Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

Poirot's air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a queer air of grateful obedience.

"You think so?"

"Parbleu, I am sure of it."

"M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?"

It was the last thing I had expected him to say. Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised.

"I do," he replied. "You have been dreaming—?"

"Yes. I suppose you'll say it's only natural that I should—should dream about it. But it isn't an ordinary dream."

"No?"

"I've dreamed it now three nights running, sir . . . . I think I'm going mad . . . ."

"Tell me—"

The man's face was livid. His eyes were starting out of his head. As a matter of fact, he looked mad.

"It's always the same. I'm on the beach. Looking for Betty. She's lost—only lost, you understand. I've got to find her. I've got to give her her belt. I'm carrying it in my hand. And then—"

"Yes?"

"The dream changes . . . I'm not looking anymore. She's there in front of me—sitting on the beach. She doesn't see me coming— Oh—oh, I can't—"

"Go on." Poirot's voice was authoritative—firm.

"I come up behind her . . . she doesn't hear me . . . I slip the belt around her neck and pull—oh—pull—"

The agony in his voice was frightful . . . I gripped the arms of my chair . . . . The thing was too real.

"She's choking . . . she's dead . . . I've strangled her—and then her [unclear] falls back and I see her face, and it's Megan—not Betty!"

He leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of wine and passed it over to him.

"What's the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Every night . . . ?"

"Drink up your wine," ordered Poirot.

The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice: "What does it mean? I—I didn't kill her, did I?"

What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I heard the postman's knock and automatically I left the room.

What I took out of the letterbox banished all my interest in Donald Fraser's extraordinary revelations.

I raced back into the sitting room.

"Poirot," I cried. "It's come. The fourth letter."

He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper knife and slit it open. He spread it out on the table.

The three of us read it together.

Still no success? Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing? Well, well, isn't this fun? And where shall we go next for honey?

Poor Mr. Poirot. I'm quite sorry for you.

If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again. We've a long way to go still.

Tipperary? No—that comes farther on. Letter T. The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11 th.

So long.

It was at this moment, I think, that what Poirot called the human element began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind being unable to stand unadulterated horror, we had had an interval of normal human interests . . . .

We had, one and all, felt the impossibility of [garbled] fourth letter should come revealing the [garbled].

That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of tension.

But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper, the hunt was up once more.

Inspector Crome had come round from the Yard, and while he was still there, Franklin Clarke and Megan Barnard came in.

The girl explained that she, too, had come up from Bexhill.

"I wanted to ask Mr. Clarke something." She went to explain her procedure.

She seemed rather anxious to excuse [missing] and I just noted the fact without attaching much importance to it.

The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.

Crome was not, I think, any too pleased—[garbled] in the drama. He became extremely oft [missing].

"I'll take this with me, M. Poirot. If you care to make a copy [missing]."

"No, no, it is not necessary."

"What are your plans, inspector?" asked Clarke.

"Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr. Clarke."

"This time we've got to get him," said Clarke. "I may tell you, inspector, that we've formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties."

Inspector Crome said in his best manner: "Oh, yes?"

"I gather you don't think much of amateurs, inspector?"

"You've hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr. Clarke?"

"We've got a personal axe to grind—and that's something."

"Oh, yes?"

"I fancy your own task isn't going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old A.B.C. has done you again."

Crome, I had noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed.

"I don't fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time," he said. "The fool has given us ample warning this time. The 11 thisn't till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard—that's so much to the good. Also, we'll draft the police into the town on a fairly large scale. That's already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man—and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!"

Clarke said quietly: "It's easy to see you're not a sporting man, inspector."

Crome stared at him. "What do you mean, Mr. Clarke?"

"Man alive, don't you realize that on next Wednesday the St. Leger is being run at Doncaster?"

The inspector's jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar "Oh, yes?" Instead he said: "That's true. Yes, that complicates matters—"

"A.B.C. is no fool, even if he is a madman."

We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the racecourse—the passionate, sport-loving English public—the endless complications.

Poirot murmured: "C'est ingenieux. Tout de [unclear] c'est bien imaginé, ca."

"It's my belief," said Clarke, "that the murder will take place on the racecourse—perhaps actually while the Leger is being run."

For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought . . . .

Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him. "The St. Leger is a complication," he allowed. "It's unfortunate."

He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered.

She said anxiously: "The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?"

It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her golden head.

It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer.

"Doncaster—and on the day of the St. Leger."

We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated the plans we had made tentatively beforehand.

A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes do?

As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest.

"Mes enfants," he said, "we must not disperse the strength. We must approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts. We must look within and not without for the truth. We must say to ourselves—each one of us—what do I know about the murderer? And so we must build up a composite picture of the man we are going to seek."