ABC谋杀案 19
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Eighteen
POIROT MAKES A SPEECH
Franklin Clarke arrived at three o’clock on the following afternoon and came straight to the pointwithout beating about the bush.
“M. Poirot,” he said, “I’m not satisfied.”
“No, Mr. Clarke?”
“I’ve no doubt that Crome is a very efficient officer, but, frankly, he puts my back up. That airof his of knowing best! I hinted something of what I had in mind to your friend here when he wasdown at Churston, but I’ve had all my brother’s affairs to settle up and I haven’t been free untilnow. My idea is, M. Poirot, that we oughtn’t to let the grass grow under our feet—”
“Just what Hastings is always saying!”
“—but go right ahead. We’ve got to get ready for the next crime.”
“So you think there will be a next crime?”
“Don’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well, then. I want to get organized.”
“Tell me your idea exactly?”
“I propose, M. Poirot, a kind of special legion—to work under your orders—composed of thefriends and relatives of the murdered people.”
“Une bonne idée.”
“I’m glad you approve. By putting our heads together I feel we might get at something. Also,when the next warning comes, by being on the spot, one of us might—I don’t say it’s probable—but we might recognize some person as having been near the scene of a previous crime.”
“I see your idea, and I approve, but you must remember, Mr. Clarke, the relations and friends ofthe other victims are hardly in your sphere of life. They are employed persons and though theymight be given a short vacation—”
Franklin Clarke interrupted.
“That’s just it. I’m the only person in a position to foot the bill. Not that I’m particularly welloff myself, but my brother died a rich man and it will eventually come to me. I propose, as I say,to enrol a special legion, the members to be paid for their services at the same rate as they gethabitually, with, of course, the additional expenses.”
“Who do you propose should form this legion?”
“I’ve been into that. As a matter of fact, I wrote to Miss Megan Barnard—indeed, this is partlyher idea. I suggest myself, Miss Barnard, Mr. Donald Fraser, who was engaged to the dead girl.
Then there is a niece of the Andover woman—Miss Barnard knows her address. I don’t think thehusband would be of any use to us—I hear he’s usually drunk. I also think the Barnards—thefather and mother—are a bit old for active campaigning.”
“Nobody else?”
“Well—er—Miss Grey.”
He flushed slightly as he spoke the name.
“Oh! Miss Grey?”
Nobody in the world could put a gentle nuance of irony into a couple of words better thanPoirot. About thirty-five years fell away from Franklin Clarke. He looked suddenly like a shyschoolboy.
“Yes. You see, Miss Grey was with my brother for over two years. She knows the countrysideand the people round, and everything. I’ve been away for a year and a half.”
Poirot took pity on him and turned the conversation.
“You have been in the East? In China?”
“Yes. I had a kind of roving commission to purchase things for my brother.”
“Very interesting it must have been. Eh bien, Mr. Clarke, I approve very highly of your idea. Iwas saying to Hastings only yesterday that a rapprochement of the people concerned was needed.
It is necessary to pool reminiscences, to compare notes—enfin to talk the thing over—to talk—totalk—and again to talk. Out of some innocent phrase may come enlightenment.”
A few days later the “Special Legion” met at Poirot’s rooms.
As they sat round looking obediently towards Poirot, who had his place, like the chairman at aboard meeting, at the head of the table, I myself passed them, as it were, in review, confirming orrevising my first impressions of them.
The three girls were all of them striking-looking—the extraordinary fair beauty of Thora Grey,the dark intensity of Megan Barnard, with her strange Red Indian immobility of face—MaryDrower, neatly dressed in a black coat and skirt, with her pretty, intelligent face. Of the two men,Franklin Clarke, big, bronzed and talkative, Donald Fraser, self-contained and quiet, made aninteresting contrast to each other.
Poirot, unable, of course, to resist the occasion, made a little speech.
“Mesdames and Messieurs, you know what we are here for. The police are doing their utmost totrack down the criminal. I, too, in my different way. But it seems to me a reunion of those whohave a personal interest in the matter—and also, I may say, a personal knowledge of the victims—might have results that an outside investigation cannot pretend to attain.
“Here we have three murders—an old woman, a young girl, an elderly man. Only one thinglinks these three people together—the fact that the same person killed them. That means that thesame person was present in three different localities and was seen necessarily by a large numberof people. That he is a madman in an advanced stage of mania goes without saying. That hisappearance and behaviour give no suggestion of such a fact is equally certain. This person—andthough I say he, remember it may be a man or a woman—has all the devilish cunning of insanity.
He has succeeded so far in covering his traces completely. The police have certain vagueindications but nothing upon which they can act.
“Nevertheless, there must exist indications which are not vague but certain. To take oneparticular point—this assassin, he did not arrive at Bexhill at midnight and find conveniently onthe beach a young lady whose name began with B—”
“Must we go into that?”
It was Donald Fraser who spoke — the words wrung from him, it seemed, by some inneranguish.
“It is necessary to go into everything, monsieur,” said Poirot, turning to him. “You are here, notto save your feelings by refusing to think of details, but if necessary to harrow them by going intothe matter au fond. As I say, it was not chance that provided A B C with a victim in Betty Barnard.
There must have been deliberate selection on his part—and therefore premeditation. That is to say,he must have reconnoitred the ground beforehand. There were facts of which he had informedhimself—the best hour for the committing of the crime at Andover—the mise en scène at Bexhill—the habits of Sir Carmichael Clarke at Churston. Me, for one, I refuse to believe that there is noindication—no slightest hint—that might help to establish his identity.
“I make the assumption that one—or possibly all of you—knows something that they do notknow they know.
“Sooner or later, by reason of your association with one another, something will come to light,will take on a significance as yet undreamed of. It is like the jig-saw puzzle—each of you mayhave a piece apparently without meaning, but which when reunited may show a definite portion ofthe picture as a whole.”
“Words!” said Megan Barnard.
“Eh?” Poirot looked at her inquiringly.
“What you’ve been saying. It’s just words. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She spoke with that kind of desperate intensity that I had come to associate with her personality.
“Words, mademoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas.”
“Well, I think it’s sense,” said Mary Drower. “I do really, miss. It’s often when you’re talkingover things that you seem to see your way clear. Your mind gets made up for you sometimeswithout your knowing how it’s happened. Talking leads to a lot of things one way and another.”
“If ‘least said is soonest mended,’ it’s the converse we want here,” said Franklin Clarke.
“What do you say, Mr. Fraser?”
“I rather doubt the practical applicability of what you say, M. Poirot.”
“What do you think, Thora?” asked Clarke.
“I think the principle of talking things over is always sound.”
“Suppose,” suggested Poirot, “that you all go over your own remembrances of the timepreceding the murder. Perhaps you’ll start, Mr. Clarke.”
“Let me see, on the morning of the day Car was killed I went off sailing. Caught eight mackerel.
Lovely out there on the bay. Lunch at home. Irish stew, I remember. Slept in the hammock. Tea.
Wrote some letters, missed the post, and drove into Paignton to post them. Then dinner and—I’mnot ashamed to say it—reread a book of E. Nesbit’s that I used to love as a kid. Then the telephonerang—”
“No further. Now reflect, Mr. Clarke, did you meet anyone on your way down to the sea in themorning?”
“Lots of people.”
“Can you remember anything about them?”
“Not a damned thing now.”
“Sure?”
“Well—let’s see—I remember a remarkably fat woman—she wore a striped silk dress and Iwondered why—had a couple of kids with her—two young men with a fox terrier on the beachthrowing stones for it—Oh, yes, a girl with yellow hair squeaking as she bathed—funny howthings come back—like a photograph developing.”
“You are a good subject. Now later in the day—the garden—going to the post—”
“The gardener watering… Going to the post? Nearly ran down a bicyclist — silly womanwobbling and shouting to a friend. That’s all, I’m afraid.”
Poirot turned to Thora Grey.
“Miss Grey?”
Thora Grey replied in her clear, positive voice:
“I did correspondence with Sir Carmichael in the morning—saw the housekeeper. I wrote lettersand did needlework in the afternoon, I fancy. It is difficult to remember. It was quite an ordinaryday. I went to bed early.”
Rather to my surprise, Poirot asked no further. He said:
“Miss Barnard—can you bring back your remembrances of the last time you saw your sister?”
“It would be about a fortnight before her death. I was down for Saturday and Sunday. It wasfine weather. We went to Hastings to the swimming pool.”
“What did you talk about most of the time?”
“I gave her a piece of my mind,” said Megan.
“And what else? She conversed of what?”
The girl frowned in an effort of memory.
“She talked about being hard up—of a hat and a couple of summer frocks she’d just bought.
And a little of Don…She also said she disliked Milly Higley—that’s the girl at the café—and welaughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the café…I don’t remember anything else….”
“She didn’t mention any man—forgive me, Mr. Fraser—she might be meeting?”
“She wouldn’t to me,” said Megan dryly.
Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw.
“Mr. Fraser—I want you to cast your mind back. You went, you said, to the café on the fatalevening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can youremember anyone at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?”
“There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can’t remember any of them.”
“Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye noticesmechanically—unintelligently but accurately….”
The young man repeated doggedly:
“I don’t remember anybody.”
Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower.
“I suppose you got letters from your aunt?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“When was the last?”
Mary thought a minute.
“Two days before the murder, sir.”
“What did it say?”
“She said the old devil had been round and that she’d sent him off with a flea in the ear—excusethe expression, sir—said she expected me over on the Wednesday—that’s my day out, sir—andshe said we’d go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir.”
Something—the thought of the little festivity perhaps—suddenly brought the tears to Mary’seyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it.
“You must forgive me, sir. I don’t want to be silly. Crying’s no good. It was just the thought ofher—and me—looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir.”
“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 rememberseeing a woman run over once. She’d just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there—and theburst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out—it gave me a turn—theylooked 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 boughtsome stockings for her as a present—bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she wasall broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: ‘I bought them for Betty—I boughtthem for Betty—and she never even saw them.’”
Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. Therewas 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 momentcomes—that is, when the fourth letter arrives—we ought to join forces. Until then, perhaps wemight each try our luck on our own. I don’t know whether there are any points M. Poirot thinksmight 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 offensiveapproach.”
“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 sisterhad told you all about her. If I do not err, that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tellyou 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 mesee 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 sheprefers a post in London.”
Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other.
“How is Lady Clarke?” he demanded.
I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey’s cheeks and almost missed Clarke’s reply.
“Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down toDevon and paying her a visit? She expressed a desire to see you before I left. Of course, she oftencan’t see people for a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that—at my expense, ofcourse.”
“Certainly, Mr. Clarke. Shall we say the day after tomorrow?”
“Good. I’ll let nurse know and she’ll arrange the dope accordingly.”
“For you, my child,” said Poirot, turning to Mary, “I think you might perhaps do good work inAndover. Try the children.”
“The children?”
“Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known in the street where youraunt lived. There were a good many children playing about. They may have noticed who went inand out of your aunt’s shop.”
“What about Miss Grey and myself?” asked Clarke. “That is, if I’m not to go to Bexhill.”
“M. Poirot,” said Thora Grey, “what was the postmark on the third letter?”
“Putney, mademoiselle.”
She said thoughtfully: “SW15, Putney, that is right, is it not?”
“For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly.”
“That seems to point to A B C being a Londoner.”
“On the face of it, yes.”
“One ought to be able to draw him,” said Clarke. “M. Poirot, how would it be if I inserted anadvertisement—something after these lines: A B C. Urgent, H.P. close on your track. A hundredfor my silence. X.Y.Z. Nothing quite so crude as that—but you see the idea. It might draw him.”
“It is a possibility—yes.”
“Might induce him to try and have a shot at me.”
“I think it’s very dangerous and silly,” said Thora Grey sharply.
“What about it, M. Poirot?”
“It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A B C will be too cunning to reply.” Poirot smileda little. “I see, Mr. Clarke, that you are—if I may say so without being offensive—still a boy atheart.”
Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed.
“Well,” he said, consulting his notebook. “We’re making a start.
A—Miss Barnard and Milly Higley.
B—Mr. Fraser and Miss Higley.
C—Children in Andover.
D—Advertisement.
“I don’t feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting.”
He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed.
 

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