The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie Page B

undoing. Gratified by success, he may become careless…That is what I hope—that he may be drunk with his own cleverness.”
    â€œHow 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.”
    â€œYou are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen to 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.
    â€œIt’s rather horrible….”
    â€œYes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen….”
    He made an impatient gesture.
    â€œOne must not give way to the nerves… This is no worse than any ordinary crime ….”
    â€œIt is…It is….”
    â€œIs it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life of someone near and dear to you—someone who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?”
    â€œIt’s worse because it’s mad ….”
    â€œNo, Hastings. It is not worse . It is only more difficult .”
    â€œNo, no, I do not agree with you. It’s infinitely more frightening.”
    Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
    â€œIt should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by someone 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.
    â€œThese crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth…Go, Hastings. Get some sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow.”

Fifteen
S IR C ARMICHAEL C LARKE
    C hurston, 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 had 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 of modern design—a white rectangle that was not unpleasing to the eye. Apart from two big galleries that housed his collection it was not a large house.
    Our arrival there took place about 8 am. A local police officer had met us at the station and had put us au courant of the situation.
    Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in the habit oftaking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up—at some time after eleven—it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually followed the same course, it was not long before a search party discovered his body. Death was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open A B C had been placed face downwards on the dead body.
    We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o’clock. The door was opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the tragedy had affected him.
    â€œGood morning, Deveril,” said the police officer.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Wells.”
    â€œThese are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.”
    â€œThis way, gentlemen.” He ushered us into a long