The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie
“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! You 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—”
“There is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near Andover. 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.”
“Someone who throws his weight about?”
“Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing manner, 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 do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” 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 an 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 means at their disposal for that kind 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 content.
In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discuss the case. When I tried to reopen the subject he waved it aside with an impatient hand.
In my own mind I was afraid that 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, but 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 the 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 weekend. 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 understanding.
“What has come?”
“The second chapter of the A B C business.”
For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really passed from my memory.
“Read,” said Poirot and passed me over the letter.
As before, it was printed on good-quality paper.
Dear Mr. Poirot,—Well, what about it? First game to me, I think. The Andover business went with a swing, didn’t it?
But the fun’s only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea. Date, the 25th inst.
What a merry time we are having! 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’?”
“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 CID, 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—the day after tomorrow—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 victim may be. Speaking fair and square, what steps can we take?”
“A suggestion,” murmured Poirot.
Their faces turned to him.
“I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will begin 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 unfortunate woman who was murdered last month. When I got the letter naming Bexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well as the place might be selected by an alphabetical s
“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 matter 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 sceptically.
“Of course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the special characteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinely appointed 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 succeeding 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 anyone connected with the Ascher business. Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course Ascher himself. If they show any sign of leaving Andover they’ll be followed.”
The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little desultory conversation.
“Poirot,” I said as we walked along by the river. “Surely this crime can be prevented?”
He turned a haggard face to me.
“The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one man? I fear, Hastings—I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper.”
“It’s horrible,” I said.
“Madness, Hastings, is a terrible thing…I am afraid…I am very much afraid….”
Nine
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 shoulder. One glance at his face brought me from semiconsciousness into the 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 today is the 25th.”
“It took place last night—or rather in the early hours of this morning.”
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 Bexhill. She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of the cafés, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11:30 and 1 am.”
“They’re quite sure that this is the crime?” I asked, as I hastily lathered my face.
“An A B C open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body.”
I shivered.
“This is horrible!”
“Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy in my rooms!”
I wiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully.
“What is our plan of campaign?” I asked.
“The car will call for us in a few moments’ time. I will bring you a 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 case, but I thought that he was just a little too aware of the fact himself. His manner to Poirot was a shade patronising. He deferred to him as a 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 a 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?”
“She was twenty-three years of age, engaged as a waitress at the Ginger Cat café—”
“Pas ça. 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 same!”
A faint look of amusement came into Poirot’s eyes.
“It does not seem to you important, that? Yet, pour une femme, it is of the first importance. Often it decides her destiny!”
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 hallmark 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. I left them to recover a bit before questioning them, so you can start from the beginning there.”
“There are
“There’s a sister—a typist in London. She’s been communicated with. And there’s a young man—in fact, the girl 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’ve tried all the likely stationers.”
“Who discovered the body, sir?”
“One of these fresh-air, early-morning colonels. Colonel Jerome. He was out with his dog about 6 am. 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 immediately.”
“And the time of death was round about midnight last night?”
“Between midnight and 1 am—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. Everyone who saw a girl in white walking with a man last night will be along to tell us about it soon, and as I imagine there were about four or five hundred girls in 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 café 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.