The A.B.C. Murders

'Although I could not answer the main question, certain things I did feel I was learning about the murderer.'

'Such as?' asked Fraser.

'To begin with—that he had a tabular mind. His crimes were listed by alphabetical progression—that was obviously important to him. On the other hand, he had no particular taste in victims—Mrs. Ascher, Betty Barnard, Sir Carmichael Clarke, they all differed widely from each other. There was no sex complex—no particular age complex, and that seemed to me to be a very curious fact. If a man kills indiscriminately it is usually because he removes anyone who stands in his way or annoys him. But the alphabetical progression showed that such was not the case here. The other type of killer usually selects a particular type of victim—nearly always of the opposite sex. There was something haphazard about the procedure of A.B.C. that seemed to me to be at war with the alphabetical selection.'

'The slight inferences I permitted myself to make. The choice of the A.B.C. suggested to me what I may call a railway-minded man. This is more common in men than women. Small boys love trains better than small girls do. It might be the sign, too, of an in some ways undeveloped mind. The 'boy' motif still predominated.'

'The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of it gave me certain other indications. The manner of her death was particularly suggestive. (Forgive me, Mr. Fraser.) To begin with, she was strangled with her own belt— therefore she must almost certainly have been killed by someone with whom she was on friendly or affectionate terms. When I learnt something of her character a picture grew up in my mind.'

'Betty Barnard was a flirt. She liked attention from a personal male. Therefore A.B.C., to persuade her to come out with him, must have a certain amount of attraction—of the sex appeal! He must be able, as you English say, to 'get off.' He must be capable of the click! Visualize the scene on the beach thus: the man admires her belt. She takes it off. He passes it playfully round her neck—says, perhaps, 'I shall strangle you.' It is all very playful. She giggles—and he pulls.'

Donald Fraser sprang up. He was livid. 'M. Poirot—for God's sake.'

Poirot made a gesture. 'It is finished. I say no more. It is over. We pass to the next murder, that of Sir Carmichael Clarke. Here the murderer goes back to his first method—the blow on the head. The same alphabetical complex—but one fact worries me a little. To be consistent the murderer should have chosen his towns in some definite sequence.'

'If Andover is the 155^th name under A, then the B crime should be the 155^th also—or it should be the 156^th and the C the 157^th. Here again the towns seemed to be chosen in rather too haphazard a fashion.''

'Isn't that because you're rather biased on that subject, Poirot?' I suggested. 'You yourself are normally methodical and orderly. It's almost a disease with you.'

'No, it is not a disease! Quelle idée! But I admit that I may be overstressing that point. Passons!'

'The Churston crime gave me very little extra help. We were unlucky over it, since the letter announcing it went astray, hence no preparations could be made.'

'But by the time the D crime was announced, a very formidable system of defence had been evolved. It must have been obvious that A.B.C. could not much longer hope to get away with his crimes.'

'Moreover, it was at this point that the clue of the stockings came into my hands. It was perfectly clear that the presence of an individual selling stockings on and near the scene of each crime could not be a incidence. Hence the stocking-seller must be the murderer. I may say that his description, as given me by Miss Grey, did not quite correspond with my own picture of the man who strangled Betty Barnard.'

'I will pass over the next stages quickly. A fourth murder was committed—the murder of a man named George Earlsfield—it was supposed in mistake for a man named Downes, who was something of the same build and who was sitting near him in the cinema.'

'And now at last comes the turn of the tide. Events play against A.B.C. instead of into his hands. He is marked down—hunted—and at last arrested.'

'The case, as Hastings says, is ended!'

'True enough as far as the public is concerned. The man is in prison and will eventually, no doubt, go to Broadmoor. There will be no more murders. Exit! Finis! R.I.P..'

'But not for me. I know nothing—nothing at all! Neither the why nor the wherefore.'

'And there is one small vexing fact. The man Cust has an alibi for the night of the Bexhill crime.'

'That's been worrying me all along,' said Franklin Clarke.

'Yes. It worried me. For the alibi, it has the air of being genuine. But it cannot be genuine unless—and now we come to two very interesting speculations.'

'Supposing, my friends, that while Cust committed three of the crimes—the A, C and D crimes—he did not commit the B crime.'

'M. Poirot. It isn't—'

Poirot silenced Megan Barnard with a look. 'Be quiet, mademoiselle. I am for the truth, I am! I have done with lies. Supposing, I say, that A.B.C. did not commit the second crime. It took place, remember, in the early hours of the 25^th—the day he had arrived for the crime. Supposing someone had forestalled him? What in those circumstances would he do? Commit a second murder, or lie low and accept the first as a kind of macabre present?'

'M. Poirot!' said Megan. 'That's a fantastic thought! All the crimes must have been committed by the same person!'

He took no notice of her and went steadily on: 'Such a hypothesis had the merit of explaining one fact—the discrepancy between the personality of Alexander Bonaparte Cust (who could never have made the click with any girl) and the personality of Betty Barnard's murderer. And it has been known, before now, that would-be murderers have taken advantage of the crimes committed by other people. Not all the crimes of Jack the Ripper were committed by Jack the Ripper, for instance. So far, so good.'

'But then I came up against a definite difficulty.'

'Up to the time of the Barnard murder, no facts about the A.B.C. murders had been made public. The Andover murder had created little interest. The incident of the open railway guide had not even been mentioned in the press. It therefore followed that whoever killed Betty Barnard must have had access to facts known only to certain persons—myself, the police, and certain relations and neighbours of Mrs. Ascher.'

'That line of research seemed to lead me up against a blank wall.'

The faces that looked at him were blank too. Blank and puzzled.

Donald Fraser said thoughtfully: 'The police, after all, are human beings. And they're good-looking men —'

He stopped, looking at Poirot inquiringly.

Poirot shook his head gently. 'No—it is simpler than that. I told you that there was a second speculation.'

'Supposing that Cust was not responsible for the killing of Betty Barnard? Supposing that someone else killed her. Could that someone else have been responsible for the other murders too?'

'But that doesn't make sense!' cried Clarke.

'Doesn't it? I did then what I ought to have done at first. I examined the letters I had received from a totally different point of view. I had felt from the beginning that there was something wrong with them—just as a picture expert knows a picture is wrong . . . .'

'I had assumed, without pausing to consider, that what was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a madman.'

'Now I examined them again—and this time I came to a totally different conclusion. What was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a sane man!'

'What?' I cried.

'But yes—just that precisely! They were wrong as a picture is wrong—because they were a fake. They pretended to be the letters of a madman—of a homicidal lunatic, but in reality they were nothing of the kind.'

'It doesn't make sense,' Franklin Clarke repeated.

'Mais oui. One must reason—reflect. What would be the object of writing such letters? To focus attention on the writer, to call attention to the murders! En verité, it did not seem to make sense at first sight. And then I saw light. It was to focus attention on several murders—on a group of murders . . . . Is it not your great