The A.B.C. Murders Read online

  “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 was afraid that he might—chuck her altogether. And that would have been a pity. He’s a very steady and hard-working man and would have made her a good husband.”

  Poirot continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glance but returned it with one of her own equally steady and with something else in it—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.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door.

  “Well,” she said. “I’ve done what I could to help you.”

  Poirot’s voice arrested her.

  “Wait, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back.”

  Rather unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed.

  Somewhat to my surprise, Poirot plunged into the whole story of the A B C letters, the murder of Andover, and the railway guide found by the bodies.

  He had no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Her lips parted, her eyes gleaming, she hung on his words.

  “Is this all true, M. Poirot?”

  “Yes, it is true.”

  “You really mean that 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 anyone.”

  “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 person—a 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 wasn’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 tongue 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.”

  “When was this?”

  “There was one row nearly a year ago and another—a worse one—just over a month ago. I was home for the weekend—and I got them to patch it up again, and it was then 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 egoistical 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 anyone? The girl at the café, for instance?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely. Betty couldn’t bear the Higley girl. She 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 Barnard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand.

  Twelve

  DONALD FRASER

  I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered 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 cheek-bones 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 manner 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 9:30, I suppose?” said Donald Fraser.

  His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details.

  “Yes.”

  There was silence fo
r 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 businesslike, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant 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 anyone 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 suspicious…I thought of going to the front and watching her when she left the café. 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 I 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?”

  “I—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 I 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.

  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 meant.

  Thirteen

  A CONFERENCE

  Conferences!

  Much of my memories of the A B C case seem to be of conferences.

  Conferences at Scotland Yard. At Poirot’s rooms. Official conferences. 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 Andover one.

  It had, of course, far more elements of popularity. To begin with the victim was a young and good-looking girl. 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 attention. 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 Commissioner. “The thing is—which way will give us the best results? Shall we give the public the facts—enlist their cooperation—after all, it’ll be the cooperation 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 suppose 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 letters. Eh, Crome, what’s your opinion?”

  “I look at it this way, sir. If you make it public, you’re playing A B C’s 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 balking him. Refusing him the publicity he’s hankering 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 warning…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 reaction?”

  “Same answer. One way you feed his megalomania, the other you balk 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 l
ooked across at Poirot.

  “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. Crome, 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 F.”

  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 A B C brings a crime off, his self-confidence increases about a hundred per cent. Every time he feels ‘I’m clever—they can’t catch me!’ he becomes so over-weeningly confident that he also becomes careless. He exaggerates his own cleverness and everyone else’s stupidity. Very soon he’d 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 on the evening of the 24th 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. They say she was there about 9 pm on the 24th with a man 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.”