name was not very well known to the general public,
was a man of some eminence. He had been in his time a very well-known throat specialist.
Retiring from his profession, very comfortably off, he had been able to indulge what had
been one of the chief passions of his life - a collection of Chinese pottery and
porcelain. A few years later, inheriting a considerable fortune from an elderly uncle, he
had been able to indulge his passion to the full, and he was now the possessor of one of
the best known collections of Chinese art. He was married but had no children, and lived
in a house he had built for himself near the Devon coast, only coming to London on rare
occasions such as when some important sale was on.
It did not require much reflection to realize that his death, following that of the young
and pretty Betty Barnard, would provide the best newspaper sensation in years. The fact
that it was August and that the papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters
worse.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “It is possible that publicity may do what private efforts have
failed to do. The whole country now will be looking for A.B.C.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “that's what he wants.”
“True. But it may, all the same, be his undoing. Gratified by success, he may become
careless... That is what I hope - that he may be drunk with his own cleverness.”
“How odd all this is, Poirot,” I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an idea. “Do you know, this
is the first crime of this kind that you and I have worked on together? All our murders
have been - well, private murders, so to speak.”
“You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen our lot to work from the
inside. It has been the history of the victim that was important. The important points
have been: 'Who benefited by the death? What opportunities had those round him to commit
the crime?' It has always been the 'crime intime.' Here, for the first time in our
association, it is cold-blooded, impersonal murder. Murder from the outside.”
I shivered.
“It's rather horrible...”
“Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something
wrong - misshapen -”
He made an impatient gesture.
“One must not give way to the nerves... This is no worse than any ordinary crime...”
“It is... It is...”
“Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life of some one near
and dear to you - some one who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?”
“It's worse because it's mad...”
“No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult.”
“No, no, I do not agree with you. It's infinitely more frightening.”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
“It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by some one shrewd
and sane would be far more complicated. Here, if one could but hit on the idea... This
alphabetical business, it has discrepancies. If I could once see the idea - then
everything would be clear and simple...”
He sighed and shook his head.
“These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth... Go, Hastings. Get some
sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow.”
The A B C Murders
Chapter 15
SIR CARMICHAEL CLARK
Churston, lying as it does between Brixham on the one side and Paignton and Torquay on the
other, occupies a position about halfway round the curve of Torbay. Until about ten years
ago it was merely a golf links and below the links a green sweep of countryside dropping
down to the sea with only a farmhouse or two in the way of human occupation. But of late
years there have been big building developments between Churston and Paignton and the
coastline is now dotted with small houses and bungalows, new roads, etc.
Sir Carmichael Clarke had purchased a site of some two acres commanding an uninterrupted
view of the sea. The house he had built
was a man of some eminence. He had been in his time a very well-known throat specialist.
Retiring from his profession, very comfortably off, he had been able to indulge what had
been one of the chief passions of his life - a collection of Chinese pottery and
porcelain. A few years later, inheriting a considerable fortune from an elderly uncle, he
had been able to indulge his passion to the full, and he was now the possessor of one of
the best known collections of Chinese art. He was married but had no children, and lived
in a house he had built for himself near the Devon coast, only coming to London on rare
occasions such as when some important sale was on.
It did not require much reflection to realize that his death, following that of the young
and pretty Betty Barnard, would provide the best newspaper sensation in years. The fact
that it was August and that the papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters
worse.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “It is possible that publicity may do what private efforts have
failed to do. The whole country now will be looking for A.B.C.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “that's what he wants.”
“True. But it may, all the same, be his undoing. Gratified by success, he may become
careless... That is what I hope - that he may be drunk with his own cleverness.”
“How odd all this is, Poirot,” I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an idea. “Do you know, this
is the first crime of this kind that you and I have worked on together? All our murders
have been - well, private murders, so to speak.”
“You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen our lot to work from the
inside. It has been the history of the victim that was important. The important points
have been: 'Who benefited by the death? What opportunities had those round him to commit
the crime?' It has always been the 'crime intime.' Here, for the first time in our
association, it is cold-blooded, impersonal murder. Murder from the outside.”
I shivered.
“It's rather horrible...”
“Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something
wrong - misshapen -”
He made an impatient gesture.
“One must not give way to the nerves... This is no worse than any ordinary crime...”
“It is... It is...”
“Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life of some one near
and dear to you - some one who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?”
“It's worse because it's mad...”
“No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult.”
“No, no, I do not agree with you. It's infinitely more frightening.”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
“It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by some one shrewd
and sane would be far more complicated. Here, if one could but hit on the idea... This
alphabetical business, it has discrepancies. If I could once see the idea - then
everything would be clear and simple...”
He sighed and shook his head.
“These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth... Go, Hastings. Get some
sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow.”
The A B C Murders
Chapter 15
SIR CARMICHAEL CLARK
Churston, lying as it does between Brixham on the one side and Paignton and Torquay on the
other, occupies a position about halfway round the curve of Torbay. Until about ten years
ago it was merely a golf links and below the links a green sweep of countryside dropping
down to the sea with only a farmhouse or two in the way of human occupation. But of late
years there have been big building developments between Churston and Paignton and the
coastline is now dotted with small houses and bungalows, new roads, etc.
Sir Carmichael Clarke had purchased a site of some two acres commanding an uninterrupted
view of the sea. The house he had built
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