'est-ce que vous faites Ih?"
"I was packing for you. I thought it would save time."
"Vous prouvez trop d 叮otion, Hastings. It affects your hands and
your wits. Is that a way to fold a coat? And regard what you have done
to my pyjamas. If the hairwash breaks what will befall them?"
"Good heavens, Poirot," I cried, "this is a matter of life and death.
What does it matter what happens to our clothes?"
"You have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch a train


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
73


earlier than the time that it leaves, and to ruin one's clothes will not be
the least helpful in preventing a murder."

Taking his suitcase from me firmly, he took the packing into his own
hands.

He explained that we were to take the letter and envelope to
Paddington with us. Some one from Scotland Yard would meet us
there.

When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was In-spector
Crome.

He answered Poirot's look of inquiry.

"No news as yet. All men available are on the lookout. All persons
whose name begins with C are being warned by phone when possible.

There's just a chance. Where's the letter?"

Poirot gave it to him.

He examined it, sweating soffiy under his breath.

"Of all the damned luck. The stars in their courses fight for the fel-low.''

"You don't think," I suggested, "that it was done on purpose?"
Crome shook his head.

"No. He's got his rules---crazy rules--and abides by them. Fair
warning. He makes a point of that. That's where his boastfulness
comes in. I wonder now--I'd almost bet the chap drinks White Horse
whisky."

"Ah, c'est ingdnieux ca.t'' said Poirot, driven to admiration in spite
of himself. "He prints the letter and the bottle is in front of him."

"That's the way of it," said Crome. "We've all of us done much the
same thing one time or another: unconsciously copied something that's
just under the eye. He started off White and went on horse instead of
haven .... "

The inspector, we found, was also travelling by the train.

"Even if by some unbelievable luck nothing happened, Churston is
the place to be. Our murderer is there, or has been there today. One of
my men is on the phone here up to the last minute in case anything
comes through."

Just as the train was leaving the station we saw a man running down
the platform. He reached the inspector's window and called up some-thing.

As the train drew out of the station Poirot and I hurried along the

corridor and tapped on the door of the inspector's sleeper.
"You have news--yes? demanded Poirot.
Crome said quietly:


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"It's about as bad as it can be. Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found
with his head bashed in."
Sir Carmichael Clark6, although his name was not very well known
to the general public, was a man of some eminence. He had been in his
time a veo well-known throat specialist. Retiring from his profession.
very comfortably off, he had been able to indulge what had been one of I the chief passions of his life--a collection of Chinese pottery and porI celain. A few years later, inheriting a considerable fortune from an el- I derly uncle, he had been able to indulge his passion to the full, and he I was now the possessor of one of the best known collections of Chinese
art. He was married but had no children, and lived in a house he had
built for himself near the Devon coast, only coming to London on rare
occasions such as when some important sale was on.
It did not require much reflection to realize that his death, following
that of the young and pretty Betty Barnard, would provide the best
newspaper sensation in years. The fact that it was August and that the
papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters worse.
"Eh bien," said Poirot. "It is possible that publicity may do what
private efforts have failed to do. The whole country now will be looking
for A.B.C.'
"Unfortunately," I said, "that's what he wants."
"True. But it may, all the same, be his undoing. Gratified by success,
he may become careless .... That is what I hope--that he may be
drunk with his own cleverness."
"How odd all this is, Poirot," I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an
idea. "Do you know, this is the first crime of this kind that you and I
have worked on together? All our murders have been--well, private
murders, so to speak."
"You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen our
lot to work from the inside. It has been the history of the victim that
was important. The important points have been: 'Who benefited by the
death? What opportunities had those round him to commit the crime?'
It has always been the 'crime intime.' Here, for the first time in our association,
it is cold-blooded, impersonal murder. Murder from the outside."
I shivered.
"It's rather horrible .... "
"Yes. I felt from the first, when I mad the original letter, that there
was something wrong--misshapen "

He
made an impatient gesture.


THE A.B.C. ML,DERS
7..

"One must not give way to the nerves .... This is no worse than any
ordinary crime .... "
"It is .... It is .... "
"Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life
of some one near and dear to you--some one who trusts and believes
in you, perhaps?"
"It's worse because it's mad .... "
"No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult."
"No, no, I do not agree with you. It's infinitely more frightening."
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
"It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed
by some one shrewd and sane would be far more complicated.
Here, if one could but hit on the idea... This alphabetical business, it
has discrepancies. If I could once see the idea--then everything would
be clear and simple .... "
He sighed and shook his head.
"These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth ....
Go, Hastings. Get some sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow."


Sir Carmichael Clark

Churston, lying as it does between Brixham on the one side and
Paignton and Torquay on the other, occupies a position about halfway
round the curve of Torbay. Until about ten years ago it was merely a
golf links and below the links a green sweep of countryside dropping
down to the sea with only a farmhouse or two in the way of human occupation.
But of late years there have been big building developments
between Churston and Paignton and the coastline is now dotted with
small houses and bungalows, new roads, etc.
Sir Carmichael Clarke had purchased a site of some two acres commanding
an uninterrupted view of the sea. The house he had built 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 ^.n. 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.
had been placed face downwards on the dead body.
We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight
76


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
77

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."


AGATHA CHRISTIE


"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 lit.t 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 worded in any way?"

"Excuse me, inspector. I didn't say that. To be upset and worried

was my poor brother's normal condition."

"Why was that?"

"You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very
bad health. Frankly, between ourselves, she is suffering from an incur-able
cancer, and cannot live very much longer. Her illness has preyed
terribly on my brother's mind. I myself returned from the East not long

ago and I was shocked at the change in him."

Poirot interpolated a question.

"Supposing, Mr. Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at
the foot of a cliff--or shot with a revolver beside him. What would
have been your first thought?"

"Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was
suicide," said Clarke.

"Encore.t'' said Poirot.

"What is thatT'

"A fact that repeats itselfi It is of no matter."

"Anyway, it wasn't suicide," said Crome with a touch of curtness.
"Now I believe, Mr. Clarke, that it was your brother's habit to go for a
stroll every evening?"

"Quite right. He always did."

"Every night?"

"Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally."

"And every one in the house knew of this habit?"


"Of course."
"And outside?"
"I don't quite know what you mean by outside. The gardener may
have been aware of it or not, I don't know."
"And in the village.9''
"Strictly speaking, we haven't got a village. There's a post office
and cottages at Churston Fetters--but there's no village or shops."
"I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily
noticed?"
"On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething
mass of strangers. They come over every day from Brixham and
I[iTorquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on foot. Broadsands,
which is down t,here [he pointed], is a very popular beach and so is
Elbury Cove--it s a well-known beauty spot and people come there
and picnic. I wish they didn't! You've no idea how beautiful and
peaceful this part of the world is in June and the beginning of July."
"So you don't think a stranger would be noticed?"
"Not unless he looked--well, off his head."
"This man doesn't look off his head," said Crome with certainty.
"You see what I'm getting at, Mr. Clarke. This man must have been
spying out the land beforehand and discovered your brother's habit of
taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man
came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?"
"Not that I know of---bat we'll ask Deveril."
He rang the bell and put the question to the butler.
"No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmicbael. And I didn't notice any
one hanging about the house either. No more did the maids, because
I've asked them."
The butler waited a moment, then inquired: "Is that all, sir.*"
"Yes, Deveril, you can go."
The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young
woman pass.
Franklin Clarke rose as she came.
"This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother's secretary."
My attention was caught at once by the girl's extraordinary Scandinavian
fairness. She had the almost colourless ash hair--light grey
e.yes--and transparent glowing pallor that one finds amongst Norwegians
and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as
efficient as she was decorative.
"Can I help you in any way.9'' she asked as she sat down.
Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food.


80
AGATHA CHRISTIE


"Did you deal with Sir Carmichael's correspondence?" asked
Crome.

"Yes, all of it."

"I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed A.B.C.?"
"A.B.C.T' She shook her head. "No, I'm sure he didn't."

"He didn't mention having seen any one hanging about during his
evening walks lately?"

"No. He never mentioned anything of the kind."

"And you yourself have noticed no strangers?"

"Not exactly hanging about. Of course, there are a lot of people
what you might call wandering about at this time of year. One often
meets people strolling with an aimless look across the golf links or
down the lanes to the sea. In the same way, practically every one one

sees this time of year is a stranger."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Inspector Crome asked to be taken over the ground of Sir
Carmichael's nightly walk. Franklin Clarke led the way through the

French window, and Miss Grey accompanied us.

She and I were a little behind the others.

"All this must have been a terrible shock to you all," I said.

"It seems quite unbelievable. I had gone to bed last night when the
police rang up. I heard voices downstairs and at last I came out and
asked what was the matter. Deveril and Mr. Clarke were just setting
out with lanterns."

"What time did Sir Carmichael usually come back from his walk?"
"About a quarter to ten. He used to let himself in by the side door
and then sometimes he went straight to bed, sometimes to the gallery
where his collections were. That is why, unless the police had rung up,
he would probably not have been missed till they went to call him this
morning."

"It must have been a terrible shock to his wife?"

"Lady Clarke is kept under morphia a good deal. I think she is in too
dazed a condition to appreciate what goes on round her."

We had come out through a garden gate on to the golf links. Cross-ing
a corner of them, we passed over a stile into a steep, winding lane.

"This leads down to Elbury Cove," explained Franklin Clarke. "But
two years ago they made a new road leading from the main road to
Broadsands and on to Elbury, so that now this lane is practically de-serted.''

We went on down the lane. At the foot of it a path led between bram-bles
and bracken down to the sea. Suddenly we came out on a grassy


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 81

ridge overlooking the sea and a beach of glistening white stones. All
round dark green trees ran down to the sea. It was an enchanting
spot--white, deep green--and sapphire blue.
"How beautiful!" I exclaimed.
Clarke turned to me eagerly.
"Isn't it? Why people want to go abroad to the Riviera when they've
got this! I've wandered all over the world in my time and, honest to
God, I've never seen anything as beautiful."
Then, as though ashamed of his eagerness, he said in a more matter-of-fact
tone:
"This was my brother's evening walk. He came as far as here, then
back up the path, and turning to the right instead of the left, went past the farm and across the fields back to the house."
We proceeded on our way till we came to a spot near the hedge, halfway
across the field where the body had been found.
Crome nodded.
"Easy enough. The man stood here in the shadow. Your brother
would have noticed nothing till the blow fell." The girl at my side gave a quick shiver.
Franklin Clarke said:
"Hold up, Thora. It's pretty beastly, but it's no use shirking facts."
Thora Grey--the name suited her.
We went back to the house where the body had been taken after being
photographed.
As we mounted the wide staircase the doctor came out of a room,
black hag in hand.
"Anything to tell us, doctor?" inquired Clarke.
The doctor shook his head.
"Perfectly simple case. I'll keep the technicalities for the inquest.
Anyway, he didn't suffer. Death must have been instantaneous."
He moved away.
"I'll just go in and see Lady Clarke."
A hospital nurse came out of a room further along the corridor and
the doctor joined her.
We went into the room out of which the doctor had come.
I came out again rather quickly. Thora Grey was still standing at the
head of the stairs.
There was a queer scared expression on her face.
"Miss Grey--" I stopped. "Is anything the matter?"
She looked at me.
"I was thinking," she said--"about D."


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"About D?" I stared at her stupidly.
"Yes. The next murder. Something must be done. It's got to be
stopped."
Clarke came out of the room behind me.
He said:
"What's got to be stopped, Thora?'
"These awful murders."
"Yes." His jaw thrust itself out aggressively. "I want to talk to
M. Poirot sometime Is
Crome any good?" He shot the words out
unexpectedly.
I
replied that he was supposed to be a very clever officer.
My
voice was perhaps not as enthusiastic as it might have been. "He's
got a damned offensive manner," said Clarke. "Looks as though
he knows everything--and what does he know? Nothing at all as
far as I can make out."
He
was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
"M.
Poirot's the man for my money. I've got a plan. But we'll talk of that
later."
He
went along the passage and tapped at the same door as the doctor had
entered.
I
hesitated a moment. The girl was staring in front of her. "What
are you thinking of, Miss GreyT' She
turned her eyes towards me.
"I'm
wondering where he is now.., the murderer, I mean. It's not twelve
hours yet since it happened .... Oh! aren't there any real clairvoyants

who could see where he is now and what he is doing... ?" '
he police are searching--" I
began.
My commonplace words broke the spell. Thora Grey pulled
herself
together.
"Yes," she said. "Of
course."
In her turn she descended the staircase. I stood there a
moment
longer conning her words over in my
mind.
A.B.C
Where was he now...
?


XVI. (Not from Captain Ha tings'

Personal Narrative)


.Mr.
Alexander Bonaparte Cust came out with the rest of the audience
the Torquay Pavilion, where he had been seeing aod hearing that

highly emotional film, Not a Sparrow ....

He blinked a little as he came out into the afterno迸 sunshine and
peered round him in that lost-dog fashion that was characteristic of
him.

He murmured to himself: "It's an idea "

Newsboys
passed along crying out:
"Latest...
Homicidal Maniac at Churston..."
They
carried placards on which was written:
CHURSTON
MURDER. LATEST.
Mr.
Cust fumbled in his pocket, found a coin, and oought a paper. He
did not open it at once.
Entering
the Princess Gardens, he slowly made his way to a shelter facing
Torquay harbour. He sat down and opened the paPer,

There were big headlines:


SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE MURDERED
TERRIBLE TRAGEDY AT CHURSTON
WORK OF A HOMICIDAl. MANIAC


And below them:


AGATHA CHRISTIE


Only a month ago England was shocked and startled by the mur-der
of a young girl, Elizabeth Barnard, at Bexhi!l. It may be remem-bered
that an A.B.C. railway guide figured in the case. An A.B.C.
was also found by the dead body of Sir Carmichael Clarke, and the
police incline to the belief that both crimes were committed by the
same person. Can it be possible that a homicidal murderer is going
the round of our seaside resorts?...


A young man in flannel trousers and a bright blue aertex shirt who

was sitting beside Mr. Cust remarked:
"Nasty business---eh?"
Mr. Cust jumped.
"Oh, very--very--"

His hands, the young man noticed, were trembling so that he could
hardly hold the paper.

"You never know with lunatics," said the young man chattily. "They
don't always look balmy, you know. Often they seem just the same as
you or me ....

"I suppose they do," said Mr. Cust.

"It's a fact. Sometimes it's the war what unhinged them--never
- been right since."

"I--I expect you're right."

"I don't hold with wars," said the young man.

His companion turned on him.

"I don't hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and can-cer..,
but they happen all the same!"

"War's preventable," said the young man with assurance.
Mr. Cust laughed. He laughed for some time.
The young man was slightly alarmed.
"He's a bit batty himself," he thought.
Aloud he said:

"Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war."

"I was," said Mr. Cust. "It--it--unsettled me. My bead's never been
right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly."

"Oh! I'm sorry about that," said the young man awkwardly.
"Sometimes I hardly know what I'm doing .... "

"Really? Well, I must be getting along," said the young man and re-moved
himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began
to talk about their health.

Mr. Cust remained with his paper.

He read and reread ....


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 85

People passed to and fro in front of him.
Most of them were talking of the murder....
"Awful ... do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese?
Wasn't the waitress in a Chinese cafe?..."
"Actually on the golf links..."
"I heard it was on the beach..."
"--but, darling, we took out tea to Elbury only yesterday..." "--police are sure to get him..."
"--say he may be arrested any minute now..."
"---quite likely he's in Torquay... that other woman was who murdered
the what do you call 'ems..."
Mr. Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then
he rose and walked sedately along towards the town.
Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery
frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes
appraised the men they passed.
Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr. Cust ....
He sat down at a little table and ordered tea and Devonshire
cream ....


XVII. Marking Time

With the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke the A.B.C. mystery leaped
into the fullest prominence.
The newspapers were full of nothing else. All sorts of "clues" were
reported to have been discovered. Arrests were announced to be imminent.
There were photographs of every person or place remotely connected
with the murder. There were interviews with any one who
would give interviews. There were questions asked in Parliament.
The Andover murder was not bracketed with the other two.
It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the
best chance of laying the murderer by the heels. The population of
Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateur sleuths.
The Daily Flicker had the grand inspiration of using the caption:
He may be in your town!
Poirot, of course, was in the thick of things. The letters sent to him
were published and facsimiled. He was abused wholesale for not having
prevented the crimes and defended on the ground that he was on
the point of naming the murderer.
Reporters incessantly badgered him for interviews.
What M. Poirot Says Today.
Which was usually followed by a half-column of imbecilities.
M. Poirot Takes Grave View of Situation.
M. Poirot on the Eve of Success.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 87

Captain Hastings, the great friend of M. Poirot, told our Special
Representative...
"Poirot," I would cry. "Pray believe me. I never said anything of the
kind."
My friend would reply kindly:
"I know, Hastings--I know. The spoken word and the written--there
is an astonishing gulf between them. There is a way of turning
sentences that completely reverses the original meaning."
"I wouldn't like you to think I'd said--"
"But do not worry yourself. All this is of no importance. These im-
becilities, even, may help."
"How.'?"
"Eh bien," said Poirot grimly. "If our madman reads what I am supposed
to have said to the Daily Flicker today, he will lose all respect
.ll.for me as an opponent!"
ii I am, perhaps, giving the impression that nothing practical was be?iing
done in the way of investigations. On the contrary, Scotland Yard
and the local police of the various counties were indefatigable in following
up the smallest clues.
Hotels, people who kept lodgings, boarding-houses--all those
within a wide radius of the crimes were questioned minutely.
Hundreds of stories from imaginative people who had "seen a man
looking very queer and rolling his eyes," or "noticed a man with a sinister
face slinking along," were sifted to the last detail. No information,
even of the vaguest character, was neglected. Trains, buses, trams, railway
porters, conductors, bookstalls, stationers--there was an indefatigable
round of questions and verifications.
At least a score of people were detained and questioned until they
could satisfy the police as to their movements on the night in question.
The net result was not entirely a blank. Certain statements were
borne in mind and noted down as of possible value, but without further
evidence they led nowhere.
If Crome and his colleagues were indefatigable, Poirot seemed to
me strangely supine. We argued now and again.
"But what is it that you would have me do, my friend? The routine
inquiries, the police make them better than I do. Always--always you
want me to run about like the dog."
"Instead of which you sit at home like--like--"
"A sensible man! My force, Hastings, is in my brain, not in my feet! All the time, whilst I seem to you idle, I am reflecting."
"Reflecting.9" I cried. "Is this a time for reflection?"


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"Yes, a thousand times yes."
"But what can you possibly gain by retlection? You know the facts
of the three cases by heart."
"It is not the facts I reflect upon--but the mind of the murderer."

"The mind of a madman!"
"Precisely. And therefore not to be arrived at in a minute. When I
know what the murderer is like, I shall be able to find out who he is. And all the time I learn more. After the Andover crime, what did we
know about the murderer? Next to nothing at all. After the Bexhili
crime? A little more. After the Churston murder? More still. I begin to
see--not what you would like to see--the outlines of a face and
form--but the outlines of a mind. A mind that moves and works in certain
definite directions. After the next crime--"
"Poirot!'
My friend looked at me dispassionately.
"But, yes, Hastings, I think it is almost certain there will be another.
A lot depends on la chance. So far our inconnu has been lucky. This
time the luck may turn against him. But in any case, after another
crime, we shall know infinitely more. Crime is terribly revealing. Try
and vary your methods as you will your tastes, your habits, your attitude
of mind, and your soul is revealed by your actions. There are confusing
indications--sometimes it is as though there were two
intelligences at work-but soon the outline will clear itself, I shall
know."
"Who it is.'?"
"No, Hastings, I shall not know his name and address! I shall know
what kind of man he is "
"And
then?"
"Et alors, je vais a la pPche. "
As I looked rather bewildered, he went on:
"You comprehend, Hastings, an expert fisherman knows exactly
what flies to offer to what fish. I shall offer the right kind of fly."
"And then?"
"And then? And then? You are as bad as the superior Crome with his
eternal, 'Oh, yes?' Eh bien, and then he will take the bait and the' hook
and we will reel in the line .... "
"In the meantime people are dying right and left."
"Three people. And there are, what is it--about 140---road deaths
every week?"
"That is entirely different."
"It is probably exactly the same to those who die. For the others, the


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

relations, the friends--yes, there is a difference, but one thing at le:
rejoices me in this case."
"By all means let us hear anything in the nature of rejoicing."
"lnutile to be so sarcastic. It rejoices me that there is here no shad4
of guilt to distress the innocent."
"Isn't this worse?"
"No, no, a thousand times no! There is nothing so terrible as to Ii
in an atmosphere of suspicion--to see eyes watching you and the 1o
in them changing to fear--nothing so terrible as to suspect those ne
and dear to you... It is poisonous--a miasma. No, the poisoning
life for the innocent, that, at least, we cannot lay at A.B.C.'s door."
"You'll soon be making excuses for the man!" I said bitterly.
"Why not? He may believe himself fully justified. We may, perha]
end by having sympathy with his point of view."
"Really, Poirot!"
"Alas! I have shocked you. First my inertia--and then my views
I shook my head without replying.
"All the same," said Poirot after a minute or two, "I have one proj
that will please you--since it is active and not passive. Also, it will c
tail a lot of conversation and practically no thought."
I did not quite like his tone.
"What is itT' I asked cautiously.
"The extraction from the friends, relations, and servants of the vi
tims of all they know."
"Do you suspect them of keeping things back, then?"
"Not intentionally. But telling everything you know always impli selection. If I were to say to you, recount me your day yesterday, y
would perhaps reply: 'I rose at nine, I breakfasted at half-past, I h
eggs and bacon and coffee, I went to my club, etc.' You would not
clude: 'I tore my nail and had to cut it. I rang for shaving water. I st
a little coffee on the tablecloth. I brushed my hat and put it on.' (3
cannot tell everything. Therefore one selects. At the time of a murd
people select what they think is important. But quite frequently th,
think wrong!"
"And how is one to get at the right things?"
"Simply. as I said just now, by conversation. By talking! By discu, ing a certain happening, or a certain person, or a certain day, over a
over again, extra details are bound to arise."
"What kind of details?"
"Naturally that I do not know or'I should not want to find out! l
enough time has passed now for ordinary things to reassume th,


AGATHA CHRISTIE

value. It is against all mathematical laws that in three cases of murder
there is no single fact or sentence with a bearing on the case. Some
trivial happening, some trivial remark there must be which would be a
pointer! It is looking for the needle in the haystack, I grant--but in the
haystack there is a needle---of that I am convinced!"
It seemed to me extremely vague and hazy.
"You do not see it? Your wits are not so sharp as those of a mere servant
girl."
He tossed me over a letter. It was neatly written in a sloping board-school
hand.

DEAR Sm--I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in writing to
you. I have been thinking a lot since these awful two murders like
poor Auntie . It seems as though we're all in the same boat, as it
were. I saw the young lady picture in the paper, the young lady, 1
mean, that is the sister of the young lady that was killed at Bexhill. I
made so bold as to write to her and tell her I was coming to London
to get a place and asked if I could come to her or her mother as I
said two heads might be better than one and I would not want much
wages, but only to find out who this awful fiend is and perhaps we
might get at it better if we could say what we knew something migh
come of it.
The young lady wrote we .ry nicely and said as how she worked it,'
an office and lived in a hotel, but she suggested I might write to you
and she said she'd been thinking something of the same kind as I
had. And she said we were in the same trouble and we ought to stand
together. So I am writing, sir, to say I am coming to London and this
is my address.
Hoping I am not troubling you, Yours respecOully,
MARY DROWR

"Mary Drower," said Poirot, "is a very intelligent girl."
He picked up another letter.
"Read this."
It was a line from Franklin Clarke, saying that he was coming to
London and would call upon Poirot the following day if not inconvenient.
"Do not despair, mon ami," said Poirot. "Action is about to begin."


XVlII. Poirot Makes a Speech


Franklin Clarke arrived at three o'clock on the following afternoon and

came straight to the point without beating about the bush.
"M. Poirot," he said, "I'm not satisfied."
"No, Mr. Clarke?"

"I've no doubt that Crome is a very efficient officer, but frankly, he
puts my back up. That air of his of knowing best! I hinted something of
what I had in mind to your friend here when he was down at Churston,
but I've had all my brother's affairs to settle up and I haven't been free
until now. My idea is, M. Poirot, that we oughtn't to let the grass grow
under our feet--"

"Just what Hastings is always saying!"

"--but go right ahead. We've got to get ready for the next crime."
"So you think there will be a next crime.'?"
"Don't you?"
"Certainly."

"Very well, then. I want to get organized."

"Tell me your idea exactly."

"I propose, M. Poirot, a kind of special legionto work under your
orders---composed of the friends and relatives of the murdered peo-ple.''

"Une bonne idle.t''

"I'm glad you approve. By putting our heads together I feel we
might get at something. Also, when the next warning comes, by being

91


AGATHA CHRISTIE


on the spot, one of us might--I don't say it's probable--but we might
recognize some person as having been near the scene of a previous
crime."

"I see your idea, and I approve, but you must remember, Mr. Frank-lin,
the relations and friends of the other victims are hardly in your
sphere of life. They are employed persons and though they might be
given a short vacation--"

Franklin Clarke interrupted.

"That's just it. I'm the only person in a position to foot the bill. Not
that I'm particularly well off myself, but my brother died a rich man
and it will eventually come to me. I propose, as I say, to enroll a special
legion, the members to be paid for their services at the same rate as

they get habitually, with, of course, the additional expenses."

"Who do you propose should form this legion?"

"I've been into that. As a matter of fact, I wrote to Miss Megan
Bernard--indeed, this is partly her idea. I suggest myself, Miss
Barnard, Mr. Donald Fraser, who was engaged to the dead girl. Then
there is a niece of the Andover woman--Miss Barnard knows her ad-dress.
I don't think the husband would be of any use to us--I hear he's
usually drunk. I also think the Bernards--the father and mother--are a

bit old for active campaigning."
"Nobody else?"
"Well--er--Miss Grey."

He flushed slightly as he spoke the name.

"Oh! Miss Grey?"

Nobody in the world could put a gentle nuance of irony into a couple
of words better than Poirot. About thirty-five years fell away from
Franklin Clarke. He looked suddenly like a shy schoolboy.

"Yes. You see, Miss Grey was with my brother for over two years.
She knows the countryside and the people round, and everything. I've
been away for a year and a half."

Poirot took pity on him and turned the conversation.

"You have been in the East? In China?"

"Yes. I had a kind of roving commission to purchase things for my
brother."

"Very interesting it must have been. Eh bien, Mr. Clarke, I approve
very highly of your idea. I was saying to Hastings only yesterday that a
rapprochement of the people concerned was needed. It is necessary to
pool reminiscences, to compare notes--enfin to talk the thing over--to
talk---to talk---and again to talk. Out of some innocent phrase may
come enlightenment."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


A few days later the "Special Legion" met at Poirot's rooms.

As they sat round looking obediently towards Poirot, who had his
place, like the chairman at a Board meeting, at the head of the table, I
myself passed them, as it were, in review, confirming or revising my
first impressions of them.

The three girls were all of them strikingqooking--the extraordinary
fair beauty of Thora Grey, the dark intensity of Megan Barnard, with
her strange Red Indian immobility of face--Mary Drower, neatly
dressed in a black coat and skirt, with her pretty, intelligent face. Of the
two men, Franklin Clarke, big, bronzed and talkative, Donald Fraser,
self-contained and quiet, made an interesting contrast to each other.

Poirot, unable, of course, to resist the occasion, made a little speech.
"Mesdames and Messieurs, you know what we are here for. The po-lice
are doing their utmost to track down the criminal. I, too, in my dif-ferent
way. But it seems to me a reunion of those who have a personal
interest in the matter--and also, I may say, a personal knowledge of
the victims--might have results that an outside investigation cannot
pretend to attain.

"Here we have three murders--an old woman, a young girl, an el-derly
man. Only one thing links these three people together--the fact
that the same person killed them. That means that the same person was
present in three different localities and was seen necessarily by a large
number of people. That he is a madman in an advanced stage of mania
goes without saying. That his appearance and behaviour give no sug-gestion
of such a fact is equally certain. This person--and though I say
he, remember it may be a man or woman--has all the devilish cunning
of insanity. He has succeeded so far in covering his traces completely.
The police have certain vague indications but nothing upon which they
can act.

"Nevertheless, there must exist indications which are not vague but
certain. To take one particular point--this assassin he did not arrive at
Bexhill at midnight and find conveniently on the beach a young lady

whose name began with B--"

"Must we go into that?"

It was Donald Fraser who spoke--the words wrung from him, it
seemed, by some inner anguish.

"It is necessary to go into everything, Monsieur," said Poirot, turn-ing
to him. "You are here, not to save your feelings by refusing to think
of details, but if necessary to harrow them by going into the matter au
fond. As I say, it was not chance that provided A.B.C. with a victim in
Betty Barnard. There must have been deliberate selection on his part--


AGATHA CHRISTIE

and therefore premeditation. That is to say, he must have reconnoitered
the ground beforehand. There were facts of which he had informed
himself--the best hour for the committing of the crime at Andover--the raise en scbne at Bexhill--the habits of Sir Carmichael Clarke at
Churston. Me, for one, I refuse to believe that there is no indication--no slightest hint-that might help to establish his identity.
"I make the assumption that one--or possibly all of you--knows
something that they do not know they know.
"Sooner or later, by reason of your association with one another,
something will come to light, will take on a significance as yet undreamed
of. It is like the jigsaw puzzle--each of you may have a piece
apparently without meaning, but which when reunited may show a definite
portion of the picture as a whole."
"Words!" said Megan Barnard.
"EhT' Poirot looked at her inquiringly.
"What you've been saying. It's just words. It doesn't mean anything."
She spoke with that kind of desperate dark intensity that I had come
to associate with her personality.
"Words, mademoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas."
"Well, I think it's sense," said Mary Drower. "I do really, miss. It's
often when you're talking over things that you seem to see your way
clear. Your mind gets made up for you sometimes without your knowing
how it's happened. Talking leads to a lot of things one way or another."
"If 'least said is soonest mended,' it's the converse we want here,"
said Franklin Clarke.
"What do you say, Mr. Fraser?"
"I rather doubt the practical applicability of what you say,
M. Poirot."
"What do you think, Thora?" asked Clarke.
"I think the principle of talking things over is always sound."
"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that you all go over your own remembrances
of the time preceding the murder. Perhaps you'll start,
Mr. Clarke."
"Let me see, on the morning of the day Car was killed I went off
sailing. Caught eight mackerel. Lovely out there on the bay. Lunch at
home. Irish stew, I remember. Slept in the hammock. Tea. Wrote some
letters, missed the post, and drove into Paignton to post them. Then
dinner and--I'm not ashamed to say itmreread a book of E. Nesbit's
that I used to love as a kid. Then the telephone rang--"


TIlE A.B.C. MURDERS 95

"No further. Now reflect, Mr. Clarke, did you meet any one on your
way down to the sea in the morning?"
"Lots of people."
"Can you remember anything about them?"
"Not a damned thing now."
"Sure?"
"Well--let's see--I remember a remarkably fat woman--she wore
a striped silk dress and I wondered why--had a couple of kids with her . two young men with a fox terrier on the beach throwing stones for
it--Oh yes, a girl with yellow hair squeaking as she bathed--funny
how things come back-like a photograph developing."
"You are a good subject. Now later in the day--the garden--going
to the post--"
"The gardener watering... Going to the post? Nearly ran down a
bicyclist--silly woman wobbling and shouting to a friend. That's all,
I'm afraid."
Poirot turned to Thora Grey.
"Miss Grey?"
Thora Grey replied in her clear, positive voice:
"I did correspondence with Sir Carmichael in the morning--saw the
housekeeper. I wrote letters and did needlework in the afternoon, I
fancy. It is difficult to remember. It was quite an ordinary day. I went to
bed early."
Rather to my surprise, Poirot asked no further. He said:
"Miss Barnard---can you bring back your remembrances of the last
time you saw your sister?"
"It would be about a fortnight before her death. I was down for Saturday
and Sunday. It was fine weather. We went to Hastings to the
swimming pool."
"What did you talk about most of the time.9'' "I gave her a piece of my mind," said Megan.
"And what else? She conversed of what?"
The girl frowned in an effort of memory.
"She talked about being hard up--of a hat and a couple of summer
frocks she'd just bought. And a little of Don .... She also said she disliked
Milly Higley--that's the girl at the caft-and we laughed about
the Merrion woman who keeps the cafe .... I don't remember anything
else .... "
"She didn't mention any man--forgive me, Mr. Fraser--she might
be meeting?"
"She wouldn't to me," said Megan dryly.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw.
"Mr. Fraser--I want you to cast your mind back. You went, you
said, to the cafe on the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait
there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember any
one at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?"
"There were a large number of people walking along the front. I
can't remember any of them."
"Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind
may be, the eye notices mechanically--unintelligently but accurately..."
The young man repeated doggedly:
"I don't remember anybody."
Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower.
"I
suppose you got letters from your aunt?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"When was the last?"
Mary thought a minute.
"Two days before the murder, sir."
"What did it say?"
"She said the old devil had been round and that she'd sent him of!'
with a flea in the ear--excuse the expression, sir--said she expected
me over on the Wednesday--that's my day out, sir--and she said we'd
go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir."
Something--the thought of the little festivity perhaps, suddenly
brought tears to Mary's eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized
for it.
"You must forgive me, sir. I don't want to be silly. Crying's no good.
It was just the thought of her--and me--looking forward to our treat.
It upset me somehow, sir."
"I know just what you feel like," said Franklin Clarke. "It's always
the little things that get one--and especially anything like a treat or a
present--something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run
over once. She'd just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there--and
the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping
out--it gave me a turn--they looked so pathetic."
Megan said with a sudden eager warmth:
"That's true--that's awfully true. The same thing happened after
Betty--died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present--bought
them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken
up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: 'I bought them for
Betty--I bought them for Betty--and she never even saw them.'"


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight
at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy--a
fraternity in trouble.

"I know," he said. "I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things
that are hell to remember."

Donald Fraser stirred uneasily.

Thora Grey diverted the conversation.

"Aren't we going to make any plans--for the future?" she asked.
"Of course." Franklin Clarke resumed his ordinary manner. "I think
that when the moment comes--that is, when the fourth letter
arrives--we ought to join forces. Until then, perhaps we might each try
our luck on our own. I don't know whether there are any points
M. Poirot thinks might repay investigation?"

"I could make some suggestions," said Poirot.

"Good. I'll take them down." He produced a notebook. "Go ahead,
M. Poirot. A--?"

"I consider it just possible that the waitress, Milly Higley, might
know something useful."

"A--Milly Higley," wrote down Franklin Clarke.

"I suggest two methods of approach. You, Miss Barnard, might try
what I call the offensive approach."

"I suppose you think that suits my style?" said Megan dryly.

"Pick a quarrel with the girl---say you knew she never liked your
sister--and that your sister had told you all about her. If I do not err,
that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tell you just what

she thought of your sister! Some useful fact may emerge."

"And the second method?"

"May I suggest, Mr. Fraser, that you should show signs of interest in
the girl?"

"Is that necessary?"

"No, it is not necessary. It is just a possible line of exploration."

"Shall I try my hand?" asked Franklin. "I' ve--er--a pretty wide ex-perience,
M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady."

"You've got your own part of the world to attend to," said Thora
Grey rather sharply.

Franklin's face fell just a little.

"Yes," he said. "I have."

"Tout de mme, I do not think there is much you can do down there
for the present," said Poirot. "Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more
fitted--"

Thora Grey interrupted him.


AGATHA CHRIST1E

"But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good."
"Ah? I did not understand."
"Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things," said
Franklin. "But naturally she prefers a post in London."
Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other.
"How is Lady Clarke?" he demanded.
I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey's cheeks and almost
missed Clarke's reply.
"Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your
way to running down to Devon and paying her a visit? She expressed a
desire to see you before I left. Of course, she often can't see people for
a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that--at my expense, of course."
"Certainly, Mr. Clarke. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?"
"Good. I'll let nurse know and she'll arrange the dope accordingly."
"For you, my child," said Poirot, turning to Mary, "I think you
might perhaps do good work in Andover. Try the children."
"The children?"
"Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known
in the street where your aunt lived. There were a good many children
playing about. They may have noticed who went in and out of your
aunt's shop."
"What about Miss Grey and myself?." asked Clarke. "That is, if Fm
not to go to Bexhill."
"M. Poirot," said Thora Grey. "What was the postmark on the third
letter?"
"Putney, mademoiselle."
She said thoughtfully: "S.W. 15, Putney, that is right, is it not?"
"For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly."
"That seems to point to A.B.C. being a Londoner."
"On the face of it, yes."
"One ought to be able to draw him," said Clarke. "M. Poirot, how
would it be if I inserted an advertisement--something after these lines: A.B.C. Urgent. H.P close on your track. A hundred for my silence.
X.Y.Z. Nothing quite so crude as that--but you see the idea. It might
draw him."
"It is a possibilitymyes.'
"Might induce him to try and have a shot at me."
"I think it's very dangerous and silly," said Thora Grey sharply.
"What about it, M. Poirot?"
"It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A.B.C. will be too cnn
THE. A.B.C. MURDERS


ning to replY." Poirot smiled a little. "I see, Mr. Clarke, that you

are--if I may say so without being offensive--still a boy at heart."
Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed.

"Well," he said, consulting his notebook, "we're making a start.
A.--Miss Barnard and Milly Higley.
B.--Mr. Fraser and Miss Higley.
C.---Children in Andover.
D.Advcnisement.

I don't feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do
whilst waitiHg."

He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed.


XIX. By Way of Sweden


Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself.
"Unfortunate that she is so intelligent," he murmured.
"Who?"

"Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. 'Words,' she snaps out. At
once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Every-body
else was taken in."

"I thought it sounded very plausible."

"Plausible, yes. It was just that that she perceived."

"Didn't you mean what you said, then.'?"

"What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. In-stead
I repeated myself ad lib. without any one but Mademoiselle

Megan being aware of the fact."

"But whyT'

"Eh bien--to get things going! To imbue every one with the impres-sion
that there was work to be done! To start--shall we saye con-versations!"

"Don't you think any of these lines will lead to anything?"
"Oh, it is always possible."
He chuckled.

"In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?"
"What do you mean?"

"The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three
sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immedi

THE A.B.C. MURDERS

ately a second dranaa commences--tout &fait h part. Do you remem
her my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought to
gether two people who loved one another by the simple method of

having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done
it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings Murder,
I have often

noticed, is a great matchmaker."
"Really,
Poirot," I cried, scandalized. "I'm sure none of those peo
ple
was thinking of anything but--"
"Oh!
my dear friend. And what about yourself?."
"I?"

"Mais
oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door
humming
a tune?"
"One
may do that without being callous."
"Certainly,
but tlaat tune told me your thoughts."
"Indeed?"

"Yes.
To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the sub
conscious
mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of
the
war. Comme ca," Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice:

"Some
of the time I love a brunette,
Some
of the time I love a blonde (who comes from
Eden
by way of Sweden).

"What
could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l'
emporte sur la br
mette.t''
"Really, Poirot," I cried,
blushing slightly.
"C'est tout natut'el. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke
was suddenly at one and ir sympathy with Mademoiselle
Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also
notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it?
And Mr. Don
ald Fraser, he--"
"Poirot," I said, "your mind
is incurably sentimental."
"That is the last thing my mind is. You are
the
sentimental one, Hastings."
I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that
moment the door opened. To my astonishment it was Thora
Grey who entered.
"Forgive me for coming back," she said
composedly. "But there
was something that I think I would like to tell
you, M. Poirot." "Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down,
will you not?"
She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute
as though
choosing
her
words.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"It is just this, Mr. Poirot. Mr. Clarke very generously gave you to
understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a
very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like
that. I was quite prepared to stay on--there is any amount of work to
be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who
wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman,
and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It
makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to
me and insisted that I should leave the house."
I could not but admire the girl's courage. She did not attempt to
gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went
straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to
her in admiration and sympathy.
"I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this," I said.
"It's always better to have the truth," she said with a little smile. "I
don't want to shelter behind Mr. Clarke's chivalry. He is a very chivalrous
man."
There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin
Clarke enormously.
"You have been very honest, mademoiselle," said Poirot.
"It is rather a blow to me," said Thora ruefully. "I had no idea Lady
Clarke disliked me so much. In fact, I always thought she was rather
fond of me." She made a wry face. "One lives and learns."
She rose.
"That is all I came to say. Goodbye."
I accompanied her downstairs.
"I call that very sporting of her," I said as I returned to the room.
"She has courage, that girt."
"And calculation."
"What do you mean-calculation?"
"I mean that she has the power of looking ahead."
I looked at him doubtfully.
"She really is a lovely girl," I said.
"And wears very lovely clothes. That crepe marocain and the silky
fox collar-dernier cri!"
"You're a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on."
"You should join a nudist colony."
As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden
change of subject:
"Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression
that already, in our conversations this afternoon, something was said


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 103

that was significant. It is odd--I cannot pin down exactly what it
was Just
an impression that passed through my mind That reminds
me
of something I have already heard or seen or noted "

"Something at
Churston?"
"No--not at Churston ....
Before that .... No matter, presently it will come to me
.... "
He looked at me
(perhaps I had not been attending very closely), laughed and began once
more to hum.
"She is an angel,
is she not? From Eden, by way of Sweden "
"Poirot," I said. "Go
to
the devil!"


)0(. Lady Clarke

There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside ,hen
w t a am for the second time Ths may, perhaps, ha
.
we sa ' g
'.
'nt
partly due to the weather--it was a moist September day with a h
n the air. and oartlv no doubt it was the semi-shut state of
autumn i mall
house.
The downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered, and the s
room
into which we were shown smelt damp and airless.

A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling dowl her

starched cuffs.

"M. Poirot?" she said briskly. "I am Nurse Capstick. I got Mr.

Clarke's letter saying you were coming."

Poirot inquired after Lady Clarke's health.

"Not bad at all really, all things considered."

"All things considered," I presumed meant considering she was

under sentence of death.

"One can't hope for much improvement, of course, but some

treatment has made things a little easier for her. Dr. Logan is quite

pleased with her condition."
"But it is true, is it not, that she can never recover?"
little

"Oh, we never actually say that," said Nurse Capstick, a

shocked by this plain speaking.

"I suppose her husband's death was a terrible shock to her?"

Well M Poirot if ou understand what I mean, it wasn't

of a shock as it would have been to any one m full possesso


A.B.C. vgoω
]05

health and faculties. Things are dimmed by Lady Clarke in her condition.''
"Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and
he to her?"
"Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and
0pset about her, poor man. It's always worse for a doctor, you know.
They can't buoy themselves up with false hopes. I'm afraid it preyed
on his mind very much to begin with."
"To begin with? Not so much afterwards?"
"One gets used to everything, doesn't one? And then Sir Carmichael
had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to
run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy
recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system."
"Oh, yes--Miss Grey. She has left, has she not?
"Yes--I'm very sorry about it--but ladies do take these fancies
sometimes when they're not well. And there's no arguing with them.
It's better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it."
"Has Lady Clarke always disliked her?"
"No--that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she
rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn't keep you gossiping.
My patient will be wondering what has become of us."
She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time
been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting-room.
Lady Clarke was sitting in a big arm-chair near the window. She was
painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers
much pain. She had a slightly far-away, dreamy look, and I noticed
that the pupils of her eyes were mere pinpoints.
'`This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see," said Nurse Capstick in
her high, cheerful voice.
"Oh, yes, M. Poirot," said Lady Clarke vaguely.
She extended her hand.
"My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke."
"How do you do? So good of you both to come."
We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence.
Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.
Presently with a slight effort she roused herself.
"It was about Car, wasn't it? About Car's death. Oh, yes."
She sighed, but still in a far-away manner, shaking her head.
"We never thought it would be that way round... I was so sure I
should be the first to go .... "She mused a minute or two. "Car was


AGATHA CHRISTIE

very strong--wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly
sixty--but he seemed more like fifty .... Yes, very strong .... '
She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted
with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the
impression of endless time, said nothing. Lady Clarke said suddenly:
"Yes--it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he
wouldn't forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn't going to be foolish...
he's so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so
much. Men are like that They
remain boys... Franklin, in particular.''

"He
has an impulsive nature," said Poirot.
"Yes--yes
... And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even
Car--" Her voice tailed off.
She
shook her head with a febrile impatience.
"Everything's
so dim .... One's body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially
when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else--
whether
the pain will hold off or not--nothing else seems to matter." "I
know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life."
"It
makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was 1 wanted
to say to you."
"Was
it something about your husband's death.'?"
"Car's
death.'? Yes, perhaps .... Mad, poor creature---the murderer, I mean.
It's all the noise and the speed nowadays--people can't stand it. I've
always been sorry for mad people--their heads must feel so queer. And
then, being shut up--it must be so terrible. But what else can one do.'?
If they kill people..." She shook her head--gently pained. "You
haven't
caught him yet?" she asked.
"No,
not yet."
"He
must have been hanging round here that day."
"There
were so many strangers about, Lady Clarke. It is the holiday season."
"Yes--I
forgot .... But they keep down by the beaches, they don't come
up near the house."
"No
strangex came to the house that day."
"Who
says soT' demanded Lady Clarke, with a sudden vigour. Poirot
{ooked s{ightly iaken aback. "The
sevanls," be said. "Miss
Grey." Lady C{arke said very
distinct{y: "That girl is a
liar!"
I started on my chair. Poiit thn
w me a glance.
Lady Clarke was going
on,
speaking
now
rathe feverishly.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ]07


"I didn't like her. I never liked her. Car thought all the world of her.
Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the world.
What's wrong with being an orphan7 Sometimes it's a blessing in dis-guise.
You might have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who
drank--then you would have something to complain abouL Said she
was so brave and such a good worker. I dare say she did her work well!
I don't know where all this bravery came in!"

"Now don't excite yourself, dear," said Nurse Capstick, intervening.
"We mustn't have you getting tired."

"I soon sent her packing! Franklin had the impertinence to suggest
that she might be a comfort to me. Comfort to me indeed! The sooner I
saw the last of her the better--that's what I said! Franklin's a fool! I
didn't want him getting mixed up with her. He's a boy! No sense! 'I'll
give her three months' salary, if you like,' I said. 'But out she goes. I
don't want her in the house a day longer.' There's one thing about be-lng
ill--men can't argue with you. He did what I said and she went.

Went like a martyr, I expect--with more sweetness and bravery!"
"Now, dear, don't get so excited. It's bad for you."
Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away.

"You were as much of a fool about her as any one else."

"Oh! Lady Clarke, you mustn't say that. I did think Miss Grey a

very nice girl--so romantic-looking, like some one out of a novel."
"I've no patience with the lot of you," said Lady Clarke feebly.
"Well, she's gone now, my dear. Gone right away."

Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not
answer.

Poirot said:

"Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar?

"Because she is. She told you no strangers came to the house, didn't
she?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then. I saw her--with my own eyes--out of this

window--talking to a perfectly strange man on the front door step."
"When was this?"

"In the morning of the day Car died--about eleven o'clock."

"What did this man look like.'?"

"An ordinary sort of man. Nothing special."

"A gentleman--or a tradesman?

"Not a tradesman. A shabby sort of person. I can't remember."
A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face.
"Please--you must go now--I'm a little tired--Nurse."


AGATHA CHRISTIE


We obeyed the cue and took our departure.

"That's an extraordinary story," I said to Poirot as we journeyed
back to London. "About Miss Grey and a strange man."

"You see, Hastings? It is, as I tell you: there is always something to
be found out."

"Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?"

"I can think of seven separate reasons---one of them an extremely
simple one."

"Is that a snub?" I asked.

"It is, perhaps, an invitation to use your ingenuity. But there is no
need for us to perturb ourselves. The easiest way to answer the ques-tion
is to ask her."

"And suppose she tells us another lie."

"That would indeed be interesting--and highly suggestive."

"It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in league
with a madman."

"Precisely--so I do not suppose it."

I thought for some minutes longer.

"A good-looking girl has a hard time of it," I said at last with a sigh.
"Du tout. Disabuse your mind of that idea."

"It's true," I insisted. "Every one's hand is against her simply be-cause
she is good-looking."

"You speak the btises, my friend. Whose hand was against her at

Combeside? Sir Carmichael's? Franklin's? Nurse Capstick's?"
"Lady Clarke was down on her, all right."

"Mon ami, you are full of charitable feeling towards beautiful young
girls. Me, I feel charitable to sick old ladies. It may be that Lady Clarke
was the clear-sighted one--and that her husband, Mr. Franklin Clarke
and Nurse Capstick were all as blind as bats--and Captain Hastings.

"Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three
separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would
have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permuta-tions
and combinations of life, Hastings--I never cease to be fasci-nated
by them."

"This is Paddington," was the only answer I made.

It was time, I felt, that some one pricked the bubble.

On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told
gentleman was waiting to see Poirot.

I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonish

it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable
than ever.
Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead
suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine.
Until these made their appearance he monopolized the conversation,
explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling
of the invalid woman.
Not until we finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he
give the conversation a personal turn.
"You have come from Bexhill, Mr. Fraser?"
"Yes."
"Any success with Milly HigleyT'
"Milly Higley? Milly Higley?" Fraser repeated the name wonderingly.
"Oh, that girl! No, I haven't done anything there yet. It's--"
He stopped. His hands twisted themselves together nervously.
"I don't know why I've come to you," he burst out:
"I know," said Poirot.
"You can't. How can you?"
"You have come to me because there is something that you must tell
to some one. You were quite right. I am the proper person. Speak!"
Poirot's air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a
queer air of grateful obedience.
"You think so?" "Parbleu, I am sure of it."
"M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?"
It was the last thing I had expected him to say.
Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised.
"I do," he replied. "You have been dreaming--?
"Yes. I suppose you'll say it's only natural that I should--should
dream about--It. But it isn't an ordinary dream."
"No?"
"I' we dreamed it now three nights running, sir.... I think I'm going
mad .... "
"Tell me--"
The man's face was livid. His eyes were starting out of his head. As
a matter of fact, he looked mad.
"It's always the same. I'm on the beach. Looking for Betty. She's
lost--only lost, you understand. I've got to find her. I've got to give
her her belt. I'm carrying it in my hand. And then---"
"Yes?"
"The dream changes... I'm not looking any more. She's there in


'%t of me--sitting on the beach. She doesn't see me coming--

'C--oh, I can't--"

"GO on."

[oirot's voice was autbodtative--firm.

"I come up behind her.., she doesn't hear me... I slip the belt
bnd her neck and pull---oh--pull "

'he agony in his voice was frightful... I gripped the arms of my

IMf.... The thing was too real.
"She's choking.., she's dead... I've strangled her--and then her
ed falls back and I see her face.., and it's Megan--not Betty!"
t-Ie leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of
ie and passed it over to him.
"What's the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Evrnight...
?"
"Drink up your wine," ordered Poirot.
The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice:
"What does it mean? I--I didn't kill her, did I?"
What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I beard the
stman's knock and automatically I left the room.
What I took out of the letter-box banished all my interest in Donald
raser's extraordinary revelations.
I raced back into the sitting-room.
"Poirot," I cried. "It's come. The fourth letter."
He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper-knife and slit it
Den. He spread it out on the table.
The three of us read it together.

Still no success7 Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing ?
Well, well, isn't this fun? And where shall we go next for honey?
Poor Mr. Poirot. l' m quite sorry for you.
!fat first you don't succeed, try, try, try again.
We've a long way to go still.
1]pperary ? No--that cornes farther on. Letter T.
The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September
llth.
So long.
A.B.C.


XXI. Description of o Murderer

It was at this moment, I think, that what poirOt called the human element
began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind
being unable to stand unadulterated Iorror, we had had an interval of
normal human interests ....
We had, one an d all, felt the impossibility 逆ctdeticgffnneYiteU)tilmtuhre-
fourth letter should come revealing the proje . ' - nsion der.
That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of te .
But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper,

the hunt was up once more.

Inspector Crome had come round from the Yard, and while he was

still there, Franklin Clarke and Megan Barnard came in.

The girl explained that she, too, hod come up from Bexhill.

"I wanted to ask Mr. Clarke something.", x lain her procedure. I

She seemed rather anxious to excuse and e p

just noted the fact without attaching much ifoportance to it.

The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.

Crome was not, I think, any too pleased-l軏anfll nVoan'.nPma[ttaCI-
pan, ts in the drama. He became extremely oft - --,
I'll
take this with me, M. Poirot. lfyoa care to taste a copy
mn
"No, no, it is not
necessary."
"What are your plans, inspector?" asked
Clarke.
"Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr.
Clarke."
"This time we've got to get him," said Clarke. "I may tell you,
in
AGATHA CHRISTIE

spector, that we've formed an association of our own to deal with the
matter. A legion of interested parties."
Inspector Crome said in his best manner:
"Oh, yes'?"
"I gather you don't think much of amateurs, inspector?"
"You've hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr.
Clarke?"
"We' we got a personal axe to grind--and that's something."
"Oh, yes?"
"I fancy your own task isn't going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I
rather fancy old A.B.C. has done you again."
Crome, I had noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other
methods would have failed.
"I don't fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements
this time," he said. "The fool has given us ample warning this
time. The l lth isn't till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample
time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly
warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his
or her guard--that's so much to the good. Also, we'll draft police into
the town on a fairly large scale. That's already been arranged for by
consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of
Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man--and
with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!"
Clarke said quietly:
"It's easy to see you're not a sporting man, inspector."
Crome stared at him.
"What do you mean, Mr. Clarke?"
"Man alive, don't you realize that on next Wednesday the St. Leger
is being run at Doncaster?"
The inspector's jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring
out the familiar "Oh, yes?" Instead he said:
"That's true. Yes, that complicates matters "
"A.B.C.
is no fool, even if he is a madman."
We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The
crowds on the race-course--the passionate, sport-loving English
public--the endless complications.
Poirot murmured:
"C'est ingdnieux. Tout de mme c'est bien irnagind, ca."
"It's my belief," said Clarke, "that the murder will take place o
race-course--perhaps actually while the Leger is being run."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in
the thought ....
Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him.
"The St. Leger is a complication," he allowed. "It's unfortunate."
He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute
later Thora Grey entered.
She said anxiously:
"The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?"
It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and
skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her
golden head.
It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to
him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer.
"Doncaster--and on the day of the St. Leger."
We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all
intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated
the plans we had made tentatively beforehand.
A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little
band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest
in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed
and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes
do?
As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He
spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest.
"Mes enfants," he said, "we must not disperse the strength. We must
approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts. We must
look within and not without for the truth. We must say to ourselves--each
one of us--what do I know about the murderer? And so we must
build up a composite picture of the man we are going to seek."
"We know nothing about him," sighed Thora Grey helplessly.
"No, no, mademoiselle. That is not true. Each one of us knows
so. mething about him--/fwe only knew ,vhat it is we know. I am con-
vmced that the knowledge is there if we could only get at it."
Clarke shook his head.
"We don't know anything--whether he's old or young, fair or dark!
NOne of us has even seen him or spokento him! We've gone over eve,,thing
we all know again and again."
'Not everything! For instance, Miss Grey here told us that she did
aot See or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was murdered."
Thora Grey nodded.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"That's quite right."
"is it? Lady Clarke torn us, mademoiselle, that from her window she
saw you standing on the front door step talking to a man."
"She saw me talking to a strange man?" The girl seemed genuinely
astonished. Surely that pure, limpid look could not be anything but
genuine.
She shook her head.
"Lady Clarke must have made a mistake. I never---Oh!"
The exclamation came suddenly--jerked out of her. A crimson
wave flooded her cheeks.
"I remember now! How stupid! I'd forgotten all about it. But it
wasn't important. Just one of those men who come round selling
stockings--you know, ex-Army people. They're very persistent. I had
to get rid of him. I was just crossing the hall when he came to the door.
He spoke to me instead of ringing but he was quite a harmless sort
person. I suppose that's why I forgot about him."
Poirot was swaying to and fro, his hands clasped to his head. He
muttering to himself with such vehemence that nobody else said anything,
but stared at him instead.
"Stockings," he was murmuring. "Stockings ... stockings ...
stockings.., ca vient.., stockings.., stockings... It is the motif-- yes.., three months ago.., and the other day.., and now. Bon Dieu, I have it!"
He sat upright and fixed me with an imperious eye.
"You remember, Hastings? Andover. The shop. We go upstairs. The
bedroom. On a chair. A pair of new silk stockings. And now I know
what it was that roused my attention two days ago. It was you,
mademoiselle---" He turned on Megan. "You spoke of your mother
who wept because she had bought your sister some new stockings on
the very day of the murder...."
He looked round on us all.
"You see? It is the same motif three times repeated. That cannot be
coincidence. When mademoiselle spoke I had the feeling that what she
said linked up with something. I know now with what. The words spoken
by Mrs. Ascher's next-door neighbour, Mrs. Fowler. About people
who were always trying to sell you things--and she mentioned stockings. Tell me, mademoiselle, it is true, is it not, that your mother
bought those stockings, not at a shop, but from some one who came to
the door?"
"Yes--yes--she did... I remember now. She said something about


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

eing sorry for these wretched men who go round and try to get or

'But
what's the connection?" cried Franklin. "That a man came
elling stockings proves nothing!"

"I tell you, my friends, it cannot be coincidence. Three crimes--and

,veil time a man selling stockings and spying out the land."

He wheeled round on Thora.

"A vous la parole,t Describe this man."

She looked at him blankly.

"I can't... I don't know how... He had glasses, I think.., and a
habby overcoat .... "

"Mieux que fa, mademoiselle."

"He stooped... I don't know. I hardly looked at him. He wasn't the

oft of man you'd notice "

Poirot
said gravely:
"You
are quite right, mademoiselle. The whole secret oftbe murders ies
there in your description of the murderer--for without a doubt he ms
the murderer! 'He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.' Yesm here
is no doubt about it .... You have described the murderer!"

XXII. (Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust sat very still. His breakfast lay cold and
untasted on his plate. A newspaper was propped up against the teapot
and it was this newspaper that Mr. Cust was reading with avid interest.
Suddenly he got up, paced to and fro for a minute, then sank inl a
chair by the window. He buried his head in his hands with a stilled

He did not hear the sound of the opening door. His landlady, Mrs.
Marbury, stood in the doorway.
"I was wondering, Mr. Cust, if you'd fancy a nice--why, whatex'er
is it? Aren't you feeling well?"
Mr. Cust raised his head from his hands.
"Nothing. It's nothing at all, Mrs. Marbury. I'm not--feeling ww
well this morning."
Mrs. Marbury inspected the breakfast tray.
"So I see. You haven't touched your breakfast. Is it your head troubling
you again?"
"No. At least, yes... I--I just feel a bit out of sorts."
"Well, I'm sorry, I'm sure. You'll not be going away to-day thenT"
Mr. Cust sprang up abruptly.
"No, no. I have to go. It's business. Important. Very important."
His hands were shaking. Seeing him so agitated, Mrs. Marbury tried
to soothe him.
"Well, if you must--you must. Going far this time?"
116


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

117

'No. I'm going to"--he hesitated for a minute or two--.Cheltenham-"
There was something so peculiar about the tentative way he said the
word that Mrs. Marbury looked at him in surprise.
,.Chcltenham's a nice place," she said conversationally. "I went
there from Bristol one year. The shops are ever so nice."
"I suppose so--yes."
Mrs. Marbury stooped rather stiffly--for stooping did not suit her
figure--to pick up the paper that was lying crumpled on the floor.
"Nothing but this murdering business in the papers nowadays," she
said as she glanced at the headlines before putting it back on the table.
"Gives me the creeps, it does. I don't read it. It's like Jack the Ripper
all over again."
Mr. Cust's lips moved, but no sound came from them.
"Doncaster--that's the place he's going to do his next murder," said
Mrs. Marbury. "And to-morrow! Fairly makes your flesh creep,
doesn't it? If I lived in Doncaster and my name began with a D, I'd
take the first train away, that I would. I'd run no risks. What did you
say, Mr. Cust?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Marbury--nothing."
"It's the races and all. No doubt he thinks he'll get his opportunity
there. Hundreds of police, they say, they're drafting in and--Why, Mr.
Cust, you do look bad. Hadn't you better have a little drop of something?
Really, now, you oughtn't to go travelling today."
Mr. Cust drew himself up.
"It is necessary, Mrs. Marbury. I have always been punctual in my--engagements.
People must have--must have confidence in you! When
I have undertaken to do a thing, I carry it through. It is the only way to
get on in--in--business."
"But if you're ill?"
"I am not ill, Mrs. Marbury. Just a little worried over--various personal
matters. I slept badly. I am really quite all right."
His manner was so firm that Mrs. Marbury gathered up the breakfast
things and reluctantly left the room.
Mr. Cust dragged out a suitcase from under the bed and began to
Pack. Pyjamas, sponge-bag, spare collar, leather slippers. Then unlocking
a cupboard, he transferred a dozen or so flattish cardboard
boxes about ten inches by seven from a shelf to the suitcase.
He just glanced at the railway guide on the table and then left the
room, suitcase in hand.
Setting it down in the ha!l, he put on his hat and overcoat. As he did


AGATHA CHRISTIE

so he sighed deeply, so deeply that the girl who came out from a room
at the side looked at him in concern.
".Anything the matter, Mr. Cust?"
"Nothing, Miss Lily."
"'You were sighing so!" Run Cust said abruptly:
".Are you at all subject to premonitions, Miss Lily? To presentiments?''
"Well, I don't know that I am, really .... Of course, there are days
when you just feel everything's going wrong, and days when you feel
everything's going right."
"Quite," said Mr. Cust.
He sighed again.
"Well, good-bye, Miss Lily. Good-bye. I'm sure you've been very
kind to me always here."
"Well, don't say good-bye as though you were going away for ever,"
laughed Lily.
"No, no, of course not."
"See you Friday," laughed the girl. "Where are you going this time?
Seaside again?
"No, no-er--Cheltenham."
"Well, that's nice, too. But not quite as nice as Torquay. That must
have been lovely. I want to go there for my holiday next year. By the
way, you must have been quite near where the murder was--the
A.B.C. murder. It happened while you were down there, didn't it?"
"Er--yes. But Churston's six or seven miles away."
"All the same, it must have been exciting! Why, you may have
passed the murderer in the street! You may have been quite near to
him I"
"Yes, I may, of course," said Mr. Cust with such a ghastly and contorted
smile that Lily Marbury noticed it.
"Oh, Mr. Cust, you don't look well."
"I'm quite all right, quite all right. Good-bye, Miss Marbury."
He fumbled to raise his hat, caught up his suitcase and fairly hastened
out of the front door.
"Funny old thing," said Lily Marbury indulgently. "Looks half batty
to my mind."

Inspector Crome said to his subordinate:
"Get me out a list of all stocking manufacturing firms and circular
ize them. I want a list of all their agentsyou know, fellows who sell
on commission and tout for orders."
"This the A.B.C. case, sir?"
"Yes. One of Mr. Hercule Poirot's ideas." The inspector's tone was
disdainful. "Probably nothing in it, but it doesn't do to neglect any
chance, however faint."
"Right, sir. Mr. Poirot done some good stuff in his time, but I think
he's a bit ga ga now, sir."
"He's a mountebank," said Inspector Crome. "Always posing.
Takes in some people. It doesn't take in me. Now then, about the arrangement
for Doncaster...."

Torn Hartigan said to Lily Marbury:
"Saw your old dugout this morning."
"Who? Mr. Cust?"
"Cust it was. At Euston. Looking like a lost hen, as usual. I think
the fellow's half a loony. He needs some one to look after him. First he
dropped his paper and then he dropped his ticket. I picked that up--he
hadn't the faintest idea he'd lost it. Thanked me in an agitated sort of
manner, but I don't think he recognized me."
"Oh, well," said Lily. "He's only seen you passing in the hall, and
not very often at that."
They danced once round the floor.
"You dance something beautiful," said Torn.
"Go on," said Lily and wriggled yet a little closer.
They danced round again.
"Did you say Euston or Paddington?" asked Lily abruptly. "Where
you saw old Cust, I mean.'?"
"Euston."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. What do you think?"
"Funny. I thought you went to Cheltenham from Paddington."
"So you do. But old Cust wasn't going to Cheltenham. He was going
to Doncaster."
"Cheltenham."
"Doncaster. I know, my girl! After all, I picked up his ticket, didn't
IT'
"Well, he told me he was going to Cheltenham. I'm sure he did."
"Oh, you've got it wrong. He was going to Doncaster all right.
Some people have all the luck. I've got a bit on Firefly for the Leger
and I'd love to see it run."


'] )0
AGATHA CHRISTIE

"I shouldn't think Mr. Cust went to race-meetings; he doesn't look
the kind. Oh, Torn, I hope he won't get murdered. It's Doncaster the
A.B.C. murder's going to
"Cust'll be all right. His name doesn't begin with a D."
"He might have been murdered last time. He was down near
Churston at Torquay when the last murder happened."
"Was he? That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"
He laughed.
"He wasn't at Bexhill the time before, was he?"
Lily crinkled her brows.
"He was away .... Yes, I remember he was away.., because he forgot
his bathing-dress. Mother was mending it for him. And she said:
'There--Mr. Cust went away yesterday without his bathing-dress after
all,' and I said: 'Oh, never mind the old bathing-dress--there's been
the most awful murder,' I said, 'a girl strangled at Bexhill.'"
"Well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to
the seaside. I say, Lily"--his face crinkled up with amusement. "What
price your old dugout being the murderer himself?."
"Poor Mr. Cust? He wouldn't hurt a fly," laughed Lily.
They danced on happily--in their conscious minds nothing but the
pleasure of being together.
In their unconscious minds something stirred ....


XXlII. September 11 th.
Doncaster

Doncaster!
I shall, I think, remember that 1 lth of September all my life.
Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St. Leger my mind flies;
tomatically not to horse-racing but to murder.
When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most i
sickening sense of insufficiency. We were hereon the spot--Poil
myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, Thora Grey and Mary Drow
and in the last resort what could any of us do?
We were building on a forlorn hopeon the chance of recognizil
amongst a crowd of thousands of people a face or figure imperfecl
seen on an occasion one, two or three months back.
The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only per
likely to make such a recognition was Thora Grey.
Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her call
efficient manner was gone. She sat twisting her hands together, aim{
weeping, appealing incoberenfly to Poirot.
"I never really looked at him .... Why didn't I? What a fool I wa
You're depending on me, all of you.., and I shall let you down. B
cause even if I did see him again I mightn't recognize him. I've got
bad memory for faces."
Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however hapshiy he mig
seem to criticize the girl, showed nothing but kindness now. His ma


AGATHA CHRISTIE

ncr was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poimt was no more indifferent
to beauty in distress than I was.
He patted her shoulder kindly.
"Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you
should see this man you would recognize him."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, a great many masons--for one, because the red succeeds the
black."
"What do you mean, Poirot?" I cried.
"I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long
run on the black--but in the end red must turn up. It is the mathematical
laws of chance."
"You mean that luck turns?"
"Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler (and the murderer,
who is, after all, only a supreme kind of gambler since what he
risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligent anticipation.
Because he has won he thinks he will continue to win! He does not
leave the tables in good time with his pockets full. So in crime the murderer
who is successful cannot conceive the possibility of not being
successful! He takes to himself all the credit for a successful
performance--but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planne&
no crime can be successful without luck!"
"Isn't that going rather far?" demurred Franklin Clarke.
Poirot waved his hands excitedly.
"No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour.
Consider! It might have happened that some one enters Mrs.
Ascher's shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have
thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman--and
either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to
give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would
have been arrested forthwith."
"Yes, of course, that's possible," admitted Clarke. "What it comes to
is that a murderer's got to take a chance."
"Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers,
a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime
his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion
is warped. He does not say, 'I have been clever and lucky!' No, he says
only, 'l have been clever!' And his opinion of his cleverness grows...
and then, roes amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over---il
drops into a new number and the croupier calls out 'Rouge.'"


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 1)3

"You think that will happen in this case?" asked Megan, drawing
her brows together in a frown.
"It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the
criminal--sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of
everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And
he, too, will begin to make mistakes .... "
"I will say you're heartening," said Franklin Clarke. "We all need a
bit of comfort. I've had a paralyzing feeling of helplessness ever since
I woke up."
"It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish any-
ing of practical value," said Donald Fraser.
Megan rapped out:
"Don't be a defeatist, Don."
Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said:
"What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend's in this place,
and so are we--and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest
way sometimes."
I fumed:
"If only we could do something more."
"You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything
reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good
Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able
police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of
action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling
the town and the race-course. There will be plain clothes men everywhere.
There is also the press campaign. The public is fully
warned."
Donald Fraser shook his head.
"He'll never attempt it, I'm thinking," he said more hopefully. "The
man would just be mad!"
"Unfortunate/y," said Clarke dryly, "he is mad! What do you think,
M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?"
"In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt
to carry out his prom/se! Not to do so would he to admit failure,
and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also
Dr. Thompson's opinion. Our hope is that he may he caught in the attempt."
Donald shook his head again.

e'll be very cunning."
oirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that


AGATHA CHRISTIE

we were to make an all day session of it, patrolling as many streets as
possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various
likely points on the racecourse.
I say "we." Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little
avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A.B.C. However, as
the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I had
suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.
Poirot had agreed--I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his
eye.
The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing
by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought.
Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that
the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice
a little and addressed Poirot.
"Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and
saw my sister-in-law. Did she say--or hint--I mean--did she suggest
at all--?"
He stopped, embarrassed.
Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my
strongest suspicions.
"Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint or suggest--what?"
Franklin Clarke got rather red.
"Perhaps you think this isn't a time for hutting in with personal
things--"
"Du tout!"
"But I feel I'd like to get things quite straight."
"An admirable course."
This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot's bland face of concealing
some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.
"My sister-in-law's an awfully nice womanml've been very fnd of
her always--but of course she's been ill some time--and in that kind
of illnessmbeing given drugs and all that--one tends to--w▍k to
fancy things about people I"
"AhT"
By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot's eye.
But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing
it. "It's about Thora--Miss Grey," he said.
"Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?" Poirot's tone held innocent
surprise.
"Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora--Miss
Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl--"


THE A.B.Co MtR.IRS

,,perhaps--yes," conceded Poirot.
"And women are, even the best of them, a bit catty about other
women. Of course, Thorn was invaluable to my brother--he always
said she was the best secretary he ever had--and he was very fond of
her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and above-board. I mean,
Thorn isn't the sort of girl--"
"No?" said Poirot helpfully.
"But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be--well--jealous, I
suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car's death,
when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on--well, Charlotte
cut up rough. Of course, it's partly the illness and the morphia and all
that--Nurse Capstick says so---she says we mustn't blame Charlotte
for getting these ideas into her head--"
He paused.
"Yes?
"What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn't anything
in it at all. It's just a sick woman's imaginings. Look here'--he
fumbled in his pocket--"here's a letter I received from my brother
when I was in the Malay States. I'd like you to read it because it shows
exactly what terms they were on."
Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing
finger read some of the extracts out loud.

--things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free
from pain. 1 wish one could say more. You may remember Thora
Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me that I can tell
you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but
for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite
taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for
Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a
closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult
and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a
home and a true affection.

"You see," said Franklin. "That's how my brother felt to her. He
thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that
the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the
house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot."
"Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember."
"I know. That's what I keep saying to myself. One mustn't judge


AGATHA CHRISTIE


her. All the same, I thought I'd show you this. I don't want you to get a

false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said."
Poirot returned the letter.

"I can assure you," he said, smiling, "that I never permit myself to
get false impressions from anything any one tells me. I form my own
judgments."

"Well," said Clarke, stowing away the letter, "I'm glad I showed it

to you anyway. Here come the girls. We'd better be off."

As we left the room, Poirot called me back.

"You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?"
"Oh, yes. I shouldn't be happy staying here inactive."
"There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings."
"Well, you're better at it than I am," I said.

"You are incontestably fight, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing

that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?"

"That was the idea."

"And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?"
"Well--I--er--hadn't considered yet."
"What about Miss Barnard?"

"She's rather the independent type," I demurred.
"Miss Grey?"
"Yes. She's better."

"I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently honest! All
along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde
angel!"

"Oh, really, Poirot!"

"I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your
escort elsewhere."

"Oh, all right. I think you've got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a
girl."

"The person you are to escort is Mary Drower--and I must request
you not to leave her."

"But, Poirot, why?"

"Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take
no chances."

I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched. But
then I realized that if A.B.C. had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might
very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot's movements. And in
that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very
neat fourth stroke.


THE A.B.C. URDΟS 17

I promised to be faithful to my trust.
I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window.
In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of
the door and called after me:
"Rouge---that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turnsI"


XXIV. (Not from Captain Hastings'

Personal Narrative)


Below his breath Mr. Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his
next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping
his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it.

All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-.star,
thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr. Leadbetter had been
looking forward to seeing for a whole week.

The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr.
Leadbetter's opinion the leading film actress in the world), was jttst
giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation:

"Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan't starve. Remember those
words: not a sparrow falls--"

Mr. Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People!
Why on earth people couldn't wait till the end of a film... ^nd to
leave at this soul-stirring moment.

Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out.
Mr. Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal
standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York.

And now she was boarding the train--the child in her arms ....
What curious trains they had in America--not at all like English
trains.

Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains ....

The film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end.
Mr. Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up.

128


THE A.B.C. MURDERS

He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little.
He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment
or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life.
He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon--naturally. They
were all at the races. Run Leadbetter did not approve of racing or of
playing cards or of drinking or of smoking. This left him mom energy
to enjoy going to the pictures.
Every one was hurrying towards the exit. Run Leadbetter prepared to
follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep---slumped
down in his chain Run Leadbetter felt indignant to think that any one
could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrow going on.
An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were
stretched out blocking the way:
"Excuse me, sin"
Run Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back.
Them seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire...
a little knot of people Perhaps
that man in front of him was dead
drank
and not asleep ....
He
hesitated and then passed out--and in so doing missed the sensation
of the day--a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St. Leger
at 85 to 1.
The
commissionaire was saying:
"Believe
you're right, sin... He's ill Why--what's the
matter,
sir?"
The
other
had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was
examining
a red sticky smear.
"Blood
.... "
The
commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation.
He
had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from
under the seat.
"Gor
blimy I" he said. "It a b A.B.C. "


XXV. (Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

Mr. Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky.
A beautiful evening .... A really beautiful evening ....
A quotation from Browning came into his head.
"God's in His heaven. Ali's right with the world."
He had always been fond of that quotation.
Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn't

He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the
Black Swan where he was staying.
He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the seci and floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage. ,
As he entered the room, his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain
on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively--wet and red--blood
....
His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something--a long,
slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red ....
Mr. Cust sat there a long time.
Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal.
His tongue passed feverishly over his lips ....
"It isn't my fault," said Mr. Cust.
He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody---a schoolboy
pleading to his schoolmaster.
He passed his tongue over his lips again ....
130


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ]3]

Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve.

His eyes crossed the room to the washbasin.

A minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug

into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully

squeezing it out ....

Ugh! The water was red now ....

A tap on the door.

He stood there frozen into immobility--staring.

The door opened. A plump young woman--jug in hand.

"Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir."

He managed to speak then.
"Thank you I've
washed in cold "
Why
had
he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin.
He said
frenziedly: "I--I've cut my hand .... "
There was
a pause--yes, surely a very long pause--before she said: "Yes, sir."
She went
out, shutting the door.
Mr. Cust
stood as though turned to stone.
It had
come--at last ....
He listened.
Were there
voices---exclamations--feet mounting the stairs?
He could
hear nothing but the beating of his own heart ....
Then, suddenly,
from frozen immobility he leaped into activity.
He slipped
on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noise as yet except
the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs ....
Still no
one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way
now?
He made
up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door
that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering
with cars and discussing winners and losers.
Mr.
Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street.
Round
the first corner to the right---then to the left--right again ....
Dare
he risk the station?
Yes--there
would be crowds there--special trains--if luck were on his
side he would do it all right ....
If
only luck were with him ....


XXVI. (Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

V

Inspector Crome was listening to the excited utterances of Mr.
Leadbetter.
"I assure you, inspector, my heart misses a beat when I think of it.
He must actually have been sitting beside me all through the programme!"
Inspector Crome, completely indifferent to the behaviour of Mr.
Leadbetter's heart, said:
"Just let me have it quite clear. This man went out towards the close
of the big picture--"
.
1"
"Not a Sparrow--Katherine Roya, murmured Mr. Leadbettcr au
tomatically.

"He passed you and in doing so stumbled--"

"He pretended to stumble, I see it now. Then he leaned over the seat

in front to pick up his hat. He must have stabbed the poor fellow then."

"You didn't hear anything? A cry? Or a groan?

Mr. Leadbetter had heard nothing but the loud, hoarse accents of

Katherine Royal, but in the vividness of his imagination he invented a

groan.

Inspector Crome took the groan at its face value and bade him pro
ceedo

"And
then he went out--"

"Can you describe him9.''
"He was a very big man. Six foot at least. A giant."

132

TIlE A.B.C. MURDERS
133

"Fair or dark?"
"I--well--I'm not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking
fellow."
"He didn't limp, did he?" asked Inspector Crome.
"Yes--yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very
dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste."
"Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?"
"No. He came in after the big picture began."
Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr. Leadbetter a statement to sign
and got rid of him.
"That's about as bad a witness as you'll find," he remarked pessimistically.
"He'd say anything with a little leading. It's perfectly clear
that he hasn't the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let's have the
commissionaire back."
The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention,
his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson.
"Now, then, Jameson, let's hear your story."
Jameson saluted.
"Yes, sir. Close of the performance, sir, I was told there was a gentleman
taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies,
slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around.
Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by
put his hand to the ill gentleman's coat and drew my attention. Blood,
sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead--stabbed, sir. My attention
was drawn to an A.B.C. railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to
act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately
that a tragedy had occurred."
"Very good, Jameson, you acted very properly."
"Thank you, sir."
"Did you notice a man leaving the two and fourpennies about five
minutes earlier?"
"There were several, sir."
"Could you describe them.9''
"Afraid not, sir. One was Mr. Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a
young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn't notice anybody
else particular."
"A pity. rhat'll do, Jameson."
"Yes, sir."
The commissionaire saluted and departed.


'[ e
AGATHA CHRISTIE


"The medical details we've got," said Colonel Anderson. "We'd

better have the fellow that found him next."

A police constable came in and saluted.

"Mr. Hercule Poirot's here, sir, and another gentleman."
Inspector Crome frowned.

"Oh, well," he said. "Beuer have 'em in, I suppose."


XXVlI. The Doncaster Murder

Coming in hard on Poirot's heels, I just caught he fag end of Inspector
Crome's remark.
Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried anl
pressed.
Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the had.
"Glad you've come, Mr. Poirot," he said politely,. I th, ink he g.Ussed
that Crome's remark might have reached our ears. '7e we got t n the
neck again, you see."
"Another A.B.C. murder?
"Yes. Damned audacious bit of work. Man leaned over and Stbbed
the fellow in the back."
"Stabbed this timeT'
"Yes, varies his methods a bit, doesn't he? Biff on the head, trangling,
now a knife. Versatile devil--what? Here are the medical dtails
if you care to see 'em."
He shoved a paper towards Poirot.
"A.B.C. down on the floor between the dead man's feet," he alded.
"Has the dead man been identified?" asked Poirot.
"Yes. A.B.C.'s slipped up for once--if that's any satisfaction ko us
Deceased's a man called Earlsfield---George Earlsfi▍d. Barber b pro"
fession.'
"Curious," commented Poirot.
"May have skipped a letter," suggested the Colonel.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

My friend shook his head doubtfully.
"Shall we have in the next witness.'?" asked Cromc. "He's anxious to
get home."
"Yes, yes--let's get on."
A middle-aged gentleman strongly resembling the frog footman in Alice itt Wonderland was led in. He was highly excited and his voice
was shrill with emotion.
"Most shocking experience I have ever known," he squeaked. "I
have a weak heart, sir--a very weak heart; it might have been the death
of me."
"Your name, please," said the inspector.
"Downes. Roger Emmanuel Downes."
"Profession?"
"I am a master at Highfield School for boys."
"Now, Mr. Dowries, will you tell us in your own words what
pened."
"I can tell you that very shortly, gentlemen. At the close of the performance
I rose from my seat. The seat on my left was empty but in the
one beyond a man was sitting, apparently asleep. I was unable to pass
him to get out as his legs were stuck out in front of him. I asked him to
allow me to pass. As he did not move I repeated my request in--a--er--slightly
louder tone. He still made no response. I then took him by
the shoulder to waken him. His body slumped down further and I
came aware that he was either unconscious or seriously ill. I called out:
'This gentleman is taken ill. Fetch the commissionaire.' The commisionaire
came. As I took my hand from the man's shoulder I found it
was wet and red .... I realized that the man had been stabbed. At the
same moment the commissionaire noticed the A.B.C. railgy
guide .... I can assure you, gentlemen, the shock was terrific! Anything
might have happened! For years I have suffered from cardiac
weakness---"
Colonel Anderson was looking at Mr. Downes with a very curiotJs
expression.
"You can consider that you're a lucky man, Mr. Downes."
"I do, sir. Not even a palpitation!"
"You don't quite take my meaning, Mr. Downes. You were sitting
two seats away, you say?"
"Actually I was sitting at first in the next seat to the murdered
man---then I moved along so as to be behind an empty seat."
"You're about the same height and build as the dead man, are,'l


THE A.C. MURDERS
]37

you, and you were wearing a woollen scarf round ,or neck just as he
was?"
"I fail to see--" began Mr. Downes stiffly.
"I'm telling you, man," said Colonel Anderson, "just where your
luck came in. Somehow or other, when the murderer followed you in,
he got confused. He picked on the wrong back. I'll eat my hat, Mr.
Downes, if that knife wasn't meant for you!"
However well Mr. Dowries' heart had stood fornner tests, it was unable
to stand up to this one. Mr. Downes sank on a chair, gasped, and
turned purple in the face.
"Water," he gasped. "Water .... "
A glass was brought him. He sipped it whilst his complexion gradually
returned to normal.
"MET' he said. "Why meT'
"It looks like it," said Crome. "In fact, it's the or!y explanation."
"You mean that this man--this--this fienl incarnate--this
blood-thirsty madman has been following me about waiting for an opportunity?''
"I should say that was the way of it."
"But in heaven's name, why me?" demanded the outraged schoolmaster.
Inspector Crome struggled with the temptation to reply: "Why not?"
and said instead: "I'm afraid it's no good expecting a lunatic to have
reasons for what he does."
"God bless my soul," said Mr. Downes, sobered into whispering.
He got up. He looked suddenly old and shaken.
"If you don't want me any more, gentlemen, I think I'll go home.
I--I don't feel very well."
"That's quite all right, Mr. Downes. I'll send a constable with you--just
to see you're all right."
"Oh, no--no, thank you. That's not necessary."
"Might as well," said Colonel Anderson gruffly.
His eyes slid sideways, asking an imperceptible question of the inspector.
The latter gave an equally imperceptible nod.
Mr. Downes went out shakily.
"Just as well he didn't tumble to it," said Colonel Anderson.
"Theft'Il be a couple of them---eh?"
"Yes, sir. Your Inspector Rice has made arrangements. The house
will be watched."
"You think," said Poirot, "that when A.B.C. finds out his mistake he
might try again?"


1
AGATHA CHRISTIE


Anderson nodded.

"II's a possibility," he said. "Seems a methodical sort of chap,

A.B.C. It will upset him if things don't go according to programme."
Poirnt nodded thoughtfully.

"Wish we could get a description of the fellow," said Colonel

Anderson irritably. "We're as much in the dark as ever."

"It may come," said Poirot.

"Think so? Well, it's possible. Damn it all, hasn't any one got eyes
in his head?"

"Have patience," said Poirot.

"You seem very confident, M. Poirot. Got any reason for this opti-mism?''

"Yes, Colonel Anderson. Up to now, the murderer has not made a
mistake. He is bound to make one soon."

"If that's all you've got to go on," began the Chief Constable with a
snort, but he was interrupted.

"Mr. Ball of the Black Swan is here with a young woman, sir. He
reckons he's got summat to say might help you."

"Bring them along. Bring them along. We can do with anything
helpful."

Mr. Ball of the Black Swan was a large, slow-thinking, heavily-moving
man. He exhaled a strong odour of beer. With him was a plum p
young woman with round eyes clearly in a state of high excitement.

"Hope I'm not intruding or wasting valuable time," said Mr. Ball
a slow, thick voice. "But this wench, Mary here, reckons she's got

something to tell as you ought to know."

Mary giggled in a half-hearted way.

"Well, my girl, what is it?" said Anderson. "What's your name?"
"Mary, sir--Mary Stroud."
"Well, Mary, out with it."

Mary turned her round eyes on her master.

"It's her business to take up hot water to the gents' bedrooms," said
Mr. Ball, coming to the rescue. "About half a dozen gentlemen we'tt

got staying. Some for the races and some just commercials."

"Yes, yes," said Anderson impatiently.

"Get on, !ass," said Mr. Ball. "Tell your tale. Nowt to be afraid of."

Mary gasped, groaned and plunged in a breathless voice into her
narrative.

"I knocked on door and there wasn't no answer, otherwise l
wouldn't have gone in leastways not unless gentleman had said 'Come


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ]3(

in,' and as he didn't say nothing I went in and he was there washing his
hands."
She paused and breathed deeply.
"Go on, my girl," said Anderson.
Mary looked sideways at her master and as though receiving inspiration
from his slow nod, plunged on again.
"'It's your hot water, sir,' I said, 'and I did knock,' but 'Oh,' he
says, Tve washed in cold,' he said, and so, naturally, I looks in basin,
and oh! God help me, sir, it were all red!" "Red?" said Anderson sharply.
Ball struck in.
"The lass told me that he had his coat offand that he was holding the
sleeve of it, and it was all wet--that's right, eh, lass?
"Yes, sir, that's right, sir."
She plunged on:
"And his face, sir, it looked queer, mortal queer it looked. Gave me
quite a turn."
"When was this? asked Anderson sharply.
"About a quarter after five, so near as I can reckon."
"Over three hours ago," snapped Anderson. "Why didn't you come
at once?"
"Didn't hear about it at once," said Ball. "Not till news came along
as there'd been another murder done. And then the lass she screams
out as it might have been blood in the basin, and I asked her what she
means, and she tells me. Well, it doesn't sound right to me and I went
upstairs myself. Nobody in the room. I asks a few questions and one of
the lads in courtyard says he saw a fellow sneaking out that way and by
his description it was the right one. So I says to the missus as Mary
here had best go to police. She doesn't like the idea, Mary doesn't, and
I says I'll come along with her."
Inspector Crome drew a sheet of paper towards him.
"Describe this man," he said. "As quick as you can. There's no time
to be lost."
"Medium-sized, he were," said Mary. "And stooped and wore glasses.''
"His clothes?"
"A dark suit and a Homburg hat. Rather shabby-looking."
She could add little to this description.
Inspector Crome did not insist unduly. The telephone wires were
soon busy, but neither the inspector nor the Chief Constable were overoptimistic.


AGATHA CHRISTIE


Crome elicited the fact that the man, when seen sneaking across the
yard, had had no bag or suitcase.

"There's a chance there," he said.

Two men were dispatched to the Black Swan.

Mr. Ball, swelling with pride and importance, and Mary, somewhat
tearful, accompanied them.

The sergeant returned about ten minutes later.

"I've brought the register, sir," he said. "Here's the signature."

We crowded round. The writing was small and cramped--not easy
to read.

"A.B.Case--or is it Cash?" said the Chief Constable.
"A.B.C.," said Crome significantly.
"What about luggage?" asked Anderson.

"One good-sized suitcase, sir, full of small cardboard boxes."
"Boxes? What was in 'em?"
"Stockings, sir. Silk stockings."
Crome turned to Poirot.

"Congratulations," he said. "Your hunch was right."


XXVIII. (Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

V

Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard.
The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up.
"Jacobs speaking, sir. There's a young fellow come in with a story
that I think you ought to hear."
Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned
up with so-called important information about the A.B.C. case. Some
of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons
who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It
was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve--retaining the
grosset matter and passing on the residue to his superior.
"Very well, Jacobs," said Crome. "Send him along."
A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector's door and Sergeant
Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall, moderately good-looking
young man.
"This is Mr. Torn Hartigan, sir. He's got something to tell us which
may have a possible bearing on the A.B.C. case."
The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands.
"Good-morning, Mr. Hartigan. Sit down, won't you? Smoke? Have
a cigarette?"
Torn Hanigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at
what he called in his own mind "one of the bigwigs." The appearance
of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary
person I
141


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"Now then," said Crome. "You've got something to tell us that )ou
think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead."
Torn began nervously.
"Of course it may be nothing at all. It's just an idea of mine. I may
be wasting your time."
Again, Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time
he had to waste in reassuring people!
"We're the best judge of that. Let's have the facts, Mr. Hartigan."
"Well, it's like this, sir. I've got a young lady, you see, and her
mother lets rooms. Up Camden Town way. Their second floor back has
been let for over a year to a man called Cust."
"Cust--eh?"
"That's fight, sir. A sort of middle-aged bloke what's rather vague
and soft--and come down in the world a bit, I should say. Sort of creature
who wouldn't hurt a fly, you'd say--and I'd never of dreamed of
anything being wrong if it hadn't been for something rather odd."
In a somewhat confused manner and repeating himself once or
twice, Torn described his encounter with Mr. Cust at Euston Station
and the incident of the dropped ticket.
"You see, sir, look at it how you will, it's funny like. Lily, that's my
young lady, sir--she was quite positive that it was Cheltenham he said,
and her mother says the same--says she remembers distinct talking
about it the morning he went off. Of course, I didn't pay much attention
to it at the time. Lily--my young lady said as how she hoped he
wouldn't cop it for this A.B.C. fellow going to Doncaster--and then
she says it's rather a coincidence because he was down Churston way
at the time of the last crime. Laughing like, I asks her whether he was
at Bexhill the time before, and she says she don't know where he was,
but he was away at the seaside--that she does know. And then I said t
her it would be odd if he was the A.B.C. himself and she said poor Mr.
Cust wouldn't hurt a fly--and that was all at the time. We didn't think
no more about it. At least, in a sort of way I did, sir, underneath like. I
began wondering about this Cust fellow and thinking that, after all,
harmless as he seemed, he might be a bit batty."
Torn took a breath and then went on. Inspector Crome was listening
intently now.
"And then after the Doncaster murder, sir, it was in all the papers
that information was wanted as to the whereabouts of a certain A.B.
Case or Cash, and it gave a description that fitted well enough. First
evening off I had, I went round to Lily's and asked her what her Mr.
Cust's initials were. She couldn't remember at first, but her mother did.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ''

Said they were A.B. right enough. Then we got down to it and tried to
figure out if Cust had been away at the time of the first murder at An-dover.
Well, as you know, sir, it isn't too easy to remember things three
months back. We had a job of it, but we got it fixed down in the end,
because Mrs. Marbury had a brother come from Canada to see her on
June 21st. He arrived unexpected like and she wanted to give him a
bed, and Lily suggested that as Mr. Cust was away Bert Marbury might
have his bed. But Mrs. Marbury wouldn't agree, because she said it
wasn't acting right by her lodger, and she always liked to act fair and
square. But we fixed the date all right because of Bert Marbury's ship
docking at Southampton that day."
Inspector Crome had listened very attentively, jotting down an occasional
note.
"That's all.'?" he asked.
"That's all, sir. I hope you don't think I'm making a lot of nothing." Torn flushed slightly.
"Not at all. You were quite right to come here. Of course, it's very
slight evidence--these dates may be mere coincidence and the likeness
of the name, too. But it certainly warrants my having an interview
with your Mr. Cust. Is he at home now?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did he return.'?"
"The evening of the Doncaster murder, sir."
"What's he been doing sine. cT'
"He's stayed in mostly, sir. And he's been looking very queer, Mrs.
Marbury says. He buys a lot of newspapers--goes out early and gets
the morning ones, and then after dark he goes out and gets the evening
ones. Mrs. Marbury says he talks a lot to himself, too. She thinks he's
getting queerer."
"What is this Mrs. Marbury's address?"
Torn gave it to him.
'追rhank you. I shall probably be calling round in the course of the
day. I need hardly tell you to be careful of your manner if you come
across this Cust."
He rose and shook hands.
"You may he quite satisfied you did the fight thing in coming to us.
Good-morning, Mr. Hartigan."
"Well, sir?" asked Jacobs, re-entering the room a few minutes later.
"Think it's the goods?
"It's promising," said Inspector Crome. "That is, if the facts are as
the boy stated them. We've had no luck with the stocking manufactur-


AGATHA CHRISTIE

ers yet. It was time we got hold of something. By the way, give me that
file of the Churston case."
He spent some minutes looking for what he wanted.
"Ah, here it is. It's amongst the statements made to the Torquay
lice. Young man of the name of Hill. Deposes he was leaving
Torquay Pavilion after the film Not a Sparrow and noticed a man behaving
queerly. He was talking to himself. Hill heard him say, 'That's
an idea.' Not a Sparrow--that's the film that was on at the Regal in
DoncasterT'
"Yes, sir."
"There may be something in that. Nothing to it at the time--but it's
possible that the idea of the modus operandi for his next crime occurred
to our man then. We've got Hill's name and address, I see. His
description of the man is vague but it links up well enough with the
scriptions of Mary Stroud and this Torn Hartigan .... '
He nodded thoughtfully.
"We're getting warm," said Inspector Crome--rather inaccurately,
for he himself was always slightly chilly.
"Any instructions, sir?"
"Put on a couple of men to watch this Camden Town address, but I
don't want our bird frightened. I must have a word with the A.C. Then
I think it would be as well if Cust was brought along here and asked if
he'd like to make a statement. It sounds as though he's quite ready to
get rattled."
Outside Torn Hartigan had rejoined Lily Marbury who was waiting
for him on the Embankmenf.
"All right, Torn?" Torn nodded.
"I saw Inspector Crome himself. The one who's in charge of
case."
"What's he like?"
"A bit quiet and la-di-da--not my idea of a detective."
"That's Lord Trenchard's new kind," said Lily with respect. "Sorc
of them are ever so grand. Well, what did he say?" Torn gave her a brief rsum of the interview.
"So they think as it really was him?"
"They think it might be. Anyway, they'll come along and ask hiia a
question or two."
"Poor Mr. Cust."
"It's no good saying poor Mr. Cust, my girl. If he's A.B.C.,
committed four terrible murders."


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ]45

Lily sighed and shook her head.
"It does seem awful," she observed.
"Well, now you're going to come and have a bite of lunch, my girl.
Just you think that if we're fight I expect my name will be in the papers!''
"Oh, Torn, will it.'?"
"Rather. And yours, too. And your mother's. And I dare say you'll
have your picture in, too."
"Oh, Torn." Lily squeezed his arm in an ecstasy.
"And in the meantime, what do you say to a bite at the Corner
House?"
Lily squeezed tighter.
"Come on then!"
"All right--half a minute. I must just telephone from the station."
"Who to?"
"A girl I was going to meet." She slipped across the road, and rejoined
him three minutes later, looking rather flushed.
"Now then, Torn." She slipped her arm in his. "Tell me more about
Scotland Yard. You didn't see the other one there7"
"What other one7"
"The Belgian gentleman. The one that A.B.C. writes to always."
"No. He wasn't there."
"Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside7
Who did you speak to and what did you say?"

Mr. Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook.
He turned to where Mrs. Marbury was standing in the doorway of a
room, clearly devoured with curiosity.
"Not often you have a telephone call, Mr. Cust."
"No--er--no, Mrs. Marbury. It isn't."
"Not bad news, I trust?"
"No--no." How persistent the woman was. His eye caught the legend
on the newspaper he was carrying.
Births--Marriages--Deaths...
"My sister's just had a little boy," he blurted out.
He--who had never had a sister!
"Oh, dear! Now--well, that is nice, I am sure. ('And never once
mentioned a sister all these years,' was her inward thought. 'If that
isn't just like a man!') I was surprised, I'll tell you, when the lady
asked to speak to Mr. Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily's
voice--something like hers, it was--but haughtier if you know what I


AGATHA CHRISTIE

mean--sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr. Cust, my congratulations,
I'm sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and
nieces?"
"It's the only one," said Mr. Cust. "The only one I've ever had or
likely to have, and-er--I think I must go off at once. They--they
want me to come. I--I think I can just catch a train if I hurry."
"Will you be away long, Mr. gust? called Mrs. Marbury as he ran
up the stairs.
"Oh, no--two or three days--that's all."
He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs. Marbury retired into the
kitchen, thinking sentimentally of "the dear little mite."
Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge.
Last night Torn and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying
to make out that Mr. Cust was that dreadful monster, A.B.C. Just because
of his initials and because of a few coincidences.
"I don't suppose they meant it seriously," she thought comfortably.
"And now I hope they'll be ashamed of themselves."
In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr. Cust's
statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any
doubts Mrs. Marbury might have had of her lodger's bonafides.
"I hope she didn't have too bad a time of it, poor dear," thought Mrs.
Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out
Lily's silk slip.
Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track.
Mr. Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes
rested a minute on the telephone.
That brief conversation re-echoed in his brain.
"Is that you, Mr. Cust? I thought you might like to know there's an
inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you "
What
had he said? He couldn't remember.
"Thank
you--thank you, my dear.., very kind of you "
Something
like
that.
Why had
she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did
she just want to make sure he would stay in for the inspector's visit?
But
how
did she know the inspector was coming?
And her
voice--she'd disguised her voice from her mother .... It looked---it
looked---as though she knew .... But surely
if she knew, she wouldn't...
She might,
though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel


THE
A.B.C. MURDERS

147


and unexpectedly kind. He'd seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a
mouse trap.

A kind girl ....

A kind, pretty girl ....

He paused by the hall stand with its load of umbrellas and coats.
Should he--?

A slight noise from the kitchen decided him ....

No, there wasn't time ....

Mrs. Marbury might come out ....

He opened the front door, passed through and closed it behind


Where... ?


XXIX. At Scotland Yard


V


Conference again.

The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Cromc, Poirot and myself.
The A.C. was saying:

"A good tip that of yours, M. Poirot, about checking a large sale of
stockings."

Poirot spread out his hands.

"It was indicated. This man could not be a regular agent. He sold
outright instead of touting for orders."

"Got everything clear so far, inspector?

"I think so, sir." Crome consulted a file. "Shall I run over the posi-tion
to date.'?"

"Yes, please."

"I've checked up with Churston, Paignton and Torquay. Got a list of
people where he went and offered stockings. I must say he did the
thing thoroughly. Stayed at the Pitt, small hotel near Torre Station. Re-turned
to the hotel at 10:30 on the night of the murder. Could have
taken a train from Churston at 10:05, getting to Paignton at 10:15. No
one answering to his description noticed on train or at stations, but that
Thursday was Dartmouth Regatta and the trains back from Kingswear
were pretty full.

"Bexhill much the same. Stayed at the Glove under his own name.
Offered stockings to about a dozen addresses, including Mrs. Barnard
and including the Ginger Cat. Left hotel early in the evening. Arrived


THE A.B.C. MURDERS
149


back in London about 11:30 the following morning. As to Andover,
same procedure. Stayed at the Feathers. Offered stockings to Mrs.
Fowler, next door to Mrs. Ascher, and to half a dozen other people in
the street. The pair Mrs. Ascher had I got from the niece (name of

Drower)--they're identical with Cust's supply."

"So far, good," said the A.C.

"Acting on information received," said the inspector, "I.went to the
address given me by Hartigan, but found that Cust had left the house
about half an hour previously. He received a telephone message, I'm
told. First time such a thing had happened to him, so his landlady told
me."

"An accomplice?" suggested the Assistant Commissioner.
"Hardly," said Poirot. "It is odd that--unless---"
We all looked at him inquiringly as he paused.

He shook his head, however, and the inspector proceeded.

"I made a thorough search of the room he had occupied. That search
puts the matter beyond doubt. I found a block of notepaper similar to
that on which the letters were written, a large quantity of hosiery
and--at the back of the cupboard where the hosiery was stored--a par-cel
much the same shape and size but which turned out to contain--not
hosiery---but eight new A.B.C. railway guides/"

"Proof positive," said the Assistant Commissioner.

"I've found something else, too," said the inspector--his voice be-coming
suddenly almost human with triumph. "Only found it this
morning, sir. Not had time to report yet. There was no sign of the knife
in his room---"

"It would be the act of an imbecile to bring that back with him," re-marked
Poirot.

"After all, he's not a reasonable human being," remarked the inspec-tor.
"Anyway, it occurred to me that he might just possibly have
brought it back to the house and then realized the danger of hiding it
(as M. Poirot points out) in his room, and have looked about else-where.
What place in the house would he be likely to select? I got it
straightaway. The hall stand--no one ever moves a hall stand. With a

lot of trouble I got it moved out from the wall--and there it was!"
"The knife?"

''The knife. Not a doubt of it. The dried blood's still on it."

"Good work, Crome," said the A.C. approvingly. "We only need

one thing more now."
"What's that?"
'Whe man himself."


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"We'll get him, sir. Never fear."
The inspector's tone was confident.
"What do you say, M. Poirot?'
Poirot started out of a reverie.
"I beg your pardon?"
"We were saying that it was only a matter of time before we get our
man. Do you agree?"
"Oh, that--yes. Without a doubt."
His tone was so abstracted that the others looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything worrying you, M. Poirot?"
"There is something that worries me very much. It is the why? The motive?"
"But, my dear fellow, the man's crazy," said the Assistant Commissioner
impafently.
"I understand what M. Poirot means," said Crome, coming graciously
to the rescue. "He's quite right. There's got to be some definite
obsession. I think we'll find the root of the matter in an intensified
feriority complex. There may be persecution mania, too, and if so he
may possibly associate M. Poirot with it. He may have the delusion
that M. Poirot is a detective employed on purpose to hunt him down."
"H'm," said the A.C. "That's the jargon that's talked nowadays. In
my day ifa man was mad he was mad and we didn't look about for scientific
terms to soften it down. I suppose a thoroughly up-to-date doctor
would suggest putting a man like A.B.C. in a nursing home, telling
him what a fine fellow he was for forty-five days on end and then letting
him out as a responsible member of society."
Poirot smiled but did not answer.
The conference broke up.
"Well," said the Assistant Commissioner. "As you say, Crome, pulling
him in is only a matter of time."
"We'd have had him before now," said the inspector, "if he wasn't
so ordinary-looking. We've worried enough perfectly inoffensive citizens
as it is."
"I wonder where he is at this minute," said the Assistant Commissioner.


(Not from Captain Hastings'
Personal Narrative)

Mr. Cust stood by a greengrocer's shop.
He stared across the road.
Yes, that was it.
Mrs. Ascher. Newsagent and Tobacconist.... In the empty window was a sign.
To Let.
Empty ....
Lifeless ....
"Excuse me, sir."
The greengrocer's wife, trying to get at some lemons.
He apologized, moved to one side.
Slowly he shuffled away--back towards the main street of the
town ....
It was difficult--very difficult--now that he hadn't any money left ....
Not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and
light-headed ....
He looked at a poster outside a newsagent's shop.
The A.B.C. Case. Murderer Still at Large. Interview with M.
Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Cust said to himself:
"Hercule Poirot. I wonder if he knows "

He
walked on again.


A6ATI:I A CHRISTIE


It wouldn't do to stand staring at that poster ....

He thought:

"I can't go on much longer...."

Foot in front of foot.., what an odd thing walidng was. ..
Foot in front of foot---ridiculous.
Highly ridiculous ....

But man was a ridiculous animal anyway....

And he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, was particoiarly ridiculous ....
He always had been ....

People had always laughed at him ....

He couldn't blame them ....

Where was he going? He didn't know. He'd corre to the nd. He no

longer looked anywhere but at his feet.

Foot in front of foot.

He looked up. Lights in front of him. And letters ....

Police Station.

'訊hat's funny," said Mr. Cust. He gave a little iggle.

Then he stepped inside. Suddenly, as he did so, he sway%d and fell
forward.


XXXl. Hercule Poirot Rsks
uestions

It was a clear November day. Dr. Thompson and Chief Inspector Japp
had come round to acquaint Poirot with the result of the police court
proceedings in the case of Rex v. Alexander Bonaparte Cust.
Poirot himself had had a slight bronchial chill which had prevented
his attending. Fortunately he had not insisted on having my company.
"Committed for trial," said Japp. "So that's that."
"Isn't it unusual," I asked,"for a defence to be offered at this stage?
I thought prisoners always reserved theft defence."
"It's the usual course," said .lapp. "I suppose young Lucas thought
he might rush it through. He'S a trier, I will say. Insanity's the only defence
possible."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"With insanity there can 10e no acquittal. Imprisonment during Her
Majesty's pleasure is hardly preferable to death."
"I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance," said Japp. "With a
first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened.
I don't think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway Lucas
goes in for originality. He's ayoung man, and he wanted to hit the public
eye."
Poirot turned to Thompson.
"What's your opinion, doctor.'?"
"Of Cust? Upon my soul, ldon't know what to say. He's playing the
sane man remarkably well. [te's an epileptic, of course."
153


AGATHA CHRISTIE


"What an amazing denouement that was," I said.

"His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes--it was a
fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A.B.C. had always timed his ef-fects
well."

"Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?" I asked.

"His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them."

Dr. Thompson smiled a little.

"You mustn't be taken in by that theatrical 'I swear by God' pose.
It's my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the mur-ders.''

"When they're as fervent as that they usually do," said Japp.

"As to your question," went on Thompson, "it's perfectly possible
for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an ac-tion
and be entirely unaware of having done so. But it is the general
opinion that such an action must 'not be contrary to the will of the per-son
in the waking state.'"

He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand mai and petit
mai and, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case
when a learned person holds forth on his own subject.

"However, I'm against the theory that Cust committed these crimes
without knowing he'd done them. You might put that theory forward if
it weren't for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They
show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime."

"And of the letters we have still no explanation," said Poirot.
"That interests you?"

"Naturally--since they were written to me. And on the subject.
the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those
letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved."

"Yes--I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn't
seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you
in any way?"

"None whatever."

"I might make a suggestion. Your name!"

"My name?"

"Yes. Cust is saddledmapparently by the whim of his mother

pus complex there, I shouldn't wonder!)--with two extremely
bastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see
implications? Alexander---the popularly supposed undefeatable who
sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte--the great Emper,r
the French. He wants an adversary--an adversary, one might say.
his class. Well--there you are--Hercules the strong."


TE ^.B.C. SUROSaS
155

"Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas "
"Oh,
it's only a suggestion. Well, I must be off."

Dr. Thompson went out. Japp remained.

"Docs this alibi worry you.'?" Poirot asked.
"It docs a little," admitted the inspector. "Mind you, I don't believe
in it, because I know it isn't true. But it is going to be the deuce to
break it. This man Strange is a tough character."
"Describe him to me."
"He's a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining
engineer. It's my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence
being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing
might be settled out of hand."
"He's one of the most positive people I've ever seen," I said.
"The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken,"
said Poirot thoughtfully.
"He sticks to his story and he's not one to be heckled. He swears by
all that's blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at
Eastbournc on the evening of July 24th. He was !oucly and wanted some one to talk to. As far as I can see, Cost made an ideal listener. He
didn't interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears
Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty
hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They'll
play for hours. That's what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust
wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn't hear of it--swore they'd
keep it up until midnight at least. And that's what they did do. They
separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the
Whitccross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the
morning of the 25th be couldn't very well be strangling Betty Barnard
on the beach at Bcxhill between midnight and one o'clock."
"The problem certainly seems insuperable," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"Deeidedly, it gives one to think."
"It's given Crome something to think about," said Japp.
"This man Strange is very positive?
"Yes. He's an obstinate devil. And it's difficult to see just where the
flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn't
Cust--why on earth should he say his name is Cust? And the writing in
the hotel register is his all right. You can't say he's an accomplice--homicidal
lunatics don't have accompliees! Did the girl die later? The
dOCtor was quite firm in his evidence, and anyway it would take some
time for Cust to get out of the hotel at Eastbourne without being seen
and get over to Bexhi!!--fourteen miles away--"


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"It is a problem--yes," said Poirot.
"Of course, strictly speaking, it oughtn't to matter. We've got Cust
on the Doncaster murder--the blood-stained coat, the knife--not a
loophole there. You couldn't bounce any jury into acquitting him. But
it spoils a pretty case. He did the Doncaster murder. He did the
Churston murder. He did the Andover murder. Then, by hell, he must
have done the Bexhill murder. But I don't see how!"
He shook his head and got up.
"Now's your chance, M. Poirot," he said. "Crome's in a fog. Exert
those cellular arrangements of yours I used to hear so much about.
Show us the way he did it."
Japp departed.
"What about it, Poirot?" I said. "Are the little grey cells equal to the
task?"
Poirot answered my question by another.
"Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?"
"Well--yes, practically speaking. We've got the man. And we've
got most of the evidence. It's only the trimmings that are needed."
Poirot shook his head.
"The case is ended! The case! The case is the man, Hastings. Until
we know all about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever. It is not victory
because we have put him in the dock!"
"We know a fair amount about him."
"We know nothing at all! We know where he was born. We know he
fought in the war and received a slight wound in the head and that
he was discharged from the Army owing to epilepsy. We know that he
lodged with Mrs. Marbury for nearly two years. We know that he was
quiet and retiring--the sort of man that nobody notices. We know rtat
he invented and carded out an intensely clever scheme of systematized
murder. We know that he made certain incredibly stupid blunders.
know that he killed without pity and quite ruthlessly. We know, Too,
that he was kindly enough not to let blame rest on any other person for
the crimes he committed. If he wanted to kill unmolested--how
to let other persons suffer for his crimes. Do you not see, Hastings,
the man is a mass of contradictions? Stupid and cunning, ruthless
magnanimous--and that there must be some dominating factor
reconciles his two natures."
"Of course, if you treat him like a psychological study," I began.
"What else has this case been since the beginning? All along I have


x,^.a.c. MURDEaS
157

been groping my way--trying to get to know the murderer. And now I
realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at allI I am at sea."
"The lust for power--" I began.
"Yes--that might explain a good deal .... But it does not satisfy me.
There are things I want to know. Why did he commit these murders?
Why did he choose those particular people--?"
"Alphabetically---" I began.
"Was Betty Bamard the only person in Bexhill whose name began
with a B? Betty Barnard--I had an idea there It
ought to be
true--it
must be true. But if so---"
He
was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him.
As
a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep.
I
woke to find Poirot's hand on my shoulder.
"Mon
cher Hastings," he said affectionately. "My good genius."
I
was quite confused by this sudden mark of esteem.
"It
is true," Poirot insisted. "Always--always--you help me--you bring
me luck. You inspire me."
"How
have I inspired you this time?" I asked.
"While
I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark
of yours--a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Did
I not say to you once that you had a genius for stating the obvious? It
is the obvious that I have neglected."
"What
is this brilliant remark of mine?" I asked
"It
makes everything as clear as crystal. I see the answers to questions.
The reason for Mrs. Ascher (that, it is true, I glimpsed long ago),
the reason for Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for the Doncaster
murder, and finally and supremely important, the reason for Hercule
Poirot."
"Could
you kindly explain?" I asked.
"Not
at the moment. I require first a little more information. That I can
get from our Special Legion. And then--then, when I have got the answer
to a certain question, I will go and see A.B.C. We will be face
to
face at last--A.B.C, and Hercule Poirot--the adversaries."
"And
then?" I asked.
"And
then," said Poirot, "we will talk! Je vous assure, Hastings- there
is nothing so dangerous for any one who has something to hide as conversation!
Speech, so a wise old Frenchman said to me once, is an invention
of man's to prevent him from thinking. It is also an infallible means
of discovering that which he wishes to hide. A human being, Hastings,
cannot resist the opportunity to reveal himself and express


AGATHA CHRISTIE


his personality which conversation gives him. Every time he will give
himself away."

"What do you expect Cust to tell you?"

Hercule Poirot smiled.

"A lie," he said. "And by it, I shall know the troth!"


XXXII. And Catch a Fox


During the next few days Poirot was very busy. He made mysterious
absences, talked very little, frowned to himself, and consistently
refused to satisfy my natural curiosity as to the brilliance I had, accord-ing
to him, displayed in the past.

I was not invited to accompany him on his mysterious comings and
goings--a fact which I somewhat resented.

Towards the end of the week, however, he announced his intention
of paying a visit to Bexhill and neighbourhood and suggested that I
should come with him. Needless to say, I accepted with alacrity.

The invitation, I discovered, was not extended to me alone. The
members of our Special Legion were also invited.

They were as intrigued by Poirot as I was. Nevertheless, by the end
of the day, I had at any rate an idea as to the direction in which Poirot's
thoughts were tending.

He first visited Mr. and Mrs. Barnard and got an exact account from
her as to the hour at which Mr. Cust had called on her and exactly what
he had said. He then went to the hotel at which Cust had put up and ex-tracted
a minute description of that gentleman's departure. As far as I
could judge, no new facts were elicited by his questions but he himself
seemed quite satisfied.

Next he went to the beachto the place where Betty Barnard's body
had been discovered. Here he walked round in circles for some

159


] ()0
A}ATHA CHRISTIE


minutes studying the shingle attentively. I could see little point in this,
since the tide covered the spot twice a day.

However I have learnt by this time that Poirot's actions are
dictated by an idea--however meaningless they may seem.

He then walked from the beach to the nearest point at which a car
could have been parked. From there again he went to the place where
the Eastbourne buses waited before leaving Bexhill.

Finally he took us all to the Ginger Cat caf& where we had a some-what
stale tea served by the plump waitress, Milly Higley.

Her he complimented in a flowing Gallic style on the shape of her
ankles.

"The legs of the English--always they are too thin! But you, made-moiselle,
have the perfect leg. It has shape--it has an ankle!"

Milly Higley giggled a good deal and told him not to go on so. She
knew what French gentlemen were like.

Poirot did not trouble to contradict her mistake as to his nationality.
He merely ogled her in such a way that I was startled and almost
shocked.

"Voil&" said Poirot, "I have finished in Bexhill. Presently I go to
Eastboume. One little inquiry there--that is all. Unnecessary for
all to accompany me. In the meantime come back to the hotel and le
have a cocktail. That Carlton tea, it was abominable!"

As we were sipping our cocktails Franklin Clarke said curiously:
"I suppose we can guess what you are after? You're out to break that
alibi. But I can't see what you're so pleased about. You haven't go. a

new fact of any kind."
"No---that is true."
"Well, then?"

"Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time."

"You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway."

"Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea--that is why."

His face grew serious.

"My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young
played a game called The Truth. It was a game where every one in turn
was asked three questions--two of which must be answered truthfi' Ily.
The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the
most indiscreet kind. But to begin with every one had to swear that
they would indeed speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth."

He paused.

"Well?" said Megan.


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 161

"Eh bien--me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to
have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of
you."
"Of course," said Clarke impatiently. "We'll answer anything."
"Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to
speak the truth?"
He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn
themselves. They all swore as he demanded.
"Bon, "said Poirot briskly. "Let us begin--"
"I'm ready," said Thora Grey.
"Ah, but ladies first--this time it would not be the politeness. We
will start elsewhere."
He turned to Franklin Clarke.
"What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies
wore at Ascot this year?"
Franklin Clarke stared at him.
"Is this a joke?"
"Certainly not."
"Is that seriously your question?"
"It is."
Clarke began to grin.
"Well, M. Poirot, I didn't actually go to Ascot, but from what I could
see of them driving in cars, women's hats for Ascot were an even bigger
joke than the hats they wear ordinarily."
"Fantastic?"
"Quite fantastic."
Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser.
"When did you take your holiday this year, Monsieur?"
It was Fraser's turn to stare.
"My holiday? The first two weeks in August."
His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought
the loss of the girl he loved back to him.
Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He
turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It
had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear.
"Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke's death, would you
have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?"
The girl sprang up.
"How dare you ask me such a question. It's--it's insulting!"
"Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the troth. Eh bien--Yes or
noT'


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost
like a daughter. And that's how I felt to him--just affectionate and
grateful."
"Pardon me, but that is not answering yes or no, mademoiselle."
She hesitated.
'`The answer, of course, is no!"
He made no comment.
"Thank you, mademoiselle."
He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl's face was very pale. She was
breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal.
Poirot's voice came out like the crack of a whip lash.
"Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigations?
Do you want me to find out the troth--or not?"
Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan,
I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth.
Her answer came clearly--and it stupefied me.
"No!"
We all jumped. Poirot leaned forward, studying her face.
"Mademoiselle Megan," he said, "you may not want the truth but--mafoi--you can speak it!"
He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary
Drower.
"Tell me, man enfant, have you a young man?"
Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and
blushed.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I--I--well, I'm not sure."
He smiled.
"Alors c 'est bien, mort enfant."
He looked round for me.
"Come, Hastings, we must start for Eastbourne."
The car was waiting and soon we were driving along the coast road
that leads through Pevensey to Eastbourne.
"Is it any use asking you anything, Poirot?"
"Not at this moment. Draw your own conclusions as to what I am
doing/'
I relapsed into silence.
Poirot, who seemed pleased with himself, hummed a little tune. As
we passed through Pevensey he suggested that we stop and have a look
over the castle.
As we were returning towards the car, we paused a moment to x arch


THE A.B.C. MURDERS


a ring of children--Brownies, I guessed, by their getupwho were
singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices ....

"What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words."

I listened--till I caught one refrain.


"--And catch a fox

And put him in a box

And never let him go."


"And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!" re-peated
Poirot.

His face had gone suddenly grave and steru.

"It is very terrible that, Hastings." He was silent a minute. "You
hunt the fox here?"

"I don't. I've never been able to afford to hunt. And I don't think
there's much hunting in this part of the world."

"I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the
covert side--then they sound the tally-ho, do they not?--and the run
begins--across the country---over the hedges and ditches--and the

fox he runs--and sometimes he doubles back--but the dogs--"
"Hounds!"

"--hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies--quickly
and horribly."

"I suppose it does sound cruel, but really--"

"The fox enjoys it? Do not say les btises, my friend. Tout de
rn&ne--it is better that--the quick, cruel deathan what those chil-dren
were singing ....

"To be shut away--in a box--for ever.... No, it is not good, that."
He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone:

'Fo-morrow, I am to visit the man Cust," and he added to the chauf-feur:

"Back to London."

"Aren't you going to EastbourueT' I cried.

"What need? I know--quite enough for my purpose."


XXXlII. Alexander Bonaparte

Cust


I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot and
that strange man--Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Owing to his associa-tion
with the police and the peculiar circumstances of the case, Poirot
had no difficulty in obtaining a Home Office order--but that order did
not extend to me, and in any case it was essential, from Poirot's point
of view, that that interview should be absolutely private--the two men
face to face.

He has given me, however, such a detailed account of what passed
between them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as
though I had actually been present.

Mr. Cust seemed to have shrunk. His stoop was more apparent. His
fingers plucked vaguely at his coat.

For some time, I gather, Poirot did not speak.

He sat and looked at the man opposite him.

The atmosphere became restful--soothing--full of infinite lei-sure

It must have been a dramatic moment--this meeting of the two
versaries in the long drama. In Poirot's place I should have felt the
dramatic thrill.

Poirot, however, is nothing if not matter-of-fact. He was absorbed in

producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him.

At last he said gently:

"Do you know who I am?"

164


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 165

The other shook his head.
"No--no--I can't say I do. Unless you are Run Lucas's--what do
they call it?--junior. Or perhaps you come from Mr. Maynard?"
(Maynard & Cole were the defending solicitors.)
His tone was polite but not very interested. He seemed absorbed in
some inner abstraction.
"I am Hercule Poirot .... "
Poirot said the words very gently.., and watched for the effect.
Mr. Cust raised his head a little.
"Oh, yes?"
He said it as naturally as Inspector Crome might have said it--but
without the superciliousness.
Then, a minute later, he repeated his remark.
"Oh, yes?" he said, and this time his tone was different--it held an
awakened interest. He raised his head and looked at Poirot.
Hercule Poirot met his gaze and nodded his own head gently once or
twice.
"Yes," he said. "I am the man to whom you wrote the letters."
At once the contact was broken. Mr. Cust dropped his eyes and
spoke irritably and fretfully.
"I never wrote to you. Those letters weren't written by me. I've said
so again and again."
"I know," said Poirot. "But if you did not write them, who did?"
"An enemy. I must have an enemy. They are all against me. The
police---every one--all against me. It's a gigantic conspiracy."
Poirot did not reply.
Mr. Cust said:
"Every one's hand has been against me--always."
"Even when you were a child?"
Mr. Cust seemed to consider.
"No---no--not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But
she was ambitious--terribly ambitious. That's why she gave me those
ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I'd cut a figure in the
world. She was always urging me to assert myself--talking about will
power.., saying any one could be master of his fate.., she said I
could do anything!"
He was silent for a minute.
"She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I
wasn't the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish
things--making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid---afraid of
people. I had a bad time at school--the boys found out my Christian


AGATHA CHRISTIE


names--they used to tease me about them I
did very badly at
school--in
games and work and everything."
He
shook his head.
"Just
as well poor mother died. She'd have been disappointed .... Even
when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid--it took me longer
to learn typing and shorthand than any one else. And yet I didn't feel
stupid--if you know what I mean."
He
cast a sudden appealing look at the other man.
"I
know what you mean," said Poirot. "Go on."
"It
was just the feeling that everybody else thought me stupid. Very
paralyzing.
It was the same thing later in the office." "And
later still in the war?" prompted Poirot. Mr.
Cust's face lightened up suddenly.
"You
know," he said, "I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I
felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the
same
box. I was as good as any one else."
His
smile faded.
"And
then I got that wound on the head. Very slight. But they found out
I had fits .... I'd always known, of course, that there were times when
I hadn't been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And
of course, once or twice I'd fallen down. But I don't really think they
ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don't think it was right."

"And
afterwardsY' asked Poirot.
"I
got a place as a clerk. Of course there was good money to be got just then.
And I didn't do so badly after the war. Of course, a smaller salary ....
And--I didn't seem to get on. I was always being passed over for
promotion. I wasn't going ahead enough. It grew very diffficult--really very
difficult .... Especially when the slump came. To tell
you the truth, I'd got hardly enough to keep body and soul to-gether (and
you've got to look presentable as a clerk) when I got the
offer of
this stocking job. A salary and commission!"
Poirot said
gently:
"But you
are aware, are you not, that the firm who you say em-ployed you
deny the fact?"
Mr. Cust
got excited again.
"That's because
they're in the conspiracy--they must be in the con-spiracy.''
He went
on:

"I've got written
evidencewritten evidence. I've got their letters

THE A.B.C. MURDERS
167

to me, giving me instructions as to what places to go and a list of peo
ple to call on."

"Not written evidence exactly--typewritten evidence."

"It's the same thing. Naturally a big firm of wholesale manufactur
ers typewrite their letters."

"Don't you know, Mr. Cust, that a typewriter can be identified? All

those letters were typed by one particular machine."

"What of it?"

"And that machine was your own--the one found in your room."

"It was sent me by the firm at the beginning of my job."

"Yes, but these letters were received afterwards. So it looks, does it

not, as though you typed them yourself and posted them to yourself?."

"No, no! It's all part of the plot against me!"

He added suddenly:

"Besides, their letters would be written on the same kind of machine."

"The same kind, but not the same actual machine."

Mr. Cust repeated obstinately:

"It's a plot!"

"And the A.B.C.'s that were found in the cupboard?"

"I know nothing about them. I thought they were all stockings."

"Why did you tick off the name of Mrs. Ascher in that first list of

people in Andover?"

"Because I decided to start with her. One must begin somewhere."

"Yes, that is true. One must begin somewhere."

"I don't mean that!" said Mr. Cust. "I don't mean what you mean!"

"But you know what I meant?"

Mr. Cust said nothing. He was trembling.

"I didn't do it!" he said. "I'm perfectly innocent! It's all a mistake.

Why, look at that second crime---that Bexhill one. I was playing dom~

inoes at Eastbourne. You've got to admit that!"

His voice was triumphant.

"Yes," said Poirot. His voice was meditative--silky. "But it's so easy,

isn't it, to make a mistake of one day? And if you're an obstinate, posi
!ire
man, like Mr. Strange, you'll never consider the possibility of haw
mg been mistaken. What you've said you'll stick to He's
that kind
of
man. And the hotel register--it's very easy to put down the wrong
date
when you're signing it---probably no one will notice it at the time." "I
was playing dominoes that evening!" "You
play dominoes very well, I believe." Mr.
Cust was a little flurried by this. "I--I--well,
I believe I do."


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"It is a very absorbing game, is it not, with a lot of skill in itT'
"Oh, there's a lot of play in it--a lot of play I We used to play a lot in
the city, in the lunch hour. You'd be surprised the way total strangers
come together over a game of dominoes."
He chuckled.
"I remember one man---I've never forgotten him because of something
he told me--we just got talking over a cup of coffee, and we
started dominoes. Well, I felt after twenty minutes that I'd known that
man all his life."
"What was it that he told you?" asked Poirot.
Mr. Cust's face clouded over.
"It gave me a turn--a nasty turn. Talking of your fate being written in your hand, he was. And he showed me his hand and the lines that
showed he'd have two near escapes of being drowned--and he had
had two near escapes. And then he looked at mine and he told me some
amazing things. Said I was going to be one of the most celebrated men
in England before I died. Said the whole country would be talking
about me. But he said--he said "
Mr.
Cust broke down--faltered ....
"Yes?"
Poirot's
gaze held a quiet magnetism. Mr. Cust looked at him, looked
away, then back again like a fascinated rabbit.
"He
said--he said--that it looked as though I might die a violent death--and
he laughed and said: 'Almost looks as though you might die
on the scaffold,' and then he laughed and said that was only his joke
.... "
He
was silent suddenly. His eyes left Poirot's face--they ran from side
to side ....
"My
head--I suffer very badly with my head.., the headaches are something
cruel sometimes. And then there are times when I don't
know--when
I don't know "
He
broke
down.
Poirot leant
forward. He spoke very quietly but with great assurance.
"But you
do know, don't you," he said, "that you committed the murders?''
Mr.
Cust looked up. His glance was quite simple and direct. All resistance

had left him. He looked strangely at peace.
"Yes,"
he said. "I know."
"But--I'm
right, am I not?--you don't know why you did them?"
Mr.
Cust shook his head.
"No,"
he said. "I don't."


XXXlV. Poirot Explains


We were sitting in a state of tense attention to listen to Poirot's final ex-planation
of the case.

"All along," he said, "I have been worried over the why of this case.
Hastings said to me the other day that the case was ended. I replied to
him that the case was the man.t The mystery was not the mystery of the
murders, but the mystery of A.B.C. Why did he find it necessary to
commit these murders? Why did he select me as his adversary?

"It is no answer to say that the man was mentally unhinged. To say a
man does mad things because he is mad is merely unintelligent and
stupid. A madman is as logical and reasoned in his action as a sane
man--given his peculiar biased point of view. For example, if a man
insists on going out and squatting about in nothing but a loin cloth his
conduct seems eccentric in the extreme. But once you know that the
man himself is firmly convinced that he is Mahatma Gandhi, then his
conduct becomes perfectly reasonable and logical.

"What was necessary in this case was to imagine a mind so consti~
tuted that it was logical and reasonable to commit four or more mur~
ders and to announce them beforehand by letters written to Hereule
Poirot.

"My friend, Hastings, will tell you that from the moment I received
the first letter I was upset and disturbed. It seemed to me at once that
there was something very wrong about the letter."

"You were quite right," said Franklin Clarke dryly.

169


170

"Yes. But there, at the very start, I made a grave error. I permitted
my feeling--my very strong feeling about the letter to remain a mere
impression. I treated it as though it had been an intuition. In a well~
balanced, reasoning mind them is no such thing as an intuition--an
spired guess! You can guess, of course--and a guess is either riht or
wrong. If it is right you call it an intuition. If it is wrong you usual I? do
not speak of it again. But what is often called an intuition is reallx impression based on logical deduction or experience. When an epcrt
feels that there is something wrong about a picture or a piece of furni-turn
or the signature on a cheque he is really basing that feeling on a
host of small signs and details. He has no need to go into them
minutely--his experience obviates that--the net result is the d▇,ite
impression that something is wrong. But it is not a guess, it is an
pmssion based on experience.
"Eh bien, I admit that I did not regard that first letter in the way I
should. It just made me extremely uneasy. The police regarded it a a
hoax. I myself took it seriously. I was convinced that a murder would
take place in Andover as stated. As you know, a murder did take place.
"There was no means at that point, as I well realized, of knowing
who the person was who had done the deed. The only course open to
me was to try and undemtand just what kind of a person had done it.
"I had certain indications. The letter--the manner of the crime--the
person murdered. What I had to discover was: the motive of the crime,
the motive of the letter."
"Publicity," suggested Clarke.
"Surely an inferiority complex covers that," added Thora Gray.
"That was, of course, the obvious line to take. But why me? Why
Hercule Poirot? Greater publicity could be ensured by sending the lei-ters
to Scotland Yard. More again by sending them to a newspaper. A
newspaper might not print the first letter, but by the time the second crime took place, A.B.C. could have been assured of all the publicity
the press could give. Why, then, Hercule Poimt? Was it for some personal mason? Them was, discernible in the letter, a slight antiforeign
bias--but not enough to explain the matter to my satisfaction.
"Then the second letter arrived--and was followed by the murder of
Betty Barnard at Bexhill. It became clear now (what I had already suspected)
that the murders were to proceed in an alphabetical plan, but
that fact, which seemed final to most people, left the main question unaltered
to my mind. Why did A.B.C. need to commit these murders?"
Megan Barnard stirred in her chair.
"Isn't them such a thing as--as a blood lust?" she said.


TE ^.B.C. SOROERS
171

poirot turned to her.
"You are quite right, mademoiselle. There is such a thing. The lust
to kill. But that did not quite fit the facts of the case. A homicidal maniac
who desires to kill usually desires to kill as many victims aspossihie. It is a recurring craving. The great idea of such a killer is to hide
his tracks--not to advertise them. When we consider the four victims
selected--or at any rate three of them (for I know very little of Mr.
Oownes or Mr. Earlsfield), we realize that if he had chosen, the murderer
could have done away with them without incurring any suspicion.
Franz Ascher, Donald Fraser or Mcgan Barnard, possibly Mr.
Clarke-those are the people the police would have suspected even if
they had been unable to get direct proof. An unknown homicidal murderer
would not have been thought of! Why, then, did the murderer feel
it necessary to call attention to himself?. Was it the necessity of leaving
on each body a copy of an A.B.C. railway guide? Was that the compulsion?
Was there some complex connected with the railway guide?
"I found it quite inconceivable at this point to enter into the mind of
the murderer Surely it could not be magnanimity? A horror of responsibility
for the crime being fastened on an innocent person?
"Although I could not answer the main question, certain things I did
feel I was learning about the murderer."
"Such as?" asked Fraser.
"To begin with--that he had a tabular mind. His crimes were listed
by alphabetical progression--that was obviously important to him. On
the other hand, he had no particular taste in victims--Mrs. Aschcr,
Betty Barnard, Sir Carmichael Clarke, they all differed widely from
each other. There was no sex complex--no particular age complex,
and that seemed to me to be a very curious fact. If a man kills indiscriminately
it is usually because he removes any one who stands in his
way or annoys him. But the alphabetical progression showed that such
was not the case here. The other type of killer usually selects a particular
type of victim--nearly always of the opposite sex. There was
something haphazard about the procedure of A.B.C. that seemed to me
to be at war with the alphabetical selection.
"The slight inferences I permitted myself to make. The choice of the
A.B.C. suggested to me what I may call a railway-mindedrnan. This is
more common in men than women. Small boys love trains better than
small girls do. It might be the sign, too, of an in some ways undeveloped
mind. The 'boy' motif still predominated.
"The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of it gave me certain
other indications. The manner of her death was particularly suggestive.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

(Forgive me, Mr. Fraser.) To begin with, she was strangled with l!
own belt--therefore she must almost certainly have been killed
some one with whom she was on friendly or affectionate terms. W :
I learnt something of her character a picture grew up in my mind.
"Betty Barnard was a flirt. She liked attention from a personal
male. Therefore A.B.C., to persuade her to come out with him, m
have had a certain amount of attraction--ofle sex appeal! He must
able, as you English say, to 'get off.' He must be capable of the click!
visualize the scene on the beach thus: the man admires her belt. She
takes it off. he passes it playfully round her neck---says, perhaps, 'I
shall strangle you.' It is all very playful. She giggles--and he pulls-:
Donald Fraser sprang up. He was livid.
"M. Poirot--for God's sake."
Poirot made a gesture.
"It is finished. I say no more. It is over. We pass to the next murdr,
that of Sir Carmichael Clarke. Here the murderer goes back to his fi t
method--the blow on the head. The same alphabetical complex--but
one fact worries me a little. To be consistent the murderer should have
chosen his towns in some definite sequence.
"If Andover is the 155th name under A, then the B crime should be
the 155th also---or it should be the 156th and the C the 157th. Here
again the towns seemed to be chosen in rather too haphazard a fashion.''
"Isn't that because you're rather biased on that subject, Poirot? I
suggested. "You yourself are normally methodical and orderly. It's almost
a disease with you."
"No, it is not a disease! Quelle idde! But I admit that I may be
over-stressing that point. Passons!
"The Churston crime gave me very little extra help. We were unlucky
over it, since the letter announcing it went astray, hence no
preparations could be made.
"But by the time the D crime was announced, a very formidable system
of defence had been evolved. It must have been obvious that
A.B.C. could not much longer hope to get away with his crimes.
"Moreover, it was at this point that the clue of the stockings came
into my hands. It was perfectly clear that the presence of an individual
selling stockings on and near the scene of each crime could not be a
incidence. Hence the stocking-seller must be the murderer. I may s:y
that his description, as given me by Miss Grey, did not quite correspond
with my own picture of the man who strangled Betty Barnard
"I will pass over the next stages quickly. A fourth murder was


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ]73


committed--the murder of a man named George Earlsfield--it was
supposed in mistake for a man named Downes, who was something of
the same build and who was sitting near him in the cinema.

"And now at last comes the turn of the tide. Events play against
A.B.C. instead of into his hands. He is marked down--hunted--and at
last arrested.

"The case, as Hastings says, is ended!

"True enough as far as the public is concerned. The man is in prison
and will eventually, no doubt, go to Broadmoor. There will be no more
murders. Exit! Finis! R.I.P.

"But not for me.t I know nothing--nothing at all! Neither the why
nor the wherefore.

"And there is one small vexing fact. The man Cust has an alibi for
the night of the Bexhill crime."

"That's been worrying me all along," said Franklin Clarke.

"Yes. It worried me. For the alibi, it has the air of being genuine. But
it cannot be genuine unless--and now we come to two very interesting
speculations.

"Supposing, my friends, that while Cust committed three of the

crimes--the A, C and D crimes--he did not commit the B crime."
"M. Poirot. It isn't--"

Poirot silenced Megan Barnard with a look.

"Be quiet, mademoiselle. I am for the truth, I am! I have done with
lies. Supposing, I say, that A.B.C. did not commit the second crime. It
took place, remember, in the early hours of the 25th--the day he had
arrived for the crime. Supposing some one had forestalled him? What
in those circumstances would he do? Commit a second murder, or lie
low and accept the first as a kind of macabre present?"

"M. Poirot!" said Megan. "That's a fantastic thought! All the crimes
must have been committed by the same person!"

He took no notice of her and went steadily on:

"Such a hypothesis had the merit of explaining one fact--the dis-crepancy
between the personality of Alexander Bonaparte Cust (who
could never have made the click with any girl) and the personality of
Betty BarnardS murderer. And it has been known, before now, that
would-be murderers have taken advantage of the crimes committed by
other people. Not all the crimes of Jack the Ripper were committed
by Jack the Ripper, for instance. So far, so good.

"But then I came up against a definite difficulty.

"Up to the time of the Barnard murder, no facts about the A.B.C.
murders had been made public. The Andover murder had created little


AGATHA CHRISTIE


interest. The incident of the open railway guide had not even been
mentioned in the press. It therefore followed that whoever killed Betty
Barnard must have had access to facts known only to certain
persons--myself, the police, and certain relations and neighbours of
Mrs. Ascher.

"That line of research seemed to lead me up against a blank wall."
The faces that looked at him were blank too. Blank and puzzled.
Donald Fraser said thoughtfully:

"The police, after all, are human beings. And they're good-looking
men--"

He stopped, looking at Poirot inquiringly.

Poirot shook his head gently.

"No--it is simpler than that. I told you that there was a second spec-ulation.

"Supposing that Cust was not responsible for the killing of Betty
Barnard? Supposing that some one else killed her. Could that some one

else have been responsible for the other murders too?"

"But that doesn't make sense!" cried Clarke.

"Doesn't it? I did then what I ought to have done at first. I examined
the letters I had received from a totally different point of view. I had
felt from the beginning that there was something wrong with them--just
as a picture expert knows a picture is wrong ....

"I had assumed, without pausing to consider, that what was wrong
with them was the fact that they were written by a madman.

"Now I examined them again--and this time I came to a totally dif-ferent
conclusion. What was wrong with them was the fact that they

were written by a sane man/"

"What?" I cried.

"But yes--just that precisely! They were wrong as a picture is
wrong--because they were a fake.t They pretended to be the letters of a
madman--of a homicidal lunatic, but in reality they were nothing of
the kind."

"It doesn't make sense," Franklin Clarke repeated.

"Mais si.t One must reason--reflect. What would be the object of
writing such letters? To focus attention on the writer, to call attention
to the murders! En vgritd, it did not seem to make sense at first sight.
And then I saw light. It was to focus attention on several murders---on
a group of murders .... Is it not your great Shakespeare who has said,
'You cannot see the trees for the wood'?

I did not correct Poirot's literary reminiscences. I was trying to see
his point. A glimmer came to me. He went on:


THE A.B.C. MURDERS ']75

"When do you notice a pin least? When it is in a pincushion! When
do you notice an individual murder least? When it is one of a series of
related murders.
"I had to deal with an intensely clever, resourceful murderer--reckless,
daring and a thorough gambler. Not Mr. Cust! He could never
have committed these murders! No, I had to deal with a very different
stamp of man--a man with a boyish temperament (witness the
schoolboy-type letters and the railway guide), an attractive man to
women, and a man with a ruthless disregard for human life, a man who
was necessarily a prominent person in one of the crimes! Consider
when a man or woman is killed, what are the questions that the police
ask? Opportunity. Where was everybody at the time of the crime? Motive.
Who benefited by the deceased's death? If the motive and the opportunity
are fairly obvious, what is a would-be murderer to do? Fake
an alibi--that is, manipulate time in some way? But that is always a
hazardous proceeding. Our murderer thought of a more fantastic defence.
Create a homicidal murderer!
"I had now only to review the various crimes and find the possible
guilty person. The Andover crime? The most likely suspect for that
was Fmnz Ascher, but I could not imagine Ascher inventing and carrying
out such an elaborate scheme, nor could I see him planning a premeditated
murder. The Bexhill crime? Donald Fraser was a possibility.
He had brains and ability, and a methodical turn of mind. But his motive
for killing his sweetheart could only be jealousy--and jealousy
does not tend to premeditation. Also I learned that he had his holiday early in August, which rendered it unlikely that he had anything to do
with the Churston crime. We come to the Churston crime next--and at
once we are on infinitely more promising ground.
"Sir Carmichael Clarke was an immensely wealthy man. Who inherits
his money? His wife, who is dying, has a life interest in it, and it
then goes to his brother Franklin."
Poirot turned slowly round till his eyes met those of Franklin Clarke.
"I was quite sure then. The man I had known a long time in my secret
mind was the same as the man whom I had known as a person.
A.B.C. and Franklin Clarke were one and the same.t The daring adventurous
character, the roving life, the partiality for England that had
showed itself, very faintly, in the jeer at foreigners. The attractive free
and easy manner--nothing easier for him than to pick up a gift in a cafe . The methodical tabular mind--he made a list here one day, ticked
off over the headings A.B.C.--and finally, the boyish mind--mentioned
by Lady Clarke and even shown by his taste in fiction--I


176
AGATHA CHRISTIE

have ascertained that there is a book in the library called The Railvr
Children by E. Nesbit. I had no further doubt in my own mind-A.B.C.,
the man who wrote the letters and committed the crimes, w; Franklin Clarke."
Clarke suddenly burst out laughing.
"Very ingenious! And what about our friend Cust, caught rett-handed?
What about the blood on his coat? And the knife he hid in his
lodgings? He may deny he committed the crimes--"
Poirot interrupted.
"You are quite wrong. He admits the fact."
"What?" Clarke looked really startled.
"Oh, yes," said Poirot gently. "I had no sooner spoken to him than i
was aware that Cust believed himself to be guilty."
"And even that didn't satisfy M. Poirot?" said Clarke.
"No. Because as soon as I saw him I also knew that he could not be
guilty! He has neither the nerve nor the daring--nor, I may add, the brains to plan! All along I have been aware of the dual personality of
the murderer. Now I see wherein it consisted. Two people were
involved--the real murderer, cunning, resourceful and dating--and the pseudo murderer, stupid, vacillating and suggestible.
"Suggestible--it is in that word that the mystery of Mr. Cust consists!
It was not enough for you, Mr. Clarke, to devise this plan of a series to distract attention from a single crime. You had also to have a
stalking horse.
"I think the idea first originated in your mind as the result of a
chance encounter in a city coffee den with this odd personality with his
bombastic Christian names. You were at that time turning over in your
mind various plans for the murder of your brother."
"Really? And whyT'
"Because you were seriously alarmed for the future. I do not know
whether you realize it, Mr. Clarke, but you played into my hands when
you showed me a certain letter written to you by your brother. In it he
displayed very clearly his affection and absorption in Miss Thorn Grey.
His regard may have been a paternal one--or he may have preferred to
think it so. Nevertheless, there was a very real danger that on the death
of your sister-in-law he might, in his loneliness, turn to this beautiful
girl for sympathy and comfort and it might end--as so often happens
with elderly men--in his marrying her. Your fear was increased by
your knowledge of Miss Grey. You are, I fancy, an excellent, if somewhat
cynical judge of character. You judged, whether correctly or not,
that Miss Grey was a type of young woman 'on the make.' You had no


THE A.B,C. MURDERS

177

dotbl ttat she would jump at the chance of becoming Lady Clarke.
your br,)ther was an extremely healthy and vigorous man. There might
be clildren and your chance of inheriting your brother's wealth would
vanish.
'You have been, I fancy, in essence a disappointed man all your life.
You have been the rolling stone--and you have gathered very little
moss. You were biuerly jealous of your brother's wealth.
, "I repeat then that, turning over various schemes in your mind, your
i:!meeting with Mr. Cust gave you an idea. His bombastic Christian
"names, his account of his epileptic seizures and of his headaches, his
whole shrinking and insignificant personality, struck you as fitting him
for the tool you wanted. The whole alphabetical plan sprang into your
mind---Cust's initials--the fact that your brother's name began with a
C and that he lived at Churston were the nucleus of the scheme. You
even went so far as to hint to Cust at his possible end--though you
could hardly hope that that suggestion would bear the rich fruit that it
did
"Your arrangements were excellent. In Cust's name you wrote for a
large consignment of hosiery to be sent to him. You yourself sent a
number of A.B.C.'s looking like a similar parcel. You wrote to
him--a typed letter purporting to be from the same firm offering him
a good salary and commission. Your plans were so well laid beforehand
that you typed all the letters that were sent subsequently, and then
presented him with the machine on which they had been typed.
"You had now to look about for two victims whose names began
with A and B respectively and who lived at places also beginning with
those same letters.
"You hit on Andover as quite a likely spot and your preliminary reconnaissance
there led you to select Mrs. Ascher's shop as the scene of
the first crime. Her name was written clearly over the door, and you
found by experiment that she was usually alone in the shop. Her murder
needed nerve, daring and reasonable luck.
"For the letter B you had to vary your tactics. Lonely women in
shops might conceivably have been warned. I should imagine that you
frequented a few cafts and teashops, laughing and joking with the girls
there and finding out whose name began with the right letter and who
would be suitable for your purpose.
"In Betty Barnard you found just the type of girl you were looking
for. You took her out once or twice, explaining to her that you were a
(narried man, and that outings must therefore take place in a somewhat
hole and corner manner.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

"Then, your preliminary plans completed, you set to work! You sett
the Andover list to Cust, directing him to go there on a certain date
and you sent off the first A.B.C. letter to me.
"On the appointed day, you went to Andover--and killed Mrs.
Ascher--without anything occurring to damage your plans.
"Murder No. I was successfully accomplished.
"For the second murder, you took the precaution of committing it, in
reality, the day before. I am fairly certain that Betty Barnard was killed
well before midnight on the 24th July.
"We now come to murder No. 3--the important--in fact, the real murder from your point of view.
"And here a full meed of praise is due to Hastings, who made a simple
and obvious remark to which no attention was paid.
"He suggested that the third letter went astray intentionally,t "And he was right!...
"In that one simple fact lies the answer to the question that has puzzled
me so all along. Why were the letters addressed in the first place
to Hercule Poirot, a private detective, and not to the police?
"Erroneously I imagined some personal reason.
"Not at all! The letters were sent to me because the essence of your
plan was that one of them should be wrongly addressed and go
astray--but you cannot arrange for a letter addressed to the Criminal
Investigation Department of Scotland Yard to go astray! It is necessary
to have a private address. You chose me as a fairly well-known person,
and a person who was sure to take the letters to the police--and also, in
your rather insular mind, you enjoyed scoring off a foreigner.
"You addressed your envelope very cleverly--Whitehaven--Whitehorse--quite
a natural slip. Only Hastings was sufficiently perspicacious
to disregard subtleties and go straight for the obvious!
"Of course the letter was meant to go astray! The police were to be
set on the trail only when the murder was safely over. Your brother's
nightly walk provided you with the opportunity. And so successfully
had the A.B.C. terror taken hold on the public mind that the possibility
of your guilt never occurred to any one.
"After the death of your brother, of course, your object was accomplished.
You had no wish to commit any more murders. On the other
hand, if the murders stopped without reason, a suspicion of truth might
come to some one.
"Your stalking horse, Mr. Cust, had so successfully lived up to his
r61e of the invisible--hecause insignificant--man, that so far no one
had noticed that the same person had been seen in the vicinity of the


TIlE A.B.C. MURDERS


three murders! To your annoyance, even his visit to Combeside had not
been mentioned. The matter had passed completely out of Miss Grey's
head.

"Always daring, you decided that one more murder must take place
but that this time the trail must be well blazed.

"You selected Doncaster for the scene of operations.

"Your plan was very simple. You yourself would be on the scene in
the nature of things. Mr. Cust would be ordered to Doncaster by his
firm. Your plan was to follow him round and trust to opportunity. Ev-erything
fell out well. Mr. Cust went to a cinema. That was simplicity
itself. You sat a few seats away from him. When he got up to go, you
did the same. You pretended to stumble, leaned over and stabbed a
dozing man in the row in front, slid the A.B.C. on to his knees and
managed to collide heavily with Mr. Cust in the darkened doorway,
wiping the knife on his sleeve and slipping it into his pocket.

"You were not in the least at pains to choose a victim whose name
began with D. Any one would do! You assumed--and quite rightly--that
it would be considered to be a mistake. There was sure to be some
one who name began with D not far off in the audience. It would be
assumed that he had been intended to be the victim.

"And now, my friends, let us consider the matter from the point of
view of the false A.B.C.--from the point of view of Mr. Cust.

"The Andover crime means nothing to him. He is shocked and sur-prised
by the Bexhill crime--why, he himself was there about the
time! Then comes the Churston crime and the headlines in the newspa-pers.
An A.B.C. crime at Andover when he was there, an A.B.C. crime
at Bexhill, and now another close by.... Three crimes and he has been
at the scene of each of them. Persons suffering from epilepsy often
have blanks when they cannot remember what they have done .... Re-member
that Cust was a nervous, highly neurotic subject and ex-tremely
suggestible.

"Then he receives the order to go to Doncaster.

"Doncaster! And the next A.B.C. crime is to be in Doncaster. He
must have felt as though it was fate. He loses his nerve, fancies his
landlady is looking at him suspiciously, and tells her he is going to
Cheltenham.

"He goes to Doncaster because it is his duty. In the afternoon he
goes to a cinema. Possibly he dozes off for a minute or two.

"Imagine his feelings when on his return to his inn he discovers that
there is blood on his coat sleeve and a bloodstained knife in his pocket.
All his vague forebodings leap into certainty.


AGATHA CHRISTIE


"He--he himself--is the killer,t He remembers his headaches--his
lapses of memory. He is quite sure of the truth--he, Alexander Bona-parte
Cust, is a homicidal lunatic.

"His conduct after that is the conduct of a hunted animal. He gets
back to his lodgings in London. He is safe there--known. They think
he has been in Cheltenham. He has the knife with him still--a thor-oughly
stupid thing to do, of course. He hides it behind the hall stand.

"Then, one day, he is warned that the police are coming. It is the
end! They know.t

"The hunted animal does his last run ....

"I do not know why he went to Andover--a morbid desire, I think,
to go and look at the place where the crime was committed--the crime
he committed though he can remember nothing about it ....

"He has no money left--he is worn out.., his feet lead him of his
own accord to the police station.

"But even a cornered beast will fight. Mr. Cust fully believes that he
did the murders but he sticks strongly to his plea of innocence. And he
holds with desperation to that alibi for the second murder. At least that
cannot be laid to his door.

"As I say, when I saw him, I knew at once that he was not the mur-derer
and that my name meant nothing to him. I knew too, that he
thought himself the murderer!

"After he had confessed his guilt to me, I knew more strongly than
ever that my own theory was right."

"Your theory," said Franklin Clarke, "is absurd!"

Poirot shook his head.

"No, Mr. Clarke. You were safe enough so long as no one suspected

you. Once you were suspected proofs were easy to obtain."
"Proofs?"

"Yes, I found the stick that you used in the Andover and Churston
murders in a cupboard at Combeside. An ordinary stick with a thick
knob handle. A section of wood had been removed and melted lead
poured in. Your photograph was picked out from half a dozen others by
two people who saw you leaving the cinema when you were supposed
to be on the race-course at Doncaster. You were identified at Bexhill
the other day by Milly Higley and a girl from the Scarlet Runner Road-house,
where you took Betty Barnard to dine on the fatal evening. And
finally--most damning of all--you overlooked a most elementa .ry pre-caution.
You left a fingerprint on Cust's typewriter--the typewriter
that, if you are innocent, you could never have handled."

Clarke sat quite still for a minute, then he said:


I THE A.B.C. MURDERs ]81
"Rouge, impair, manque!--you win, M. Poir But it was worth
[ trying!"
I With an incredibly rapid notion, he whipped : a small automatic
from his pocket and held it to his head.
I gave a cry and involuntarily flinched as I waited for the report.
But no report came--the hammer clicked harmlessly.
Clarke stared at it in astonishment and uttered ap oath.
"No, Mr. Clarke," said Poirot. "You may have oticed I had a new
manservant to-day--a friend of mine--an expert sneak thief. He removed
your pistol from your pocket, unloaded it, and returned it all
without your being aware of the fact."
"You unutterable little jackanapes of a foreigner!" cried Clarke, purple
with rage.
"Yes, yes, that is how you feel. No, Mr. Clarke, no easy death for
you. You told Mr. Cust that you had had near escapes from drowning.
You know what that means-that you were born for another fate."
"OU--"
Words failed him. His face was livid. His fists clenched menacingly.
Two detectives from Scotland Yard emerged from the next room.
One of them was Crome. He advanced and uttered his time-honoured
formula: "I warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence."
"He has said quite enough," said Poirot, and he added to Clarke:
"You are very full of an insular superiority, but for myself I consider
your crime not an English crime at all--not above-board--not sporting--"


I am sorry to relate that as the door closed behind Franklin Clarke I
laughed hysterically.

Poirot looked at me in mild surprise.

"It's because you told him his crime was not sporting," I gasped.
"It was quite true. It was abominable--not so much the murder
his brother--but the cruelty that condemned an unfortunate man to a
living death. To catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go.
That is not le sport!"

Megan Barnard gave a deep sigh.

"I can't believe it--I can't. Is it true?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. The nightmare is over."
She looked at him and her colour deepened.
Poirot turned to Fraser.

"Mademoiselle Megan, all along, was haunted by a fear that it was

you who had committed the second crime."

Donald Fraser said quietly:

"I fancied so myself at one time."

"Because of your dreamT' He drew a little nearer to the young man
and dropped his voice confidentially. "Your dream has a very natural
explanation. It is that you find that already the image of one sister
fades in your memory and that its place is taken by the other sister. Ma-demoiselle
Megan replaces her sister in your heart, but since you can-not
bear to think of yourself being unfaithful so soon to the dead, you


THE A.B.C. MURDERS 183

strive to stifle the thought, to kill it! That is the explanation of the
dream."
Fraser's eyes went toward Megan.
"Do not be afraid to forget," said Poirot gently. "She was not so well
worth remembering. In Mademoiselle Megan you have one in a
hundred--un coeur magnifique!" Donald Fraser's eyes lit up. "I believe you are right."
We all crowded round Poirot asking questions, elucidating this point
and that.
"Those questions, Poirot? That you asked of everybody. Was there
any point in them?"
"Some of them were simplement une blague. But I learnt one thing
that I wanted to know--that Franklin Clarke was in London when the
firt letter was posted--and also I wanted to see his face when I asked
my question of Mademoiselle Thora. He was off his guard. 1 saw all
the malice and anger in his eyes."
"You hardly spared my feelings," said Thora Grey.
"I do not fancy you returned me a truthful answer, mademoiselle,"
said Poirot dryly. "And now your second expectation is disappointed.
Franklin Clarke will not inherit his brother's money."
She flung up her head.
"Is there any need for me to stay here and be insulted?"
"None whatever," said Poirot and held the door open politely for
her.
"That fingerprint clinched things, Poirot," I said thoughtfully. "He
went all to pieces when you mentioned that."
"Yes, they are useful--fingerprints."
He added thoughtfully:
"I put that in to please you, mon ami."
"But, Poirot," I cried, "wasn't it true?"
"Not in the least, mon ami," said Hercule Poirot.
I must mention a visit we had from Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust a
few days later. After wringing Poirot's hand and endeavouring very incoherently
and unsuccessfully to thank him, Mr. Cust drew himself up
and said:
"Do you know, a newspaper has actually offered me a hundred
pounds--a hundred pounds--for a brief account of my life and history.
I--I really don't know what to do about it."
"I should not accept a hundred," said Poirot. "Be firm. Say five hundred
is your price. And do not confine yourself to one newspaper."







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