The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie

rose and went along to the box. There were four or five letters, I remember. The last one I looked at was addressed in printed characters.
    â€œPoirot,” I cried…My voice died away.
    â€œIt has come? Open it, Hastings. Quickly. Every moment may be needed. We must make our plans.”
    I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me with untidiness) and extracted the printed sheet.
    â€œRead it,” said Poirot.
    I read aloud:
    Poor Mr. Poirot,—Not so good at these little criminal matters as you thought yourself, are you? Rather past your prime, perhaps? Let us see if you can do any better this time. This time it’s an easy one. Churston on the 30th. Do try and do something about it! It’s a bit dull having it all my own way, you know!
    Good hunting. Ever yours,
A B C.
    â€œChurston,” I said, jumping to our own copy of an A B C. “Let’s see where it is.”
    â€œHastings,” Poirot’s voice came sharply and interrupted me. “When was that letter written? Is there a date on it?”
    I glanced at the letter in my hand.
    â€œWritten on the 27th,” I announced.
    â€œDid I hear you aright, Hastings? Did he give the date of the murder as the 30th? ”
    â€œThat’s right. Let me see, that’s—”
    â€œ Bon Dieu, Hastings—do you not realise? Today is the 30th .”
    His eloquent hand pointed to the calendar on the wall. I caught up the daily paper to confirm it.
    â€œBut why—how—” I stammered.
    Poirot caught up the torn envelope from the floor. Something unusual about the address had registered itself vaguely in my brain, but I had been too anxious to get at the contents of the letter to pay more than fleeting attention to it.
    Poirot was at the time living in Whitehaven Mansions. The address ran: M. Hercule Poirot, Whitehorse Mansions, across the corner was scrawled: “Not known at Whitehorse Mansions, EC1, nor at Whitehorse Court—try Whitehaven Mansions.”
    â€œMon Dieu!” murmured Poirot. “Does even chance aid this madman? Vite—vite —we must get on to Scotland Yard.”
    A minute or two later we were speaking to Crome over the wire. For once the self-controlled inspector did not reply “Oh, yes?” Instead a quickly stifled curse came to his lips. He heard what we had to say, then rang off in order to get a trunk connection to Churston as rapidly as possible.
    â€œC’est trop tard,” murmured Poirot.
    â€œYou can’t be sure of that,” I argued, though without any great hope.
    He glanced at the clock.
    â€œTwenty minutes past ten? An hour and forty minutes to go. Is it likely that A B C will have held his hand so long?”
    I opened the railway guide I had previously taken from its shelf.
    â€œChurston, Devon,” I read, “from Paddington 204¾ miles. Population 656. It sounds a fairly small place. Surely our man will be bound to be noticed there.”
    â€œEven so, another life will have been taken,” murmured Poirot. “What are the trains? I imagine train will be quicker than car.”
    â€œThere’s a midnight train—sleeping car to Newton Abbot—gets there 6:8 am, and then Churston at 7:15.”
    â€œThat is from Paddington?”
    â€œPaddington, yes.”
    â€œWe will take that, Hastings.”
    â€œYou’ll hardly have time to get news before we start.”
    â€œIf we receive bad news tonight or tomorrow morning does it matter which?”
    â€œThere’s something in that.”
    I put a few things together in a suitcase while Poirot once more rang up Scotland Yard.
    A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and demanded:
    â€œMais qu’est ce que vous faites là?”
    â€œI was packing for you. I thought it would save time.”
    â€œ Vous éprouvez trop d’émotion, Hastings . It affects your hands and your wits. Is that a way to fold a coat? And