The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie Page A

superintendent sceptically.
    â€œOf course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the special characteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinely appointed to kill clergymen—or doctors—or old women in tobacco shops—and there’s always some perfectly coherent reason behind it. We mustn’t let the alphabetical business run away with us. Bexhill succeeding to Andover may be a mere coincidence.”
    â€œWe can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a special note of the B’s, especially small shopkeepers, and keep a watch on all small tobacconists and newsagents looked after by asingle person. I don’t think there’s anything more we can do than that. Naturally, keep tabs on all strangers as far as possible.”
    The superintendent uttered a groan.
    â€œWith the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? People are fairly flooding into the place this week.”
    â€œWe must do what we can,” the Chief Constable said sharply.
    Inspector Glen spoke in his turn.
    â€œI’ll have a watch kept on anyone connected with the Ascher business. Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course Ascher himself. If they show any sign of leaving Andover they’ll be followed.”
    The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little desultory conversation.
    â€œPoirot,” I said as we walked along by the river. “Surely this crime can be prevented?”
    He turned a haggard face to me.
    â€œThe sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one man? I fear, Hastings—I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper.”
    â€œIt’s horrible,” I said.
    â€œMadness, Hastings, is a terrible thing… I am afraid…I am very much afraid ….”

Nine
T HE B EXHILL-ON -S EA M URDER
    I still remember my awakening on the morning of the 25th of July. It must have been about seven-thirty.
    Poirot was standing by my bedside gently shaking me by the shoulder. One glance at his face brought me from semiconsciousness into the full possession of my faculties.
    â€œWhat is it?” I demanded, sitting up rapidly.
    His answer came quite simply, but a wealth of emotion lay behind the three words he uttered.
    â€œIt has happened.”
    â€œWhat?” I cried. “You mean—but today is the 25th.”
    â€œIt took place last night—or rather in the early hours of this morning.”
    As I sprang from bed and made a rapid toilet, he recounted briefly what he had just learnt over the telephone.
    â€œThe body of a young girl has been found on the beach at Bexhill. She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of the cafés, who lived with her parents in a little recently builtbungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11:30 and 1 am.”
    â€œThey’re quite sure that this is the crime?” I asked, as I hastily lathered my face.
    â€œAn A B C open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body.”
    I shivered.
    â€œThis is horrible!”
    â€œ Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy in my rooms!”
    I wiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully.
    â€œWhat is our plan of campaign?” I asked.
    â€œThe car will call for us in a few moments’ time. I will bring you a cup of coffee here so that there will be no delay in starting.”
    Twenty minutes later we were in a fast police car crossing the Thames on our way out of London.
    With us was Inspector Crome, who had been present at the conference the other day, and who was officially in charge of the case.
    Crome was a very different type of officer from Japp. A much younger man, he was the silent, superior type. Well educated and well read, he was, for my taste, several shades too pleased with himself. He had lately gained kudos over a series of child murders, having patiently tracked down the criminal who