The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie Page A

regard what you have done to my pyjamas. If the hairwash breaks what will befall them?”
    â€œGood heavens, Poirot,” I cried, “this is a matter of life and death. What does it matter what happens to our clothes?”
    â€œYou have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catcha train earlier than the time that it leaves, and to ruin one’s clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder.”
    Taking his suitcase from me firmly, he took the packing into his own hands.
    He explained that we were to take the letter and envelope to Paddington with us. Someone from Scotland Yard would meet us there.
    When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was Inspector Crome.
    He answered Poirot’s look of inquiry.
    â€œNo news as yet. All men available are on the lookout. All persons whose name begins with C are being warned by phone when possible. There’s just a chance. Where’s the letter?”
    Poirot gave it to him.
    He examined it, swearing softly under his breath.
    â€œOf all the damned luck. The stars in their courses fight for the fellow.”
    â€œYou don’t think,” I suggested, “that it was done on purpose?”
    Crome shook his head.
    â€œNo. He’s got his rules—crazy rules—and abides by them. Fair warning. He makes a point of that. That’s where his boastfulness comes in. I wonder now—I’d almost bet the chap drinks White Horse whisky.”
    â€œAh, c’est ingénieux, ça!” said Poirot, driven to admiration in spite of himself. “He prints the letter and the bottle is in front of him.”
    â€œThat’s the way of it,” said Crome. “We’ve all of us done much the same thing one time or another, unconsciously copied something that’s just under the eye. He started off White and went on horse instead of haven….”
    The inspector, we found, was also travelling by the train.
    â€œEven if by some unbelievable luck nothing happened, Churston is the place to be. Our murderer is there, or has been there today. One of my men is on the phone here up to the last minute in case anything comes through.”
    Just as the train was leaving the station we saw a man running down the platform. He reached the inspector’s window and called up something.
    As the train drew out of the station Poirot and I hurried along the corridor and tapped on the door of the inspector’s sleeper.
    â€œYou have news—yes?” demanded Poirot.
    Crome said quietly:
    â€œIt’s about as bad as it can be. Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found with his head bashed in.”
    Sir Carmichael Clarke, although his 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 for years. The fact that it was August and that the papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters worse.
    â€œEh 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.”
    â€œUnfortunately,” I said, “that’s what he wants.”
    â€œTrue. But it may, all the same, be his