The A.B.C. Murders hp-12

by Agatha Christie

  "Doncaster. I know, my girl! After all, I picked up his ticket, didn't I?"

  "Well, he told me he was going to Cheltenham. I'm sure he did."

  "Oh, you've got it wrong. He was going to Doncaster all right. Some people have all the luck. I've got a bit on Firefly for the Leger and I'd love to see it run."

  "I shouldn't think Mr. Cust went to race-meetings; he doesn't look the kind. Oh, Tom, I hope he won't get murdered. It's Doncaster the A.B.C. murder's going to happen."

  "Cust'll be all right. His name doesn't begin with a D."

  "He might have been murdered last time. He was down near Churston at Torquay when the last murder happened."

  "Was he? That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"

  He laughed. "He wasn't at Bexhill the time before, was he?"

  Lily crinkled her brows. "He was away . . . . Yes, I remember he was away . . . because he forgot his bathing-dress. Mother was mending it for him. And she said: 'There—Mr. Cust went away yesterday without his bathing-dress after all,' and I said: 'Oh, never mind the old bathing-dress—there's been the most awful murder,' I said, 'a girl strangled at Bexhill.'"

  "Well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to the seaside. I say, Lily"—his face crinkled up with amusement. "What price your old dugout being the murderer himself?"

  "Poor Mr. Cust? He wouldn't hurt a fly," laughed Lily.

  They danced on happily—in their conscious minds nothing but the pleasure of being together.

  In their unconscious minds something stirred . . . .

  XXIII. September 11th. Doncaster

  Doncaster!

  I shall, I think, remember that 11th of September all my life.

  Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St. Leger my mind flies automatically not to horse-racing but to murder.

  When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most is a sickening sense of insufficiency. We were here on the spot—Poirot, myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, Thora Grey and Mary Drower and in the last resort what could any of us do?

  We were building on a forlorn hope on the chance of recognizing amongst a crowd of thousands of people a face or figure imperfectly seen on an occasion one, two or three months back.

  The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only person likely to make such a recognition was Thora Grey.

  Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her usual efficient manner was gone. She sat twisting her hands together, almost weeping, appealing incoherently to Poirot.

  "I never really looked at him . . . . Why didn't I? What a fool I was. You're depending on me, all of you . . . and I shall let you down. Because even if I did see him again I mightn't recognize him. I've got bad memory for faces."

  Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however harshly he might seem to criticize the girl, showed nothing but kindness now. His manner was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poirot was no more indifferent to beauty in distress than I was.

  He patted her shoulder kindly. "Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you should see this man you would recognize him."

  "How do you know?"

  "Oh, a great many reasons—for one, because the red succeeds the black."

  "What do you mean, Poirot?" I cried.

  "I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long run on the black—but in the end red must turn up. It is the mathematical laws of chance."

  "You mean that luck turns?"

  "Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler (and the murderer, who is, after all, only a supreme kind of gambler since what he risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligent anticipation. Because he has won he thinks he will continue to win! He does not leave the tables in good time with his pockets full. So in crime the murderer who is successful cannot conceive the possibility of not being successful! He takes to himself all the credit for a successful performance—but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned no crime can be successful without luck!"

  "Isn't that going rather far?" demurred Franklin Clarke.

  Poirot waved his hands excitedly. "No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour. Consider! It might have happened that someone enters Mrs. Ascher's shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman—and either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would have been arrested forthwith."

  "Yes, of course, that's possible," admitted Clarke. "What it comes to is that a murderer's got to take a chance."

  "Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say, 'I have been clever and lucky!' No, he says only, 'I have been clever!' And his opinion of his cleverness grows . . . and then, mon amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over—the ball drops into a new number and the croupier calls out 'Rouge.'"

  "You think that will happen in this case?" asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown.

  "It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal—sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And he, too, will begin to make mistakes . . . ."

  "I will say you're heartening," said Franklin Clarke. "We all need a bit of comfort. I've had a paralysing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up."

  "It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value," said Donald Fraser.

  Megan rapped out: "Don't be a defeatist, Don."

  Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said: "What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend's in this place, and so are we—and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes."

  I fumed: "If only we could do something more."

  "You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the racecourse. There will be plainclothes men everywhere."

  "There is also the press campaign. The public is fully warned."

  Donald Fraser shook his head. "He'll never attempt it, I'm thinking," he said more hopefully. "The man would just be mad!"

  "Unfortunately," said Clarke dryly, "he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?"

  "In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt to carry out his promise! Not to do so would he to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also Dr. Thompson's opinion. Our hope is that he may be caught in the attempt."

  Donald shook his head again. "He'll be very cunning."

  Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that we were to make an all-day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various likely points on the racecourse.

  I say "we." Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A.B.C.. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I ha suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.

  Poirot had agreed—I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye.

  The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought.

  Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a lis
tener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot.

  "Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say—or hint—I mean—did she suggest anything at all—?" He stopped, embarrassed.

  Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions.

  "Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint or suggest—what?"

  Franklin Clarke got rather red. "Perhaps you think this isn't a time for butting in with personal things—"

  "Du tout!"

  "But I feel I'd like to get things quite straight."

  "An admirable course."

  This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot's bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.

  "My sister-in-law's an awfully nice woman. I've been very fond of her always—but of course she's been ill some time—and in that kind of illness, being given drugs and all that—one tends to—well— to fancy things about people!"

  "Ah?" By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot's eye.

  But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it. "It's about Thora—Miss Grey," he said.

  "Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?" Poirot's tone held innocent surprise.

  "Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora—Miss Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl—"

  "Perhaps—yes," conceded Poirot.

  "And women are, even the best of them, a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluable to my brother—he always said she was the best secretary he ever had—and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and aboveboard. I mean, Thora isn't the sort of girl—"

  "No?" said Poirot helpfully.

  "But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be—well—jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car's death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on—well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it's partly the illness and the morphine and all that—Nurse Capstick says so—she says we mustn't blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head—"

  He paused.

  "Yes?"

  "What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn't anything in it at all. It's just a sick woman's imaginings. Look here"—he fumbled in his pocket—"here's a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I'd like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on."

  Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud.

  Things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me than I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and a true affection.

  "You see," said Franklin. "That's how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot."

  "Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember."

  "I know. That's what I keep saying to myself. One mustn't judge her. All the same, I thought I'd show you this. I don't want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said."

  Poirot returned the letter. "I can assure you," he said, smiling, "that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything anyone tells me. I form my own judgments."

  "Well," said Clarke, stowing away the letter, "I'm glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We'd better be off."

  As we left the room, Poirot called me back. "You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?"

  "Oh, yes. I shouldn't be happy staying here inactive."

  "There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings."

  "Well, you're better at it than I am," I said.

  "You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?"

  "That was the idea."

  "And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?"

  "Well—I—er—hadn't considered yet."

  "What about Miss Barnard?"

  "She's rather the independent type," I demurred.

  "Miss Grey?"

  "Yes. She's better."

  "I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently honest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!"

  "Oh, really, Poirot!"

  "I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere."

  "Oh, all right. I think you've got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl."

  "The person you are to escort is Mary Drower—and I must request you not to leave her."

  "But, Poirot, why?"

  "Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances."

  I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched. But then I realized that if A.B.C. had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot's movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very neat fourth stroke.

  I promised to be faithful to my trust.

  I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window. In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called after me: "Rouge—that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!"

  XXIV. (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)

  Below his breath Mr. Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it.

  All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr. Leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week.

  The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr. Leadbetter's opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation:

  "Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan't starve. Remember those words: not a sparrow falls—"

  Mr. Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People! Why on earth people couldn't wait till the end of a film . . . And to leave at this soul-stirring moment.

  Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out. Mr. Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York.

  And now she was boarding the train—the child in her arms . . . . What curious trains they had in America—not at all like English trains.

  Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains . . . .

  The film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end. Mr. Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up.

  He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little.

  He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life. He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon—naturally. They were all at the races. Mr. Leadbetter did not approve of racing or of playing cards or of drinking or of smoking. This left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures.

  Everyone was hurrying towards the exit. Mr. Leadbetter prepared to follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep—slumped down in his chair. Mr. Leadbetter felt indignant to think that anyone could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrow going on.

  An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs
were stretched out blocking the way: "Excuse me, sir."

  Mr. Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back. There seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire . . . a little knot of people. Perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep . . . . He hesitated and then passed out—and in so doing missed the sensation of the day—a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St. Leger at 85 to 1.

  The commissionaire was saying: "Believe you're right, sir . . . He's ill. Why—what's the matter, sir?"

  The other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear.

  "Blood . . . ."

  The commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation. He had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat.

  "[Garbled]," he said. "It is an A.B.C.."

  XXV. (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)

  Mr. Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky.

  A beautiful evening . . . . A really beautiful evening . . . .

  A quotation from Browning came into his head.

  "God's in His heaven. All's right with the world."

  He had always been fond of that quotation. Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn't [missing].

  He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage.

  As he entered the room, his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively—wet and red—blood . . . .

  His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something—a long, slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red . . . .

  Mr. Cust sat there a long time.

  Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal. His tongue passed feverishly over his lips . . . .

  "It isn't my fault," said Mr. Cust.

  He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody—a schoolboy pleading to his schoolmaster.