The A.B.C. Murders hp-12 Read online

  "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 it's an easy one.

  Churston on the 30th. Do try and do something about it. It's a bit dull having it all my own way, you know.

  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? Today 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 scrawled: "Not known at Whitehorse Mansions, E.C.1, nor at Whitehorse Court—try Whitehaven Mansions."

  "Mon Dieu!" murmured Poirot. "Does even chance aid this madman? Quite, quite—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 trunk 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 shelf.

  "Churston, 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 tonight or tomorrow 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 la?"

  "I was packing for you. I thought it would save time."

  "Vous prouvez trop d'emotion, 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 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. Someone from Scotland Yard would meet us there.

  When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was Inspector 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, swearing softly under his breath. "Of all the damned luck. The stars in their courses fight for the fellow.''

  "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 ingenieux ca.'' 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 something.

  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: "It's about as bad as it can be. Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found with his head bashed in."

  Sir Carmichael Clarke, 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 very 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 porcelain. A few years later, inheriting a considerable fortune from an elderly uncle, he had been able to indulge his passion to the full, and he 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 had the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen—"

  He made an impatie
nt gesture. "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 someone near and dear to you—someone 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 someone 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."

  XV. 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 A.M.. 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 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."

  "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. 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 worried 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 incurable 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.'' said Poirot.

  "What is that?"

  "A fact that repeats itself. 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 everyone 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?"

  "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 Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on foot. Broadsands, which is down there [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 ca
me up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?"

  "Not that I know of—but we'll ask Deveril."

  He rang the bell and put the question to the butler.

  "No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn't notice anyone 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 eyes—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?" she asked as she sat down.

  Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food.

  "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.?" She shook her head. "No, I'm sure he didn't."

  "He didn't mention having seen anyone 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 everyone 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."