Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

"Who it is?"

"No, Hastings, I shall not know his name and address! I shall know what kind of man he is."

"And then?"

"Et alors, je vais a la police."

As I looked rather bewildered, he went on: "You comprehend, Hastings, an expert fisherman knows exactly what flies to offer to what fish. I shall offer the right kind of fly."

"And then?"

"And then? And then? You are as bad as the superior Crome with his eternal, 'Oh, yes?' Eh bien, and then he will take the bait and the hook and we will reel in the line . . . ."

"In the meantime people are dying right and left."

"Three people. And there are, what is it—about 140 road deaths every week?"

"That is entirely different."

"It is probably exactly the same to those who die. For the others, the relations, the friends—yes, there is a difference, but one thing at least rejoices me in this case."

"By all means let us hear anything in the nature of rejoicing."

"Inutile to be so sarcastic. It rejoices me that there is here no shade of guilt to distress the innocent."

"Isn't this worse?"

"No, no, a thousand times no! There is nothing so terrible as to be in an atmosphere of suspicion—to see eyes watching you and the look in them changing to fear—nothing so terrible as to suspect those near and dear to you . . . It is poisonous—a miasma. No, the poisoning life for the innocent, that, at least, we cannot lay at A.B.C.'s door."

"You'll soon be making excuses for the man!" I said bitterly.

"Why not? He may believe himself fully justified. We may, perhaps end by having sympathy with his point of view."

"Really, Poirot!"

"Alas! I have shocked you. First my inertia—and then my views."

I shook my head without replying.

"All the same," said Poirot after a minute or two, "I have one project that will please you—since it is active and not passive. Also, it will entail a lot of conversation and practically no thought."

I did not quite like his tone. "What is it?" I asked cautiously.

"The extraction from the friends, relations, and servants of the victims of all they know."

"Do you suspect them of keeping things back, then?"

"Not intentionally. But telling everything you know always implies selection. If I were to say to you, recount me your day yesterday, you would perhaps reply: 'I rose at nine, I breakfasted at half-past, I had eggs and bacon and coffee, I went to my club, etc..' You would not include: 'I tore my nail and had to cut it. I rang for shaving water. I spilt a little coffee on the tablecloth. I brushed my hat and put it on.' One cannot tell everything. Therefore one selects. At the time of a murder people select what they think is important. But quite frequently they think wrong!"

"And how is one to get at the right things?"

"Simply, as I said just now, by conversation. By talking! By discussing a certain happening, or a certain person, or a certain day, over and over again, extra details are bound to arise."

"What kind of details?"

"Naturally that I do not know or I should not want to find out! Enough time has passed now for ordinary things to reassume their value. It is against all mathematical laws that in three cases of murder there is no single fact or sentence with a bearing on the case. Some trivial happening, some trivial remark there must be which would be a pointer! It is looking for the needle in the haystack, I grant—but in the haystack there is a needle—of that I am convinced!"

It seemed to me extremely vague and hazy.

"You do not see it? Your wits are not so sharp as those of a mere servant girl."

He tossed me over a letter. It was neatly written in a sloping board-school hand.

DEAR SIR—I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in writing to you. I have been thinking a lot since these awful two murders like poor Auntie. It seems as though we're all in the same boat, as it were. I saw the young lady pictured in the paper, the young lady, I mean, that is the sister of the young lady that was killed at Bexhill. I made so bold as to write to her and tell her I was coming to London to get a place and asked if I could come to her or her mother as I said two heads might be better than one and I would not want much wages, but only to find out who this awful fiend is and perhaps we might get at it better if we could say what we knew something might come of it.

The young lady wrote very nicely and said as how she worked in an office and lived in a hotel, but she suggested I might write to you and she said she'd been thinking something of the same kind as I had. And she said we were in the same trouble and we ought to stand together. So I am writing, sir, to say I am coming to London and this is my address.

Hoping I am not troubling you,

Yours respectfully,

"Mary Drower," said Poirot, "is a very intelligent girl."

He picked up another letter. "Read this."

It was a line from Franklin Clarke, saying that he was coming to London and would call upon Poirot the following day if not inconvenient.

"Do not despair, mon ami," said Poirot. "Action is about to begin."

Franklin Clarke arrived at three o'clock on the following afternoon and came straight to the point without beating about the bush.

"M. Poirot," he said, "I'm not satisfied."

"No, Mr. Clarke?"

"I've no doubt that Crome is a very efficient officer, but frankly, he puts my back up. That air of his of knowing best! I hinted something of what I had in mind to your friend here when he was down at Churston, but I've had all my brother's affairs to settle up and I haven't been free until now. My idea is, M. Poirot, that we oughtn't to let the grass grow under our feet—"

"Just what Hastings is always saying!"

"—but go right ahead. We've got to get ready for the next crime."

"So you think there will be a next crime?"

"Don't you?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, then. I want to get organized."

"Tell me your idea exactly."

"I propose, M. Poirot, a kind of special legion to work under your orders—composed of the friends and relatives of the murdered people.''

"Une bonne idée."

"I'm glad you approve. By putting our heads together I feel we might get at something. Also, when the next warning comes, by being on the spot, one of us might—I don't say it's probable—but we might recognize some person as having been near the scene of a previous crime."

"I see your idea, and I approve, but you must remember, Mr. Franklin, the relations and friends of the other victims are hardly in your sphere of life. They are employed persons and though they might be given a short vacation—"

Franklin Clarke interrupted. "That's just it. I'm the only person in a position to foot the bill. Not that I'm particularly well off myself, but my brother died a rich man and it will eventually come to me. I propose, as I say, to enroll a special legion, the members to be paid for their services at the same rate as they get habitually, with, of course, the additional expenses."

"Who do you propose should form this legion?"

"I've been into that. As a matter of fact, I wrote to Miss Megan Barnard—indeed, this is partly her idea. I suggest myself, Miss Barnard, Mr. Donald Fraser, who was engaged to the dead girl. Then there is a niece of the Andover woman—Miss Barnard knows her address. I don't think the husband would be of any use to us—I hear he's usually drunk. I also think the Barnards—the father and mother—are a bit old for active campaigning."

"Nobody else?"

"Well—er—Miss Grey."

He flushed slightly as he spoke the name.

"Oh! Miss Grey?"

Nobody in the world could put a gentle nuance of irony into a couple of words better than Poirot. About thirty-five years fell away from Franklin Clarke. He looked suddenly like a shy schoolboy.