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

“It

is, perhaps, an invitation to use your ingenuity. But there is no need for us to perturb ourselves. The easiest way to answer the question is to ask her.”

“And suppose she tells us another lie.”

“That would indeed be interesting—and highly suggestive.”

“It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in league with a madman.”

“Precisely—so I do not suppose it.”

I thought for some minutes longer.

“A good-looking girl has a hard time of it,” I said at last with a sigh.

“Du tout. Disabuse your mind of that idea.”

“It’s true,” I insisted, “everyone’s hand is against her simply because she is good-looking.”

“You speak the bêtises, my friend. Whose hand was against her at Combeside? Sir Carmichael’s? Franklin’s? Nurse Capstick’s?”

“Lady Clarke was down on her, all right.”

“Mon ami, you are full of charitable feeling towards beautiful young girls. Me, I feel charitable to sick old ladies. It may be that Lady Clarke was the clear-sighted one—and that her husband, Mr. Franklin Clarke and Nurse Capstick were all as blind as bats—and Captain Hastings.”

“You’ve got a grudge against that girl, Poirot.”

To my surprise his eyes twinkled suddenly.

“Perhaps it is that I like to mount you on your romantic high horse, Hastings. You are always the true knight—ready to come to the rescue of damsels in distress—good-looking damsels, bien entendu.”

“How ridiculous you are, Poirot,” I said, unable to keep from laughing.

“Ah, well, one cannot be tragic all the time. More and more I interest myself in the human developments that arise out of this tragedy. It is three dramas of family life that we have there. First there is Andover—the whole tragic life of Mrs. Ascher, her struggles, her support of her German husband, the devotion of her niece. That alone would make a novel. Then you have Bexhill—the happy, easy-going father and mother, the two daughters so widely differing from each other—the pretty fluffy fool, and the intense, strong-willed Megan with her clear intelligence and her ruthless passion for truth. And the other figure—the self-controlled young Scotsman with his passionate jealousy and his worship of the dead girl. Finally you have the Churston household—the dying wife, and the husband absorbed in his collections, but with a growing tenderness and sympathy for the beautiful girl who helps him so sympathetically, and then the younger brother, vigorous, attractive, interesting, with a romantic glamour about him from his long travels.

“Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permutations and combinations of life, Hastings—I never cease to be fascinated by them.”

“This is Paddington,” was the only answer I made.

It was time, I felt, that someone pricked the bubble.

On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told that a gentleman was waiting to see Poirot.

I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonishment it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser.

He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable than ever.

Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine.

Until these made their appearance he monopolized the conversation, explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling of the invalid woman.

Not until we had finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he give the conversation a personal turn.

“You have come from Bexhill, Mr. Fraser?”

“Yes.”

“Any success with Milly Higley?”