The A.B.C. Murders

  “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?”

  “Ça, oui,” said Poirot. “There is an alphabetical complex. But why 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 anyone 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 the murderer 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 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.

  “Have 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 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 madman 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.”

  “The magnanimous murderer,” said Poirot.

  “What’s that you say?”

  “I said—the magnanimous murderer! Franz Ascher would have been arrested for the murder of his wife—Donald Fraser might have been arrested for the murder of Betty Barnard—if it had not been for the warning letters of A B C. Is he, then, so soft-hearted 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 explanation 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 till 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 everyone whose name begins with C on their 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.

  Fourteen

  THE THIRD LETTER

  I well remember the 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 campaign 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 succeeded each other we had all grown more and more on edge. Inspector Crome’s aloof and superior manner grew more and more aloof and superior as one by one his more hopeful clues petered out. The vague descriptions of men said to have been seen with Betty Barnard proved useless. Various cars noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill and Cooden were either accounted for or could not be traced. The investigation of purchases of A B C railway guides caused inconvenience and trouble to heaps of innocent people.

  As for ourselves, 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.

  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 with 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 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.”
br />   “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 realise? 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, EC1, nor at Whitehorse Court—try Whitehaven Mansions.”

  “Mon Dieu!” murmured Poirot. “Does even chance aid this madman? Vite—vite—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 204¾ miles. Population 656. 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 6:8 am, and then 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 while 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 là?”

  “I was packing for you. I thought it would save time.”

  “Vous éprouvez trop d’émotion, 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 ingénieux, ça!” 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 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 for 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 to 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 read the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen….”

  He made an impatient 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 stran
gers 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.”

  Fifteen

  SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE

  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 had 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.