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

“I know just what you feel like,” said Franklin Clarke. “It’s always the little things that get one—and especially anything like a treat or a present—something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run over once. She’d just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there—and the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out—it gave me a turn—they looked so pathetic.”

Megan said with a sudden eager warmth:

“That’s true—that’s awfully true. The same thing happened after Betty—died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present—bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: ‘I bought them for Betty—I bought them for Betty—and she never even saw them.’”

Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy—a fraternity in trouble.

“I know,” he said. “I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things that are hell to remember.”

Donald Fraser stirred uneasily.

Thora Grey diverted the conversation.

“Aren’t we going to make any plans—for the future?” she asked.

“Of course.” Franklin Clarke resumed his ordinary manner. “I think that when the moment comes—that is, when the fourth letter arrives—we ought to join forces. Until then, perhaps we might each try our luck on our own. I don’t know whether there are any points M. Poirot thinks might repay investigation?”

“I could make some suggestions,” said Poirot.

“Good. I’ll take them down.” He produced a notebook. “Go ahead, M. Poirot. A—?”

“I consider it just possible that the waitress, Milly Higley, might know something useful.”

“A—Milly Higley,” wrote down Franklin Clarke.

“I suggest two methods of approach. You, Miss Barnard, might try what I call the offensive approach.”

“I suppose you think that suits my style?” said Megan dryly.

“Pick a quarrel with the girl—say you knew she never liked your sister—and that your sister had told you all about her. If I do not err, that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tell you just what she thought of your sister! Some useful fact may emerge.”

“And the second method?”

“May I suggest, Mr. Fraser, that you should show signs of interest in the girl?”

“Is that necessary.”

“No, it is not necessary. It is just a possible line of exploration.”

“Shall I try my hand?” asked Franklin. “I’ve—er—a pretty wide experience, M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady.”

“You’ve got your own part of the world to attend to,” said Thora Grey rather sharply.

Franklin’s face fell just a little.

“Yes,” he said. “I have.”

“Tout de même, I do not think there is much you can do down there for the present,” said Poirot. “Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more fitted—”

Thora Grey interrupted him.

“But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good.”

“Ah? I did not understand.”

“Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things,” said Franklin. “But naturally she prefers a post in London.”

Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other.