The ABC Murders Read online

  “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 it—reread a book of E. Nesbit’s that I used to love as a kid. Then the telephone rang—”

  “No further. Now reflect, Mr. Clarke, did you meet anyone 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?”

  “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 café—and we laughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the café…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.

  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 café on the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember anyone 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 off 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 the 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.’”

  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 experience, 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 même, 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.

  “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 I’m not to go to Bexhill.”

  “M. Poirot,” said Thora Grey, “what was the postmark on the third letter?”

  “Putney, mademoiselle.”

  She said thoughtfully: “SW15, 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 possibility—yes.”

  “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 cunning 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—Advertisement.

  “I don’t feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting.”

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

  Nineteen

  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. Everybody else was taken.”

  “I thought it sounded very plausible.”

  “Plausible, yes. It was just that she perceived.”

  “Didn’t you mean what you said, then?”

  “What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad lib without anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact.”

  “But why?”

  “Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work to be done! To start—shall we say—the conversations!”

  “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. Immediately a second drama commences—tout à fait à part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together 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 people 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 that tune told me your thoughts.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme ça,” 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 brunette!”

  “Really, Poirot,” I cried, blushing slightly.

  “C’est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in 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. Donald 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.

  “It is just this, M. 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 girl.”

  “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 cl
othes. That crêpe marocain and the silver 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 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!”

  Twenty

  LADY CLARKE

  There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside when we saw it again for the second time. This may, perhaps, have been partly due to the weather—it was a moist September day with a hint of autumn in the air, and partly, no doubt, it was the semi-shut-up state of the house. The downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered, and the small room into which we were shown smelt damp and airless.

  A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling down 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 at all bad 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 new 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?”

  “Oh, we never actually say that,” said Nurse Capstick, a little shocked by this plain speaking.