Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

"You didn't hear anything? A cry? Or a groan?"

Mr. Leadbetter had heard nothing but the loud, hoarse accents of Katherine Royal, but in the vividness of his imagination he invented a groan.

Inspector Crome took the groan at its face value and bade him proceed. "And then he went out—"

"Can you describe him?"

"He was a very big man. Six foot at least. A giant."

"Fair or dark?"

"I—well—I'm not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking fellow."

"He didn't limp, did he?" asked Inspector Crome.

"Yes—yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste."

"Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?"

"No. He came in after the big picture began."

Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr. Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him.

"That's about as bad a witness as you'll find," he remarked pessimistically. "He'd say anything with a little leading. It's perfectly clear that he hasn't the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let's have the commissionaire back."

The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson.

"Now, then, Jameson, let's hear your story."

Jameson saluted. "Yes, sir. Close of the performance, sir, I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman's coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead—stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an A.B.C. railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred."

"Very good, Jameson, you acted very properly."

"Thank you, sir."

"Did you notice a man leaving the two and fourpennies about five minutes earlier?"

"There were several, sir."

"Could you describe them?"

"Afraid not, sir. One was Mr. Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn't notice anybody else particular."

"A pity. That'll do, Jameson."

"Yes, sir."

The commissionaire saluted and departed.

"The medical details we've got," said Colonel Anderson. "We'd better have the fellow that found him next."

A police constable came in and saluted.

"Mr. Hercule Poirot's here, sir, and another gentleman."

Inspector Crome frowned. "Oh, well," he said. "Better have 'em in, I suppose."

Coming in hard on Poirot's heels, I just caught he fag end of Inspector Crome's remark.

Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried and pressed.

Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the head. "Glad you've come, Mr. Poirot," he said politely. I think he guessed that Crome's remark might have reached our ears. "We've got it in the neck again, you see."

"Another A.B.C. murder?"

"Yes. Damned audacious bit of work. Man leaned over and stabbed the fellow in the back."

"Stabbed this time?"

"Yes, varies his methods a bit, doesn't he? Biff on the head, strangling, now a knife. Versatile devil—what? Here are the medical details if you care to see 'em."

He shoved a paper towards Poirot.

"A.B.C. down on the floor between the dead man's feet," he added.

"Has the dead man been identified?" asked Poirot.

"Yes. A.B.C.'s slipped up for once—if that's any satisfaction to us. Deceased's a man called Earlsfield—George Earlsfield. Barber by profession."

"Curious," commented Poirot.

"May have skipped a letter," suggested the Colonel.

My friend shook his head doubtfully.

"Shall we have in the next witness?" asked Crome. "He's anxious to get home."

"Yes, yes—let's get on."

A middle-aged gentleman strongly resembling the frog footman in Alice in Wonderland was led in. He was highly excited and his voice was shrill with emotion.

"Most shocking experience I have ever known," he squeaked. "I have a weak heart, sir—a very weak heart; it might have been the death of me."

"Your name, please," said the inspector.

"Downes. Roger Emmanuel Downes."

"Profession?"

"I am a master at Highfield School for boys."

"Now, Mr. Downes, will you tell us in your own words what happened?"

"I can tell you that very shortly, gentlemen. At the close of the performance I rose from my seat. The seat on my left was empty but in the one beyond a man was sitting, apparently asleep. I was unable to pass him to get out as his legs were stuck out in front of him. I asked him to allow me to pass. As he did not move I repeated my request in—a—er—slightly louder tone. He still made no response. I then took him by the shoulder to waken him. His body slumped down further and I came aware that he was either unconscious or seriously ill. I called out: 'This gentleman is taken ill. Fetch the commissionaire.' The commissionaire came. As I took my hand from the man's shoulder I found it was wet and red . . . . I realized that the man had been stabbed. At the same moment the commissionaire noticed the A.B.C. railway guide . . . . I can assure you, gentlemen, the shock was terrific! Anything might have happened! For years I have suffered from cardiac weakness—"

Colonel Anderson was looking at Mr. Downes with a very curious expression.

"You can consider that you're a lucky man, Mr. Downes."

"I do, sir. Not even a palpitation!"

"You don't quite take my meaning, Mr. Downes. You were sitting two seats away, you say?"

"Actually I was sitting at first in the next seat to the murdered man—then I moved along so as to be behind an empty seat."

"You're about the same height and build as the dead man, are you, and you were wearing a woollen scarf round your neck just as he was?"

"I fail to see—" began Mr. Downes stiffly.

"I'm telling you, man," said Colonel Anderson, "just where your luck came in. Somehow or other, when the murderer followed you in, he got confused. He picked on the wrong back. I'll eat my hat, Mr. Downes, if that knife wasn't meant for you!"

However well Mr. Downes' heart had stood former tests, it was unable to stand up to this one. Mr. Downes sank on a chair, gasped, and turned purple in the face.

"Water," he gasped. "Water . . . ."

A glass was brought him. He sipped it whilst his complexion gradually returned to normal.

"Me?" he said. "Why me?"

"It looks like it," said Crome. "In fact, it's the only explanation."

"You mean that this man—this—this fiend incarnate—this bloodthirsty madman has been following me about waiting for an opportunity?''

"I should say that was the way of it."

"But in heaven's name, why me?" demanded the outraged schoolmaster.

Inspector Crome struggled with the temptation to reply: "Why not?" and said instead: "I'm afraid it's no good expecting a lunatic to have reasons for what he does."

"God bless my soul," said Mr. Downes, sobered into whispering. He got up. He looked suddenly old and shaken.

"If you don't want me anymore, gentlemen, I think I'll go home. I—I don't feel very well."

"That's quite all right, Mr. Downes. I'll send a constable with you—just to see you're all right."

"Oh, no—no, thank you. That's not necessary."

"Might as well," said Colonel Anderson gruffly. His eyes slid sideways, asking an imperceptible question of the inspector.

The latter gave an equally imperceptible nod.

Mr. Downes went out shakily.

"Just as well he didn't tumble to it," said Colonel Anderson.

"There'll be a couple of them—eh?"

"Yes, sir. Your Inspector Rice has made arrangements. The house will be watched."