Агата Кристи - The A B C Murders / Убийство по алфавиту. Книга для чтения на английском языке

He nodded his head gravely several times.

‘And so, naturally, you were afraid…’

‘I didn’t think he’d actually done it—not for a minute! But I was afraid it might be brought up—the quarrel and all that he’d said—several people knew about it.’

Again Poirot nodded his head gravely.

‘Just so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egoistical vanity of a killer, that is just what would have happened. If Donald Fraser escapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A В C’s maniacal boasting.’

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

‘Do you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man, lately?’

Megan shook her head.

‘I don’t know. I’ve been away, you see.’

‘But what do you think?’

‘She mayn’t have met that particular man again. He’d probably sheer off if he thought there was a chance of a row, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Betty had—well, been telling Don a few lies again. You see, she did so enjoy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Don couldn’t afford to take her all the time.’

‘If so, is she likely to have confided in anyone? The girl at the café, for instance?’

‘I don’t think that’s likely. Betty couldn’t bear the Higley girl. She thought her common. And the others would be new. Betty wasn’t the confiding sort anyway.’

An electric bell trilled sharply above the girl’s head.

She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her head sharply.

‘It’s Don…’

‘Bring him in here,’ said Poirot quickly. ‘I would like a word with him before our good inspector takes him in hand.’

Like a flash Megan Barnard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand.

I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed how great a shock he had had.

He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing close on six foot [153] standing close on six foot – под два метра ростом , not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled face, high cheek-bones and flaming red hair.

‘What’s this, Megan?’ he said. ‘Why in here? For God’s sake, tell me—I’ve only just heard—Betty…’

His voice trailed away.

Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it. My friend then extracted a small flask from his pocket, poured some of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said:

‘Drink some of this, Mr Fraser. It will do you good.’

The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a little colour back into his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled.

‘It’s true, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Betty is—dead—killed?’

‘It’s true, Don.’

He said as though mechanically:

‘Have you just come down from London?’

‘Yes. Dad phoned me.’

‘By the 9.30, I suppose?’ said Donald Fraser.

His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details.

‘Yes.’

There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said:

‘The police? Are they doing anything?’

‘They’re upstairs now. Looking through Betty’s things, I suppose.’

‘They’ve no idea who —? They don’t know —?’

He stopped.

He had all a sensitive, shy person’s dislike of putting violent facts into words.

Poirot moved forward a little and asked a question. He spoke in a businesslike, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail.

‘Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?’

Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically:

‘She told me she was going with a girl friend to St Leonards.’

‘Did you believe her?’

‘I —’ Suddenly the automaton came to life. ‘What the devil do you mean?’

His face then, menacing, convulsed by sudden passion, made me understand that a girl might well be afraid of rousing his anger.

Poirot said crisply:

‘Betty Barnard was killed by a homicidal murderer. Only by speaking the exact truth can you help us to get on his track.’

His glance for a minute turned to Megan.

‘That’s right, Don,’ she said. ‘It isn’t a time for considering one’s own feelings or anyone else’s. You’ve got to come clean.’

Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot.

‘Who are you? You don’t belong to the police?’

‘I am better than the police,’ said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact.

‘Tell him,’ said Megan.

Donald Fraser capitulated.

‘I—wasn’t sure,’ he said. ‘I believed her when she said it. Never thought of doing anything else. Afterwards—perhaps it was something in her manner. I—I, well, I began to wonder.’

‘Yes?’ said Poirot.

He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the other man’s, seemed to be exercising a mesmeric spell.

‘I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But—but I was suspicious… I thought of going to the front and watching her when she left the cafe. I actually went there. Then I felt I couldn’t do that. Betty would see me and she’d be angry. She’d realize at once that I was watching her.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I went over to St Leonards. Got over there by eight o’clock. Then I watched the buses—to see if she were in them… But there was no sign of her…’

‘And then?’

‘I—I lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I thought it probable he had taken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there—looked in hotels and restaurants, hung round cinemas—went on the pier. All damn foolishness. Even if she was there I was unlikely to find her, and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might have taken her to instead of Hastings.’

He stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of that blind, bewildering misery and anger that had possessed him at the time he described.

‘In the end I gave it up—came back.’

‘At what time?’

‘I don’t know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when I got home.’

‘Then —’

The kitchen door opened.

‘Oh, there you are,’ said Inspector Kelsey.

Inspector Crome pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at the two strangers.

‘Miss Megan Barnard and Mr Donald Fraser,’ said Poirot, introducing them.

‘This is Inspector Crome from London,’ he explained.

Turning to the inspector, he said:

‘While you pursued your investigations upstairs I have been conversing with Miss Barnard and Mr Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find something that will throw light upon the matter.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon the two newcomers.

Poirot retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly as he passed:

‘Get anything?’

But his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for a reply.

I joined Poirot in the hall.

‘Did anything strike you, Poirot?’ I inquired.

‘Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings.’

I had not the courage to say that I had not the least idea what he meant.

Conferences!

Much of my memories of the ABC case seem to be of conferences.

Conferences at Scotland Yard. At Poirot’s rooms. Official conferences. Unofficial conferences.

This particular conference was to decide whether or not the facts relative to the anonymous letters should or should not be made public in the press.