"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 9:20, 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 down 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.
XIII. A Conference
Conferences!
Much of my memories of the A.B.C. 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.
The Bexhill murder had attracted much more attention than the Andover one.
It had, of course, far more elements of popularity. The victim was a young and good-looking girl to begin with. Also, it had taken place at a popular seaside resort.
All the details of the crime were reported fully and rehashed daily in thin disguises. The A.B.C. railway guide came in for its share of attention.
The favourite theory was that it had been bought locally by the murderer and that it was a valuable clue to his identity. It also seemed to show that he had come to the place by train and was intending to leave for London.
The railway guide had not figured at all in the meagre accounts of the Andover murder so there seemed at present little likelihood of the two crimes being connected in the public eye.
"We've got to decide upon a policy," said the Assistant Commissioner. "The thing is—which way will give us the best results? Shall we give the public the facts—enlist their cooperation—after all, it'll be the cooperation of several million people, looking out for a madman—"
"He won't look like a madman," interjected Dr. Thompson.
"—looking out for sales of A.B.C.'s—and so on. Against that I suppose there's the advantage of working in the dark—not letting our man know what we're up to, but then there's the fact that he knows very well that we know. He's drawn attention to himself deliberately by his letters. Eh, Crome, what's your opinion?"
"I look at it this way, sir. If you make it public, you're playing A.B.C.'s game. That's what he wants—publicity—notoriety. That's what he's out after. I'm right, aren't I, doctor? He wants to make a splash."
Thompson nodded.
The Assistant Commissioner said thoughtfully: "So you're for baulking him. Refusing him the publicity he's hankering after. What about you, M. Poirot?"
Poirot did not speak for a minute. When he did it was with an air of choosing his words carefully.
"It is difficult for me, Sir Lionel," he said. "I am, as you might say, an interested party. The challenge was sent to me. If I say, 'Suppress that fact—do not make it public,' may it not be thought that it is my vanity that speaks? That I am afraid for my reputation? It is difficult! To speak out—to tell all—that has its advantages. It is, at least, a warning . . . . On the other hand, I am as convinced as Inspector Crome that it is what the murderer wants us to do."
"Hm!" said
the Assistant Commissioner, rubbing his chin. He looked across at Dr. Thompson. "Suppose we refuse our lunatic the satisfaction of the publicity he craves. What's he likely to do?"
"Commit another crime," said the doctor promptly. "Force your hand."
"And if we splash the thing about in headlines. Then what's his reaction?"
"Same answer. One way you feed his megalomania, the other you baulk it. The result's the same. Another crime."
"What do you say, M. Poirot?"
"I agree with Dr. Thompson."
"A cleft stick—eh? How many crimes do you think this—lunatic has in mind?"
Dr. Thompson looked across at Poirot. "Looks like A to Z," he said cheerfully. "Of course," he went on, "he won't get there. Not nearly. You'll have him by the heels long before that. Interesting to know how he'd have dealt with the letter X." He recalled himself guiltily from this purely enjoyable speculation. "But you'll have him long before that. G or H, let's say."
The Assistant Commissioner struck the table with his fist. "My God, are you telling me we're going to have five more murders?''
"It won't be as much as that, sir," said Inspector Crome. "Trust me."
He spoke with confidence.
"Which letter of the alphabet do you place it at, inspector?" asked Poirot.
There was a slight ironic note in his voice. Crome, I thought, looked at him with a tinge of dislike adulterating the usual calm superiority.
"Might get him next time, M. Poirot. At any rate I'd guarantee to get him by the time he gets to E."
He turned to the Assistant Commissioner. "I think I've got the psychology of the case fairly clear. Dr. Thompson will correct me if I'm wrong. I take it that every time he brings a crime off, his self-confidence increases about a hundred per cent. Every time he feels 'I'm clever—they can't catch me!' he becomes so overweeningly confident that he also becomes careless. He exaggerates his own cleverness and every one else's stupidity. Very soon he'll be hardly bothering to take any precautions at all. That's right, isn't it, doctor?"
Thompson nodded. "That's usually the case. In non-medical terms it couldn't have been put better. You know something about such things, M. Poirot. Don't you agree?"
I don't think that Crome liked Thompson's appeal to Poirot. He considered that he and he only was the expert on this subject.
"It is as Inspector Crome says," agreed Poirot.
"Paranoia," murmured the doctor.
Poirot turned to Crome. "Are there any material facts of interest in the Bexhill case?"
"Nothing very definite. A waiter at the Splendide at Eastbourne recognizes the dead girl's photograph as that of a young woman who dined there in company with a middle-aged man in spectacles. It's also been recognized at a roadhouse place called the Scarlet Runner, halfway between Bexhill and London. There they say she was with a man who looked like a naval officer. They can't both be right, but either of them's probable. Of course, there's a host of other identifications, but most of them not good for much. We haven't been able to trace the A.B.C.."
"Well, you seem to be doing all that can be done, Crome," said the Assistant Commissioner. "What do you say, M. Poirot? Does any line of inquiry suggest itself to you?"
Poirot said slowly: "It seems to me that there is one very important clue—the discovery of the motive."
"Isn't that pretty obvious? An alphabetical complex. Isn't that what you called it, doctor?"
"Me oui," said Poirot. "There is an alphabetical complex. A madman in particular has always a very strong reason for the crimes he commits."
"Come, come, M. Poirot," said Crome. "Look at Stoneman in 1929. He ended by trying to do away with anyone who annoyed him in the slightest degree."
Poirot turned to him. "Quite so. But if you are a sufficiently great and important person, it is necessary that you should be spared small annoyances. If a fly settles on your forehead again and again, maddening you by its tickling—what do you do? You endeavour to kill that fly. You have no qualms about it. You are important—the fly is not. You kill the fly and the annoyance ceases. Your action appears to you sane and justifiable. Another reason for killing a fly is if you have a strong passion for hygiene. The fly is a potential source of danger to the community—the fly must go. So works the mind of the mentally deranged criminal. But consider now this case—if the victims are alphabetically selected, then they are not being removed because they are a source of annoyance to him personally. It would be too much of a coincidence to combine the two."
"That's a point," said Dr. Thompson. "I remember a case where a woman's husband was condemned to death. She started killing the members of the jury one by one. Quite a time before the crimes were connected up. They seemed entirely haphazard. But as M. Poirot says, there isn't such a thing as a murderer who commits crimes at random."
"Either he removes people who stand (however insignificantly) in his path, or else he kills by conviction. He removes clergymen, or policemen, or prostitutes because he firmly believes that they should be removed."
"That doesn't apply here either as far as I can see. Mrs. Ascher and Betty Barnard cannot be linked as members of the same class. Of course, it's possible that there is a sex complex. Both victims have been women. We can tell better, of course, after the next crime—"
"For God's sake, Thompson, don't speak so glibly of the next crime," said Sir Lionel irritably. "We're going to do all we can to prevent another crime."
Dr. Thompson held his peace and blew his nose with some violence. "Have it your own way," the noise seemed to say. "If you won't face facts—"
The Assistant Commissioner turned to Poirot. "I see what you're driving at, but I'm not quite clear yet."
"I ask myself," said Poirot, "what passes in itself exactly in the mind of the murderer? He kills, it would seem from his letters, pour le sport—to amuse himself. Can that really be true? And even if it is true, on what principle does he select his victims apart from the merely alphabetical one? If he kills merely to amuse himself he would not advertise the fact, since, otherwise, he could kill with impunity. But no, he seeks, as we all agree, to make the splash in the public eye—to assert his personality. In what way has his personality been suppressed that one can connect with the two victims he has so far selected? A final suggestion: Is his motive direct personal hatred of me, of Hercule Poirot? Does he challenge me in public because I have (unknown to myself) vanquished him somewhere in the course of my career? Or is his animosity impersonal—directed against a foreigner? And if so, what again has led to that? What injury has he suffered at a foreigner's hand?"
"All very suggestive questions," said Dr. Thompson.
Inspector Crome cleared his throat. "Oh, yes? A little unanswerable at present, perhaps."
"Nevertheless, my friend," said Poirot, looking straight at him, "it is there in those questions that the solution lies. If we knew the exact reason—fantastic, perhaps, to us—but logical to him—of why our madman commits these crimes, we should know, perhaps, who the next victim is likely to be."
Crome shook his head. "He selects them haphazard—that's my opinion."
"The magnanimous murderer," said Poirot.
"What's that you say?"
"I said—the magnanimous murderer! Franz Ascher would have been arrested for the murder of his wife—Donald Fraser might have been arrested for the murder of Betty Barnard—if it had not been for the warning letters of A.B.C.. Is he, then, so soft-hearted that he cannot bear others to suffer for something they did not do?"
"I've known stranger things happen," said Dr. Thompson. "I've known men who've killed half a dozen victims all broken up because one of their victims didn't die instantaneously and suffered pain. All the same, I don't think that that is our fellow's reason. He wants the credit of these crimes for his own honour and glory. That's the explanation that fits best."
"We've come to no decision about the publicity business," said the Assistant Commissioner.
"If I may make a suggestion, sir," said
Crome. "Why not wait till the receipt of the next letter? Make it public then—special editions, etc. It will make a bit of a panic in the particular town named, but it will put everyone whose name begins with C on his guard, and it'll put A.B.C. on his mettle. He'll be determined to succeed. And that's when we'll get him."
How little we knew what the future held.
XIV. The Third Letter
I well remember the arrival of A.B.C.'s third letter.
I may say that all precautions had been taken so that when A.B.C. resumed his campaign there should be no unnecessary delays. A young sergeant from Scotland Yard was attached to the house and if Poirot and I were out it was his duty to open anything that came so as to be able to communicate with headquarters without loss of time.
As the days succeeded each other we had all grown more and more on edge. Inspector Crome's aloof and superior manner grew more and more aloof and superior as one by one his more hopeful clues petered out. The vague descriptions of men said to have been seen with Betty Barnard proved useless. Various cars noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill and Cooden were either accounted for or could not be traced. The investigation of purchases of A.B.C. railway guides caused inconvenience and trouble to heaps of innocent people.
As for ourselves, each time the postman's familiar rat-tat sounded on the door, our hearts beat faster with apprehension. At least that was true for me, and I cannot but believe that Poirot experienced the same sensation.
He was, I knew, deeply unhappy over the case. He refused to leave London, preferring to be on the spot in case of emergency. In those hot dog days even his moustaches drooped—neglected for once by their owner.
It was on a Friday that A.B.C.'s third letter came. The evening post arrived about ten o'clock.
When we heard the familiar step and the brisk rat-tat, I rose and went along to the box. There were four or five letters, I remember. The last one I looked at was addressed in printed characters.
"Poirot," I cried . . . . My voice died away.
"It has come? Open it, Hastings. Quickly. Every moment may be needed. We must make our plans."
I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me for untidiness) and extracted the printed sheet.
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