The A.B.C. Murders (Hercule Poirot 13)

Inspector Wells made the introductions.

“This is Inspector Crome of the CID, Mr. Hercule Poirot and—er—Captain Hayter.”

“Hastings,” I corrected coldly.

Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was accompanied by a piercing look.

“Let me offer you some breakfast,” he said. “We can discuss the position as we eat.”

There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and bacon and coffee.

“Now for it,” said Franklin Clarke. “Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position last night—though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A B C railway guide has been deposited beside the body?”

“That is substantially the position, Mr. Clarke.”

“But why? What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime—even in the most diseased imagination?”

Poirot nodded his head in approval.

“You go straight to the point, Mr. Franklin,” he said.

“It’s not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr. Clarke,” said Inspector Crome. “That’s a matter for an alienist—though I may say that I’ve had a certain experience of criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to assert one’s personality, to make a splash in the public eye—in fact, to be a somebody instead of a nonentity.”

“Is that true, M. Poirot?”

Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by Inspector Crome, who frowned.

“Absolutely true,” replied my friend.

“At any rate such a man cannot escape detection long,” said Clarke thoughtfully.

“Vous croyez? Ah, but they are cunning—ces gens là! And you must remember such a type has usually all the outer signs of insignificance—he belongs to the class of person who is usually passed over and ignored or even laughed at!”

“Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr. Clarke,” said Crome, breaking in on the conversation.

“Certainly.”

“Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no unexpected letters? Nothing to upset him?”

“No. I should say he was quite his usual self.”

“Not upset and worried in any way.”

“Excuse me, inspector. I didn’t say that. To be upset and worried was my poor brother’s normal condition.”

“Why was that?”

“You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very bad health. Frankly, between ourselves, she is suffering from an incurable cancer, and cannot live very much longer. Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother’s mind. I myself returned from the East not long ago and I was shocked at the change in him.”

Poirot interpolated a question.

“Supposing, Mr. Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at the foot of a cliff—or shot with a revolver beside him. What would have been your first thought?”

“Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide,” said Clarke.

“Encore!” said Poirot.

“What is that?”