The A.B.C. Murders hp-12

by Agatha Christie

  The Andover business went with a swing, didn't it? But the fun is only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea, the 25th inst.. What a merry time we are having.

  Yours, etc.,

  A.B.C.

  "Good God, Poirot," I cried. "Does this mean that this fiend is going to attempt another crime?"

  "Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think that the Andover business was an isolated case? Do you not remember my saying: 'This is the beginning.'?"

  "But this is horrible!"

  "Yes, it is horrible."

  "We're up against a homicidal maniac."

  "Yes."

  His quietness was more impressive than any heroics could have been. I handed back the letter with a shudder.

  The following morning saw us at a conference of powers. The Chief Constable of Sussex, the Assistant Commissioner of the C.I.D., Inspector Glen from Andover, Superintendent Carter of the Sussex police, Japp and a younger inspector called Crome, and Dr. Thompson, the famous alienist, were all assembled together. The postmark on this letter was Hampstead, but in Poirot's opinion little importance could be attached to this fact.

  The matter was discussed fully. Dr. Thompson was a pleasant middle-aged man who, in spite of his learning, contented himself with homely language, avoiding the technicalities of his profession.

  "There's no doubt," said the Assistant Commissioner, "that the two letters are in the same hand. Both were written by the same person."

  "And we can fairly assume that that person was responsible for the Andover murder."

  "Quite. We've now got definite warning of a second crime scheduled to take place on the 25th—tomorrow—at Bexhill. What steps can be taken?"

  The Sussex Chief Constable looked at his superintendent. "Well, Carter, what about it?"

  The superintendent shook his head gravely. "It's difficult, sir. There's not the least clue towards whom the victim may he. Speaking fair and square, what steps can we take?"

  "A suggestion," murmured Poirot.

  Their faces turned to him.

  "I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will begin with the letter B."

  "That would be something," said the superintendent doubtfully.

  "An alphabetical complex," said Dr. Thompson thoughtfully.

  "I suggest it as a possibility—no more. It came into my mind when I saw the name Ascher clearly written over the shop door of the unfortunate woman who was murdered last month. When I got the letter naming Bexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well as the place might be selected by an alphabetical system."

  "It's possible," said the doctor. "On the other hand, it may be that the name Ascher was a coincidence—that the victim this time, no matter what her name is, will again be an old woman who keeps a shop. We're dealing, remember, with a madman. So far he hasn't given us any clue as to motive."

  "Has a madman any motive, sir?" asked the superintendent skeptically.

  "Of course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the special characteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinely appointed to kill clergymen—or doctors—or old women in tobacco shops—and there's always some perfectly coherent reason behind it. We mustn't let the alphabetical business run away with us. Bexhill succeeding to Andover may be a mere coincidence."

  "We can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a special note of the B's, especially small shopkeepers, and keep a watch on all small tobacconists and newsagents looked after by a single person. I don't think there's anything more we can do than that. Naturally keep tabs on all strangers as far as possible."

  The superintendent uttered a groan. "With the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? People are fairly flooding into the place this week."

  "We must do what we can," the Chief Constable said sharply.

  Inspector Glen spoke in his turn.

  "I'll have a watch kept on anyone connected with the Ascher business. Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course on Ascher himself. If they show any signs of leaving Andover they'll be followed."

  The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little desultory conversation.

  "Poirot," I said as we walked along by the river, "surely this crime can be prevented?"

  He turned a haggard face to me. "The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one? I fear, Hastings—I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper."

  "It's horrible," I said.

  "Madness, Hastings, is a terrible thing. I am afraid . . . I am very much afraid . . . ."

  IX. The Bexhill-on-Sea Murder

  I still remember my awakening on the morning of the 25th of July. It must have been about seven-thirty.

  Poirot was standing by my bedside gently shaking me by the shoulder.

  One glance at his face brought me from semi-consciousness into full possession of my faculties.

  "What is it?" I demanded, sitting up rapidly.

  His answer came quite simply, but a wealth of emotion lay behind the three words he uttered.

  "It has happened."

  "What?" I cried. "You mean—but today is the 25th."

  "It took place last night—or rather in the early hours of this morning.''

  As I sprang from bed and made a rapid toilet, he recounted briefly what he had just learnt over the telephone.

  "The body of a young girl has been found on the beach at Bexhill. She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of the cafés, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11:30 and 1 A.M.."

  "They're quite sure that this is the crime?" I asked, as I hastily lathered my face.

  "An A.B.C. open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body."

  I shivered.

  "This is horrible!"

  "Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy in my rooms!" I wiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully.

  "What is our plan of campaign?" I asked.

  "The car will call for us in a few moments' time. I will bring you a cup of coffee here so that there will be no delay in starting."

  Twenty minutes later we were in a fast police car crossing the Thames on our way out of London.

  With us was Inspector Crome, who had been present at the conference the other day, and who was officially in charge of the case.

  Crome was a very different type of officer from Japp. A much younger man, he was the silent, superior type. Well educated and well read, he was, for my taste, several shades too pleased with himself. He had lately gained kudos over a series of child murders, having patiently tracked down the criminal who was now in Broadmoor.

  He was obviously a suitable person to undertake the present case, but I thought that he was just a little too aware of the fact himself.

  His manner to Poirot was a shade patronizing. He deferred to him as a younger man to an older one—in a rather self-conscious, "public-school" way.

  "I've had a good long talk with Dr. Thompson," he said. "He's very interested in the 'chain' or 'series' type of murder. It's the product of a particularly distorted type of mentality. As a layman one can't, of course, appreciate the finer points as they present themselves to a medical point of view." He coughed. "As a matter of fact—my last case—I don't know whether you read about it—the Mabel Homer case, the Muswell Hill schoolgirl, you know—that man Capper was extraordinary. Amazingly difficult to pin the crime on to him—it was his third, too! Looked as sane as you or I. But there are various tests—verbal traps, you know—quite modern, of course, there was nothing of that kind in your day. Once you can induce a man to give himself away, you've got him! He knows that you know and his nerve goes. He starts giving himself away right and left."

  "Even in my day that happened sometimes," said Poirot.

  Inspector Crome looked at him and murmured conversationall
y: "Oh, yes?"

  There was silence between us for some time. As we passed New Cross Station, Crome said: "If there's anything you want to ask me about the case, pray do so."

  "You have not, I presume, a description of the dead girl?"

  "She was twenty-three years of age, engaged as a waitress at the Ginger Cat café—"

  "[Garbled], I wondered—if she were pretty?"

  "As to that I've no information," said Inspector Crome with a hint of withdrawal. His manner said: "Really—these foreigners! All the same!"

  A final look of amusement came into Poirot's eyes. "It does not seem to you important, that? Yet, pour une femme, it is of the first importance. Often it decides her destiny!"

  Inspector Crome fell back on his conversational full stop. "Oh, yes?" he inquired politely.

  Another silence fell.

  It was not until we were nearing Sevenoaks that Poirot opened the conversation again.

  "Were you informed, by any chance, how and with what the girl was strangled?"

  Inspector Crome replied briefly. "Strangled with her own belt—a thick, knitted affair, I gather."

  Poirot's eyes opened very wide. "Aha," he said. "At last we have a piece of information that is very definite. That tells one something, does it not?"

  "I haven't seen it yet," said Inspector Crome coldly.

  I felt impatient with the man's caution and lack of imagination. "It gives us the hallmark of the murderer," I said. "The girl's own belt. It shows the particular beastliness of his mind!"

  Poirot shot me a glance I could not fathom. On the face of it, it conveyed humorous impatience. I thought that perhaps it was a warning not to be too outspoken in front of the inspector.

  I relapsed into silence.

  At Bexhill we were greeted by Superintendent Carter. He had with him a pleasant-faced, intelligent-looking young inspector called Kelsey.

  The latter was detailed to work in with Crome over the case.

  "You'll want to make your own inquiries, Crome," said the superintendent.

  "So I'll just give you the main heads of the matter and then you can get busy right away."

  "Thank you sir," said Crome.

  "We've broken the news to her father and mother," said the superintendent. "Terrible shock to them, of course. I left them to recover a bit before questioning them, so you can start from the beginning there."

  "There are other members of the family—yes?" asked Poirot.

  ''There's a sister—a typist in London. She's been communicated with. And there's a young man—in fact, she was supposed to be out with him last night, I gather."

  "Any help from the A.B.C. guide?" asked Crome.

  "It's there," the superintendent nodded towards the table. "No fingerprints. Open at the page for Bexhill. A new copy, I should say—doesn't seem to have been opened much. Not bought anywhere round here. I' we tried all the likely stationers!"

  "Who discovered the body, sir?"

  "One of these fresh-air, early-morning old colonels. Colonel Jerome. He was out with his dog about 6 A.M.. Went along the front in the direction of Cooden, and down on to the beach. Dog went off and sniffed at something. Colonel called it. Dog didn't come. Colonel had a look and thought something queer was up. Went over and looked. Behaved very properly. Didn't touch her at all and rang us up immediately."

  "And the time of death was round about midnight last night?"

  "Between midnight and 1 A.M.—that's pretty certain. Our homicidal joker is a man of his word. If he says the 25th, it is the 25th—though it may have been only by a few minutes."

  Crome nodded. "Yes, that's his mentality all right. There's nothing else? Nobody saw anything helpful?"

  "Not as far as we know. But it's early yet. Everyone who saw a girl in white walking with a man last night will be along to tell us about soon, and as I imagine there were about four or five hundred girls in white walking with young men last night, it ought to be a nice business.''

  "Well, sir, I'd better get down to it," said Crome. "There's the café and there's the girl's home. I'd better go to both of them. Kelsey can come with me."

  "And Mr. Poirot?" asked the superintendent.

  "I will accompany you," said Poirot to Crome with a little bow.

  Crome, I thought, looked slightly annoyed. Kelsey, who had not seen Poirot before, grinned broadly.

  It was an unfortunate circumstance that the first time people saw my friend they were always disposed to consider him as a joke of the first water.

  "What about this belt she was strangled with?" asked Crome. "Poirot is inclined to think it's a valuable clue. I expect he'd like to see it."

  "Du tout," said Poirot quickly. "You misunderstood me."

  "You'll get nothing from that," said Carter. "It wasn't a leather belt—might have got fingerprints if it had been. Just a thick so of knitted silk—ideal for the purpose."

  I gave a shiver.

  "Well," said Crome, "we'd better be getting along."

  We set out forthwith.

  Our first visit was to the Ginger Cat. Situated on the seafront, this was the usual type of small tearoom. It had little tables covered with orange-checked cloths and basketwork chairs of exceeding discomfort with orange cushions on them. It was the kind of place that specialized in morning coffee, five different kinds of teas (Devonshire, farmhouse, fruit, Carlton and plain), and a few sparing lunch dishes for females such as scrambled eggs and shrimps and macaroni au gratin.

  The morning coffees were just getting under way. The manageress ushered us hastily into a very untidy back sanctum.

  "Miss—er—Merrion?" inquired Crome.

  Miss Merrion bleated out in a high, distressed gentlewoman voice: "That is my name. This is a most distressing business. Most distressing. How it will affect our business I really cannot think!"

  Miss Merrion was a very thin woman of forty with wispy orange hair (indeed she was astonishingly like a ginger cat herself). She played nervously with various [unclear] and frills that were part of her official costume.

  "You'll have a boom," said Inspector Kelsey encouragingly. "You'll see! You won't be able to serve teas fast enough!"

  "Disgusting," said Miss Merrion. "Truly disgusting. It makes one despair of human nature."

  But her eye brightened nevertheless.

  "What can you tell me about the dead girl, Miss Merrion?"

  "Nothing," said Miss Merrion positively. "Absolutely nothing!"

  "How long had she been working here?"

  "This was the second summer."

  "You were satisfied with her?"

  "She was a good waitress—quick and obliging."

  "She was pretty, yes?" inquired Poirot.

  Miss Merrion, in her turn, gave him an "Oh, these foreigners" look. "She was a nice, clean-looking girl," she said distantly.

  "What time did she go off duty last night?" asked Crome.

  "Eight o'clock. We close at eight. We do not serve dinners. There is no demand for them. Scrambled eggs and tea (Poirot shuddered). People come in for up to seven o'clock and sometimes after, but our rush is over by 6:30."

  "Did she mention to you how she proposed to spend her evening?"

  "Certainly not," said Miss Merrion emphatically. "We were not on those terms."

  "No one came in and called for her? Anything like that?"

  "No."

  "Did she seem quite her ordinary self? Not excited or depressed?"

  "Really I could not say," said Miss Merrion aloofly.

  "How many waitresses do you employ?"

  "Two normally, and an extra two after the 20th of July until the end of August."

  "But Elizabeth Barnard was not one of the extras?"

  "Miss Barnard was one of the regulars."

  "What about the other one?"

  "Miss Higley? She is a very nice young lady."

  "Were she and Miss Barnard friends?"

  "Really I could not say."

  "Perhaps we'd better have a word with he
r."

  "Now?"

  "If you please."

  "I will send her to you," said Miss Merrion, rising. "Please keep her as short a time as possible. This is the morning coffee rush hour."

  The feline and gingery Miss Merrion left the room.

  "Very refined," remarked Inspector Kelsey. He mimicked the lady's mincing tone. "Really I could not say."

  A plump girl, slightly out of breath, with dark hair, rosy cheeks and dark eyes goggling with excitement, bounced in.

  "Miss Merrion sent me," she announced breathlessly.

  "Miss Higley?"

  "Yes, that's me."

  "You knew Elizabeth Barnard?"

  "Oh, yes, I knew Betty. Isn't it awful? It's just too awful! I can't believe it's true. I've been saying to the girls all the morning I just can't believe it! 'You know, girls,' I said, 'it just doesn't seem real.' Betty! I mean, Betty Barnard, who's been here all along, murdered! 'I just can't believe it,' I said. Five or six times I've pinched myself just to see if I wouldn't wake up. Betty murdered . . . It's—well, you know what I mean—it doesn't seem real."

  "You knew the dead girl well?" asked Crome.

  "Well, she's worked here longer than I have. I only came this March. She was here last year. She was rather quiet, if you know what I mean. She wasn't one to joke or laugh a lot. I don't mean that she was exactly quiet—she'd plenty of fun in her and all that—but she didn't—well, she was quiet and she wasn't quiet, if you know what I mean."

  I will say for Inspector Crome that he was exceedingly patient. As a witness the buxom Miss Higley was persistently maddening. Every statement she made was repeated and qualified half a dozen times. The net result was meagre in the extreme.

  She had not been on terms of intimacy with the dead girl. Elizabeth Barnard, it could be guessed, had considered herself a cut above Miss Higley. She had been friendly in working hours, but the girls had not seen much of her out of them. Elizabeth Barnard had had a "friend"—worked in the estate agents near the station. Court & Brunskill. No, he wasn't Mr. Court nor Mr. Brunskill. He was a clerk there. She didn't know his name. But she knew him by sight well. Good-looking—oh, very good-looking, and always so nicely dressed. Clearly, there was a tinge of jealousy in Miss Higley's bean.