The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Traditional, Historical, Crime
ISBN: 9780062930484
Google: srWOvAEACAAJ
Amazon: B000FC10IE
Barnesnoble: B000FC10IE
Goodreads: 42079259
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-01-08T06:00:00+00:00

“I don’t feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting.”

He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed.

Nineteen

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.”

“I thought it sounded very plausible.”

“Plausible, yes. It was just 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 anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact.”

“But why?”

“Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work to be done! To start—shall we say—the 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 à fait à 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 ça,” Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice:

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