The A B C Murders by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

to focus attention on himself ever becoming stronger, and events,
     circumstances - crushing it down - heaping, perhaps, more humiliations on him. And
     inwardly the match is set to the powder train...”
    “That's all pure conjecture,” I objected. “It doesn't give you any practical help.”
    “You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! You always have. But at
     least we can ask ourselves some practical questions. Why the A.B.C.? Why Mrs. Ascher? Why
     Andover?”
    “The woman's past life seems simple enough,” I mused. “The interviews with those two men
     were disappointing. They couldn't tell us anything more than we knew already.”
    “To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we could not neglect two
     possible candidates for the murder.”
    “Surely you don't think -”
    “There is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near Andover. That is a
     possible answer to our question: 'Why Andover?' Well, here were two men known to have been
     in the shop at the requisite time of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there
     is nothing as yet to show that one or other of them is not the murderer.”
    “That great hulking brute, Riddell, perhaps,” I admitted.
    “Oh, I am inclined to acquit Riddell off-hand. He was nervous, blustering, obviously
     uneasy -”
    “But surely that just shows -”
    “A nature diametrically opposed to that which penned the A.B.C. letter. Conceit and
     self-confidence are the characteristics that we must look for.”
    “Some one who throws his weight about.”
    “Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing manner, conceal a great deal
     of vanity and self-satisfaction.”
    “You don't think that little Mr. Partridge -?”
    “He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as the writer of the letter
     would act - goes at once to the police - pushes himself to the fore-enjoys his position.”
    “Do you really think -?”
    “No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came from outside Andover, but we
     must neglect no avenue of research. And although I say 'he' all the time, we must not
     exclude the possibility of a woman being concerned.”
    “Surely not!”
    “The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous letters are written by
     women rather than by men. We must bear that in mind.”
    I was silent for a few minutes, then I said:
    “What do we do next?”
    “My energetic Hastings,” Poirot said and smiled at me.
    “No, but what do we do?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?” My disappointment rang out clearly.
    “Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?”
    Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give answer. Nevertheless I
     felt convinced that something ought to be done and that we should not allow the grass to
     grow under our feet. I said:
    “There is the A.B.C. - and the notepaper and envelope -”
    “Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their
     disposal for that kind of inquiry. If anything is to be discovered on those lines have no
     fear but that they will discover it.”
    With that I was forced to rest content.
    In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discuss the case. When I
     tried to reopen the subject he waved it aside with an impatient hand.
    In my own mind I was afraid that I fathomed his motive. Over the murder of Mrs. Ascher,
     Poirot had sustained a defeat. A.B.C. had challenged him - and A.B.C. had won. My friend,
     accustomed to an unbroken line of successes, was sensitive to his failure - so much so
     that he could not even endure discussion of the subject. It was, perhaps, a sign of
     pettiness in so great a man, but even the most sober of us is liable to have his head
     turned by success. In Poirot's case the head-turning process had been going on for years.
     Small wonder if its effects became