Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

"There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can't remember any of them."

"Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye notices mechanically—unintelligently but accurately . . ."

The young man repeated doggedly: "I don't remember anybody."

Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower. "I suppose you got letters from your aunt?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"When was the last?"

Mary thought a minute. "Two days before the murder, sir."

"What did it say?"

"She said the old devil had been round and that she'd sent him off with a flea in the ear—excuse the expression, sir—said she expected me over on the Wednesday—that's my day out, sir—and she said we'd go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir."

Something—the thought of the little festivity perhaps, suddenly brought tears to Mary's eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it.

"You must forgive me, sir. I don't want to be silly. Crying's no good. It was just the thought of her—and me—looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir."

"I know just what you feel like," said Franklin Clarke. "It's always the little things that get one—and especially anything like a treat or a present—something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run over once. She'd just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there—and the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out—it gave me a turn—they looked so pathetic."

Megan said with a sudden eager warmth: "That's true—that's awfully true. The same thing happened after Betty died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present—bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: 'I bought them for Betty—I bought them for Betty—and she never even saw them.'"

Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy—a fraternity in trouble.

"I know," he said. "I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things that are hell to remember."

Donald Fraser stirred uneasily.

Thora Grey diverted the conversation. "Aren't we going to make any plans—for the future?" she asked.

"Of course." Franklin Clarke resumed his ordinary manner. "I think that when the moment comes—that is, when the fourth letter arrives—we ought to join forces. Until then, perhaps we might each try our luck on our own. I don't know whether there are any points M. Poirot thinks might repay investigation?"

"I could make some suggestions," said Poirot.

"Good. I'll take them down." He produced a notebook. "Go ahead, M. Poirot. A—?"

"I consider it just possible that the waitress, Milly Higley, might know something useful."

"A—Milly Higley," wrote down Franklin Clarke.

"I suggest two methods of approach. You, Miss Barnard, might try what I call the offensive approach."

"I suppose you think that suits my style?" said Megan dryly.

"Pick a quarrel with the girl—say you knew she never liked your sister—and that your sister had told you all about her. If I do not err, that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tell you just what she thought of your sister! Some useful fact may emerge."

"And the second method?"

"May I suggest, Mr. Fraser, that you should show signs of interest in the girl?"

"Is that necessary?"

"No, it is not necessary. It is just a possible line of exploration."

"Shall I try my hand?" asked Franklin. "I've—er—a pretty wide experience, M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady."

"You've got your own part of the world to attend to," said Thora Grey rather sharply.

Franklin's face fell just a little. "Yes," he said. "I have."

"Tout de [garbled], I do not think there is much you can do down there for the present," said Poirot. "Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more fitted—"

Thora Grey interrupted him. "But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good."

"Ah? I did not understand."

"Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things," said Franklin. "But naturally she prefers a post in London."

Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other.

"How is Lady Clarke?" he demanded.

I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey's cheeks and almost missed Clarke's reply.

"Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down to Devon and paying her a visit? She expressed a desire to see you before I left. Of course, she often can't see people for a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that—at my expense, of course."

"Certainly, Mr. Clarke. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?"

"Good. I'll let nurse know and she'll arrange the dope accordingly."

"For you, my child," said Poirot, turning to Mary, "I think you might perhaps do good work in Andover. Try the children."

"The children?"

"Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known in the street where your aunt lived. There were a good many children playing about. They may have noticed who went in and out of your aunt's shop."

"What about Miss Grey and myself?" asked Clarke. "That is, if I'm not to go to Bexhill."

"M. Poirot," said Thora Grey. "What was the postmark on the third letter?"

"Putney, mademoiselle."

She said thoughtfully: "S.W.15, Putney, that is right, is it not?"

"For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly."

"That seems to point to A.B.C. being a Londoner."

"On the face of it, yes."

"One ought to be able to draw him," said Clarke. "M. Poirot, how would it be if I inserted an advertisement—something after these lines: A.B.C.. Urgent. H.P. close on your track. A hundred for my silence. X.Y.Z.. Nothing quite so crude as that—but you see the idea. It might draw him."

"It is a possibility, yes."

"Might induce him to try and have a shot at me."

"I think it's very dangerous and silly," said Thora Grey sharply.

"What about it, M. Poirot?"

"It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A.B.C. will be too cunning to reply." Poirot smiled a little. "I see, Mr. Clarke, that you are—if I may say so without being offensive—still a boy at heart."

Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed. "Well," he said, consulting his notebook, "we're making a start:

A.—Miss Barnard and Milly Higley.

B.—Mr. Fraser and Miss Higley.

C.—Children in Andover.

D.—Advertisement.

I don't feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting."

He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed.

Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself. "Unfortunate that she is so intelligent," he murmured.

"Who?"

"Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. 'Words,' she snaps out. At once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken in."

"I thought it sounded very plausible."

"Plausible, yes. It was just that that she perceived."

"Didn't you mean what you said, then?"

"What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad lib without anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact."

"But why?"

"Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work to be done! To start—shall we say—conversations!"

"Don't you think any of these lines will lead to anything?"

"Oh, it is always possible."

He chuckled. "In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?"

"What do you mean?"

"The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences—tout [unreadable] part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together two people who loved one another by the simple method of having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings. Murder, I have often noticed, is a great matchmaker."