The A B C Murders by Christie Agatha

Author:Christie, Agatha [Agatha, Christie,]
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-06-23T04:00:00+00:00

The A B C Murders

Chapter 19

BY WAY OF SWEDEN

Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself.

“Unfortunate that she is so intelligent,” he murmured.

“Who?”

“Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. 'Words,' she snaps out. At once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken in.”

“I thought it sounded very plausible.”

“Plausible, yes. It was just that that she perceived.”

“Didn't you mean what you said, then?”

“What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad lib. without any one but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact.”

“But why?”

“Eh bien - to get things going! To imbue every one with the impression that there was work to be done! To start - shall we say - conversations!”

“Don't you think any of these lines will lead to anything?”

“Oh, it is always possible.”

He chuckled.

“In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?”

“What do you mean?”

“The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences - tout ˆ fait ˆ part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together two people who loved one another by the simple method of having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings. Murder, I have often noticed, is a great matchmaker.”

“Really, Poirot,” I cried, scandalized. “I'm sure none of those people was thinking of anything but -”

“Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?”

“I?”

“Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?”

“One may do that without being callous.”

“Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme � a,” Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice:

"Some of the time I love a brunette,

Some of the time I love a blonde

(who comes from Eden

by way of Sweden).

“What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l'emporte sur la brunette.”

“Really, Poirot,” I cried, blushing slightly.

“C'est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr. Donald Fraser, he -”

“Poirot,” I said, “your mind is incurably sentimental.”

“That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings.”

I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened. To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered.

“Forgive me for coming back,” she said composedly. “But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot.”

“Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?”

She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words.

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