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    The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Ebook310 pages4 hours

    The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

    By Agatha Christie

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    There's a serial killer on the loose, bent on working his way though the alphabet. There seems little chance of the murderer being caught -- until her makes the crucial and vain mistake of challenging Hercule Poirot to frustrate his plans ...

    Editor's Note

    Stylistic wonder…

    Agatha Christie’s beloved Hercule Poirot is being portrayed in a new TV miniseries by John Malkovich. This entry into the Poirot series of mysteries takes even more unexpected twists and turns as it takes many liberties with style, revealing Christie’s immense skill.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateDec 15, 2003
    ISBN9780061739934
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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    Reviews for The ABC Murders

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    • 4/5
      **2018 UPDATE**There's yet another unnecessary, unwanted remake of this book into a 3-part miniseries being made; John Malkovich will appear as Poirot, which is as ludicrous as that Brannagh dude and his mustachios appearing in the unnecessary, unwanted remake of [Murder on the Orient Express] that carbuncled itself onto screens last year.Rupert Grint, of Harry Potter fame, will also appear. Amazon Prime will stream in the US, though I'm not sure about international markets. End of this year. Why they can't leave it with David Suchet, who filmed all the Poirot stories in 25 years as the little Belgian, I cannot fathom. He **was** Poirot. *annoyed sigh*2019 UPDATE I watched the Amazon Prime 3-part adaptation. It wasn't at all bad. I still think of Suchet as Poirot, but wasn't distracted by Malkovich in the role as I worried I might be. His Poirot is very different from the canonical one. Not bad, please understand, just different; his moustaches are infinitely preferable to the pogonotical heresy sported by Branagh in the recent feature film of Murder on the Orient Express.There is a new, and divisive, backstory to the character; Malkovich's Belgian accent is superior to almost all the preceding efforts; the production was possessed of some annoying (to me) anachronisms (eg, a Woody Herman tune from 1939 being used in a 1933 setting, a china pattern I know from my years selling the stuff was introduced in 1960) but overall was beautifully conceived to convey the despair of the time.I was inspired by the series to zip through the book again, and found it to be one of the top quality Christie efforts. Hastings, our narrator, has just returned from South America; he delivers us the the story with all the verve of Boswell reporting on Johnson's aperçus. Hastings is also, in the way of informing the reader, attempting to put himself in the head of the killer. It's not the ordinary run of the mill technique used in the Poirot books and I, for one, am pleased that's the case. It's not unsuccessful, exactly, to tell the story this way. It's obtrusive, and calls attention to the story as being told. So there one is, listening to one's rather dull cousin talking about how clever someone else is. It's not the smoothest reading experience, but it's quite effective as used in this particular story.I was again struck by the great usefulness of Hastings as a narrator, and am sad to report that he is absent from this filmed version; Inspector Japp's fate, dealt with here in a cursory way, is at variance from the book; Cust's issues and their resolution are very much changed for no particular reason that I can see; and Rupert Grint's Inspector Crome is a nasty little man, eaten alive by jealousy and petty grievance. It was actually a perfect foil for Malkovich's performance. So I'll eat my 2018 words and say this *isn't* an unnecessary and unwanted remake of the Suchet-era version (which, if I'm honest, isn't all that). It's a different, darker, and curiously unpleasant take on a top-flight Christie novel.
    • 4/5
      Loved this Poirot novel. Someone is committing seemingly random murders around England based on the letters in the victims' names. They are taunting the famous detective with letters and he tries to anticipate the next move. The clever Poirot doesn't disappoint and this was a great vacation read.
    • 3/5
      Serial-killer stories and golden-age private detectives don't often intersect, for obvious reasons - tracking down a serial killer normally requires the kind of large-scale teamwork that makes police-procedurals so interesting. So Christie has to play a few tricks here to finagle Poirot into investigating a set-up that rapidly turns into a template for so many later serial-killer stories - victims widely separated in location, social class and personal situation, but linked by a bizarre "signature" element - in this case Alice Asscher in Andover, Betty Barnard in Bexhill, and so on, are all found with an "ABC Railway Guide" next to them. The police steadily plough through the process of amassing clues, whilst Poirot focusses on what today's crime novelists would call the forensic psychology aspect of the case, trying to work out what it could be that motivates the killer. And of course has plenty of opportunities along the way for chaffing his sidekick, Captain Hastings, about the conventions of detective fiction. He pours particular scorn on the importance of the Clue, in particular the "curiously-twisted dagger" or the "little-known oriental poison". (And a few passing references along the way to past and future Poirot books.) There's also a lot of interesting discussion calling into question our preconceptions about crime and madness - you can't help wondering if there's some biographical significance to the way the main suspect himself has a genuine doubt in his mind about whether or not he committed the crimes, bearing in mind Christie's high-profile fugue ten years earlier. But the seriousness of the discussions is a little undermined by the way characters seem to keep saying "homicidal murderer" when they presumably mean "homicidal maniac"...Fun, even if not without a few big flaws, and I'm glad to have read it at last. And obviously an influential crime story, since it launched a major plot convention re-used by many other writers since.
    • 4/5
      This is one of the most convoluted of Agatha Christie plots, featuring a series of seemingly unrelated killings but with the common feature of a railway timetable being found beside each body. The final lengthy explanation by Poirot of the true solution demonstrates the ingenuity of the author's mind in concocting such a bizarre explanation for the series of murders, which confound the "[too] obvious" identity of the killer. The novel is a mixture of first person (by Poirot's sometime confidante Arthur Hastings) and third person narration, where Hastings supposedly faithfully records events at which he was not present. I like the Poirot-Hastings partnership, which was used only in some seven novels - it is very reminiscent of Holmes and Watson. I was prompted to read this by watching the BBC TV adaptation last week. While I thought this was a good piece of atmospheric drama in its own right, it differed in several aspects from the novel, especially in terms of Poirot's background.
    • 4/5
      The A.B.C. Murders is a cleverly plotted story about a serious of random murders. The victims are from different places, are of different sexes and ages. The only sure thing is that that killer started with the initial A and is working his way through the alphabet. Hercule Poirot comes into the hunt due to the letters he receives from the killer taunting him and giving him slight advance notice of the location of the next murder. A slightly different plotline from her usual Hercule Poirot stories, but it did include the familiar ending where Poirot gathers all involved for the big reveal. A well-crafted, interesting mystery with enough twists to keep the reader on their toes. The A.B.C. Murders is one of my favorite Agatha Christie mysteries and I thoroughly enjoyed this visit with the quirky detective.
    • 5/5
      rereading this after many years; Agatha Christie is always worth reading, and I like this story - lots of good misdirections and thought processes from Poirot and Hastings!
    • 4/5
      I had forgotten how good Agatha Christie was as a writer. I thoroughly enjoyed The ABC Murders and plan to read more of her works.
    • 4/5
      This is the first Hercule Poirot book I have read and I enjoyed it very much. The book is in the same set as Drink to Yesterday. The book begins with Poirot receiving a letter signed A.B.C. The letter challenges Mr. Poirot's ability to solve a mystery from an event that will take place at Andover on the 21st of the month. Then on the 21st Mrs. Ascher is found murdered in her shop at Andover. Found on the counter of her shop is a railway guide known as the A.B.C.Mr. Poirot's companion in this book, his Doctor Watson, is Captain Arthur Hastings O.B.E. Poirot and Hastings go to Andover and begin investigating Mrs. Ascher's murder. The witnesses are a cross section of the English middle class. Poirot questions them thoroughly creating interesting dialogs reminiscent to me of Jack Webb in Dragnet.Poirot then receives a second letter predicting trouble in Bexhill on the 25th. The case has turned into a serial murder and Scotland Yard becomes involved. Inspector Crome takes charge of the case accompanied by a psychiatrist, Dr. Thompson.The victim in Bexhill is Elizabeth Bernard, strangled by her own belt. The A.B.C. guide is found beneath her body. Poirot now becomes focused on discovering the motive which will lead to the killer. The murder in Bexhill is followed by the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke in Churston, preceded by the letter from A.B.C. Then George Earlfield is murdered in Doncaster on Septmember 11th in a movie theater. He is stabbed and the A.B.C. guide is left on the floor between his feet. Mr. Roger Downes is also found in the theater and it appears A.B.C. has made a mistake.After the murder in Doncaster a series of clues lead to Alexander Bonaparte Cust as the murderer. His room is searched and a quantity of A.B.C. guides are found. Mr. Cust is found and arrested. The only problem is that Mr. Cust has an alibi for the Bexhill murder.Hercule Poirot is still looking for the motive for the murders and has a meeting with Mr. Cust. Mr. Cust is a rather pitiful man. He failed to meet the expectations of his ambitious mother who saddled him with the names of glorious men. He was discharged from the Army when it was discovered he had epilepsy. Now he is plagued by headaches and memory loss from his epilepsy. Recently he had received a position selling stockings and maintained that the instructions of his employer had sent him to the cities where the murders were committed. He admits to Poirot that he committed the murders but cannot say why.The book ends with Poirot in a room with a group of the interested parties from the murders, the classic climax to a whodunit. Poirot proceeds to explain the crimes and names the murderer. The last scene is well done and contains interesting surprises.I understand why Agatha Christie had such a reputation as a mystery writer. The plot moves well and the book is full of interesting characters. The mystery and the ending are well done, surprising and believable.
    • 4/5
      The ABC Murders, Poirot is taunted by a serial murderer in personal notes sent to him. He has a hard time discovering the culprit until after all the crimes have been committed. This one has some interesting twists. This is a great fun read and an excellent Agatha Christie mystery.
    • 3/5
      A serial killer sends Hercule Poirot a letter telling him about the murder he plans to commit in Andover. The victim turns out to be an old woman by the name of Alice Ascher, and an ABC train guide is found near her body. The next letter tells Poirot the murder will take place in Bexhill-on-Sea, where the young Betty Barnard is found strangled, and again the ABC guide is found near her person. While the police force and Poirot are scrambling to find the identity of the madman before he gets through the entire alphabet, two more people are killed, and while the case is complicated enough, things are not at all what they seem. This was a good, solid Poirot mystery, but I can't say I was enthralled. Is it because I was passionate about Agatha Christie novels as a teenager and devoured them like so many chocolate bonbons that the second time around doesn't seem quite as sweet? Might I have sated my hunger then? or have my memories of those first discoveries failed to evolve along with me over the years? Have I become too jaded? I don't know, maybe all of the above. There's no denying that the dame knew how to write a great crime novel, but she's influenced so many generations of writers since that it's hard for me to appreciate the originality of her work anymore without feeling like the whole deal has grown a bit stale with age. An image of precious antique lace doilies and trinkets covered with a fine coating of dust comes to mind. Apologies to Christie's unerring fans. Perhaps I might grow to appreciate her fully again in another quarter century or so.
    • 4/5
      This was my first book by Agatha Christie. Fascinating study in perspective. And Hercule Poirot is a charming, if irritating sleuth. A serial killer makes the mistake of writing to Poirot - really his *only* mistake.
    • 5/5
      This one is truly one of my favorite Agatha books, it's in my opinion very modern. The conflict of having a serial killer is new for Poirot and makes the book current (as opposed to some other of the mysteries that wouldn't work in this day and era, though I do love them don' t get me wrong!)
    • 4/5
      Hercule Poirot, the world renowned detective, is sent a letter from A. B. C., a mysterious person who writes to Poirot to get his attention. Realizing he intends to kill multiple people, Poirot sets out to catch him before he can kill anyone else.

      This was a bit different from the other Poirot mysteries that I have read thus far because it was more about the killer than the crime. Poirot connects seemingly unrelated people to one killer and discovers the truth of the crime.

      Again I am awed by Christie's skills with mystery. I definitely did not see this ending coming and I applaud her intelligence.

      I also really loved this because the ending was so satisfying. I loved how Poirot takes the time to console Cust, an old man that no one seems to care about, after he was framed. I thought that it was a beautiful moment and very uplifting.
    • 4/5
      The ending was a bit unexpected, but I didn't enjoy this book as much as other Agatha Christies. I don't feel like the characters were as fleshed out as they usually are in her other books.
    • 4/5
      In this Poirot mystery he receives a letter from the mysterious ABC warning him of crime to take place which it quickly does on the stated date. A second letter arrives which starts a quest to stop the killer before gong through the entire alphabet.

      I enjoyed this book which was a quick read and used my little grey cells with it's twists and red herrings and the end was a surprise.

      As usual the police aren't exactly overjoyed that Poirot is as usual one step ahead of them

      Visiting again these well known characters is like visiting old friends.
    • 1/5
      I found this fairly disappointing. Christie is less fun when she's trying to be creepy.
    • 4/5
      Definitely one of the better Poirots. Unusually for Agatha Christie, a psychopathic serial killer is murdering people completely unknown to him, based only on the alphabet and an ABC railway guide. Could be seen as more modern than some of her other books. I'm not sure why I think that but the thought struck me very early on and didn't go away. There was more tension built up by the end than in some others because everyone can tell what will happen unless Poirot works out who did it, in a seemingly unsolvable mystery. Ending was both believable and completely surprising. I certainly didn't guess it, and I have a fairly good track record.
    • 4/5
      I read this because I was in need of a book to help pass some time one day. At under 200 pages it's nice and quick.I haven't read much of Christie's work and I was worried this was going to be very formulaic. However, I was intrigued by her range of style to keep the reader guessing. Christie also definitely had a sense of humour about writing murder mysteries and that's what keeps her work relevant and readable today.
    • 5/5
      One of the first ones I read. Loved it! it was so creative and brilliant, good twists.
    • 3/5
      The ABC Murders again contain a truly original plot idea from Agatha Christie. The twist at the end is unexpected. Perhaps too unexpected. For the first time in the Poitor series, I wasn't even looking for a particular murderer, since he is so clearly introduced to the reader from the very beginning. It therefore didn't read like a detective's narrative, but rather like a police/crime story.

      Amazing to see how Christie keeps on managing to find truly original plot layouts in this amazing Poitor series.
    • 4/5
      This was one of the lingering books I hadn't gotten to yet from the cool down with A.C. challenge this summer. I am so glad that I finally got to it. Usually Hercule Poirot annoys me but I kind of liked him in this one. This was a fast paced mystery coming in at around 200 pages. In this book we find Hercule Poirot challenged by a killer through letters sent to him. He must stop the killer before he commits another murder based on the alphabetical letter of the victim's name. Of course the killer's downfall is that he thinks he can outsmart Poirot. Let's just say that it doesn't took many letters for Poirot to figure the killer's identity. Like most of Christie's books I didn't have the solution figured out. The wrap ups are always so brilliant that I am always left wondering why I didn't put the clues together. This is another wonderful outing from the queen of crime that should leave Poirot fans especially pleased.
    • 5/5
      A foreword to this story by Captain Arthur Hastings saysIn this narrative of mine I have departed from my usual practice of relating only those incidents and scenes at which I myself was present. Certain chapters, therefore, are written in the third person.Hastings returns to England from South America in June 1935 to put his finances in order. Mrs Hasting stays home to look after the ranch. He finds Hercule Poirot installed in a new service flat in London - a sign of the times. Poirot looks remarkably well, his hair is blacker than Hastings expects (per favour of a bottle).Poirot has tried to retire several times already but is fearful that his "little grey cells.. [will].. grow the rust". So now he only takes cases that are the "cream of crime". In his most recent case he says he had a narrow escape, he was nearly exterminated. He is however looking forward to teaming up again with Hastings.I believe in luck - in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgiveable error.With that he plucks from his papers a note he recently received signed A B C that challenges him, in quite unpleasant terms, to solving a mystery that will take place at Andover on the 21st of the month. Poirot fears the note may be referring to a murder.Poirot consults his old friend Inspector Japp from Scotland Yard and so the police are alerted to look out for a murder in Andover on the 21st. This duly occurs. And elderly woman, a shop keeper is struck down in her shop, and the prime suspect, but for the letter to Poirot, would have been her estranged drunken sot of a husband.This begins what appears to be a spree of killings, each with an alphabetical clue. In each case a copy of the ABC Railway Guide is left with the body. Poirot recognises this is different to the intime sort of crime he is usually called on to investigate - crimes committed by one member of a family against another. This killer appears to be psychotic and he is playing with Poirot's mind.To help him solve the crime, or perhaps to keep an eye on them, Poirot calls together all the immediate family victims of the crimes, and turns them into a sort of vigilante band. This is an unusual step but quite in line with his usual strategies, where he will make at least one of the characters a confidante.I could tell you much more, but you need to read it for yourself. As you can probably tell from the tone of what I've written above, I really enjoyed THE ABC MURDERS. There's an occasional sprinkling of humour - looking for the one about Hasting's "comb-over" - and there is tension built by Poirot's likening of the acts of a serial murderer to the roll of the dice on the roulette wheel. He says that eventually the murderer will make a mistake. We also have a red herring to contend with from almost the beginning of the story.
    • 5/5
      This narrator is great! And of course, Agatha Christie is the queen of the spellbinding mystery. I would highly recommend this as a "commuting book."
    • 2/5
      Regarded as a classic but definitely not one of y favorite; murders seemingly linked to a British railway guide.
    • 3/5
      A mysterious "homicidal maniac" by the name of A.B.C. begins knocking people off based on an alphabetical scheme -- beginning with A. Ascher in Andover. It's up to private investigator Hercule Poirot and his friend Captain... er... Hastings to catch this crook before he can get from A to Z. This book chronicles the events of the murders and chase of the killer, with a nice little twist at the end which readers know must be coming but cannot quite figure out. The question Poirot asks himself through the whole case is not "who?" but "why?" which helps him catch the killer in the end. The twist at the end itself was clever and surprising, but I found myself waiting impatiently for it. While the rest of the book held my attention, I found it a little dull at times. The characters for the most part did not enthrall me, and the methodical investigation of the murders was a little redundant. However, after I finished the book, the turn of events kept me thinking for a while. I'd recommend it, but it definitely is not a "must read."
    • 5/5
      Fun quick read. My first Agatha Christie; I will definitely read more of her novels.
    • 4/5
      The writers of current 'serial murderer' series would do well to read this Christie in which the author deconstructs much of the mystic around such murders.This superbly plotted book also plays very fairly with the reader. Those who read carefully will not be surprised by the 'final reveal.'
    • 4/5
      I like A.Ch. books, although this one is not the best one I've read.
    • 4/5
      Very interesting, and although Agatha always keeps you in the dark as to A.B.C.'s true identity, it's still quite a fun book. I do dislike the few french words squeezed into the text however, mostly due to the fact that I don't speak French. Outside that however, I would reccomend this book to any mystery fan. Somebody who dislikes mysteries however, will of course find this book quite lacking.
    • 5/5
      Fabulous misdirection and great charcters. Told from the perspective of the loveable Captain Hastings this is an engaging crime story. I was able to guess at the twist but the way the story was told did not allow me to focus my mind on it and work out who the murderer was. One of her best I think.

    Book preview

    The ABC Murders - Agatha Christie

    One

    THE LETTER

    It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South America for a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for us out there. Like everyone else, we had suffered from world depression. I had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful if a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage the ranch.

    I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England was to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot.

    I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats in London. I accused him (and he admitted the fact) of having chosen this particular building entirely on account of its strictly geometrical appearance and proportions.

    But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you not find it so?

    I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alluding to an old joke, I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managed to induce hens to lay square eggs.

    Poirot laughed heartily.

    Ah, you remember that? Alas! no—science has not yet induced the hens to conform to modern tastes, they still lay eggs of different sizes and colours!

    I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking wonderfully well—hardly a day older than when I had last seen him.

    You’re looking in fine fettle, Poirot, I said. You’ve hardly aged at all. In fact, if it were possible, I should say that you had fewer grey hairs than when I saw you last.

    Poirot beamed on me.

    And why is that not possible? It is quite true.

    Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of from black to grey?

    Precisely.

    But surely that’s a scientific impossibility!

    Not at all.

    But that’s very extraordinary. It seems against nature.

    As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention the solution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doing so!

    I stared at him, puzzled.

    Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bottle in his hand which he handed to me.

    I took it, for the moment uncomprehending.

    It bore the words:

    Revivit.—To bring back the natural tone of the hair. Revivit is not a dye. In five shades, Ash, Chestnut, Titian, Brown, Black.

    Poirot, I cried. You have dyed your hair!

    Ah, the comprehension comes to you!

    "So that’s why your hair looks so much blacker than it did last time I was back."

    Exactly.

    Dear me, I said, recovering from the shock. I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?

    Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw.

    "No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustache! Quel horreur!"

    He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character.

    Well, they are very luxuriant still, I said.

    "N’est ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine."

    A good job too, I thought privately. But I would not for the world have hurt Poirot’s feelings by saying so.

    Instead I asked if he still practised his profession on occasion.

    I know, I said, that you actually retired years ago—

    "C’est vrai. To grow the vegetable marrows! And immediately a murder occurs—and I send the vegetable marrows to promenade themselves to the devil. And since then—I know very well what you will say—I am like the prima donna who makes positively the farewell performance! That farewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinite number of times!"

    I laughed.

    In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: this is the end. But no, something else arises! And I will admit it, my friend, the retirement I care for it not at all. If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust.

    I see, I said. You exercise them in moderation.

    Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only the cream of crime.

    Has there been much cream about?

    "Pas mal. Not long ago I had a narrow escape."

    Of failure?

    No, no. Poirot looked shocked. "But I—I, Hercule Poirot, was nearly exterminated."

    I whistled.

    An enterprising murderer!

    Not so much enterprising as careless, said Poirot. Precisely that—careless. But let us not talk of it. You know, Hastings, in many ways I regard you as my mascot.

    Indeed? I said. In what ways?

    Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on:

    As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: something will arise. As in former days we will hunt together, we two. But if so it must be no common affair. It must be something—he waved his hands excitedly—"something recherche"—delicate—fine…" He gave the last untranslatable word its full flavour.

    Upon my word, Poirot, I said. Anyone would think you were ordering a dinner at the Ritz.

    Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true. He sighed. But I believe in luck—in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivable error.

    What do you call the unforgivable error?

    Overlooking the obvious.

    I turned this over in my mind without quite seeing the point.

    Well, I said presently, smiling, has this super crime turned up yet?

    "Pas encore. At least—that is—"

    He paused. A frown of perplexity creased his forehead. His hands automatically straightened an object or two that I had inadvertently pushed awry.

    I am not sure, he said slowly.

    There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him in surprise.

    The frown still lingered.

    Suddenly with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the room to a desk near the window. Its contents, I need hardly say, were all neatly docketed and pigeonholed so that he was able at once to lay his hand upon the paper he wanted.

    He came slowly across to me, an open letter in his hand. He read it through himself, then passed it to me.

    "Tell me, mon ami, he said. What do you make of this?"

    I took it from him with some interest.

    It was written on thickish white notepaper in printed characters:

    Mr. Hercule Poirot,—You fancy yourself, don’t you, at solving mysteries that are too difficult for our poor thick-headed British police? Let us see, Mr. Clever Poirot, just how clever you can be. Perhaps you’ll find this nut too hard to crack. Look out for Andover, on the 21st of the month.

    Yours, etc.,

    A B C.

    I glanced at the envelope. That also was printed.

    Postmarked WC1, said Poirot as I turned my attention to the postmark. Well, what is your opinion?

    I shrugged my shoulders as I handed it back to him.

    Some madman or other, I suppose.

    That is all you have to say?

    Well—doesn’t it sound like a madman to you?

    Yes, my friend, it does.

    His tone was grave. I looked at him curiously.

    You take this very seriously, Poirot.

    "A madman, mon ami, is to be taken seriously. A madman is a very dangerous thing."

    Yes, of course, that is true…I hadn’t considered that point…But what I meant was, it sounds more like a rather idiotic kind of hoax. Perhaps some convivial idiot who had had one over the eight.

    "Comment? Nine? Nine what?"

    Nothing—just an expression. I meant a fellow who was tight. No, damn it, a fellow who had had a spot too much to drink.

    "Merci, Hastings—the expression ‘tight’ I am acquainted with it. As you say, there may be nothing more to it than that…."

    But you think there is? I asked, struck by the dissatisfaction of his tone.

    Poirot shook his head doubtfully, but he did not speak.

    What have you done about it? I inquired.

    What can one do? I showed it to Japp. He was of the same opinion as you—a stupid hoax—that was the expression he used. They get these things every day at Scotland Yard. I, too, have had my share….

    But you take this one seriously?

    Poirot replied slowly.

    There is something about that letter, Hastings, that I do not like….

    In spite of myself, his tone impressed me.

    You think—what?

    He shook his head, and picking up the letter, put it away again in the desk.

    If you really take it seriously, can’t you do something? I asked.

    As always, the man of action! But what is there to do? The county police have seen the letter but they, too, do not take it seriously. There are no fingerprints on it. There are no local clues as to the possible writer.

    In fact there is only your own instinct?

    "Not instinct, Hastings. Instinct is a bad word. It is my knowledge—my experience—that tells me that something about that letter is wrong—"

    He gesticulated as words failed him, then shook his head again.

    I may be making the mountain out of the anthill. In any case there is nothing to be done but wait.

    Well, the 21st is Friday. If a whacking great robbery takes place near Andover then—

    Ah, what a comfort that would be—!

    A comfort? I stared. The word seemed to be a very extraordinary one to use.

    "A robbery may be a thrill but it can hardly be a comfort!" I protested.

    Poirot shook his head energetically.

    You are in error, my friend. You do not understand my meaning. A robbery would be a relief since it would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else.

    Of what?

    Murder, said Hercule Poirot.

    Two

    NOT FROM CAPTAIN HASTINGS’ PERSONAL NARRATIVE

    Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust rose from his seat and peered near-sightedly round the shabby bedroom. His back was stiff from sitting in a cramped position and as he stretched himself to his full height an onlooker would have realized that he was, in reality, quite a tall man. His stoop and his near-sighted peering gave a delusive impression.

    Going to a well-worn overcoat hanging on the back of the door, he took from the pocket a packet of cheap cigarettes and some matches. He lit a cigarette and then returned to the table at which he had been sitting. He picked up a railway guide and consulted it, then he returned to the consideration of a typewritten list of names. With a pen, he made a tick against one of the first names on the list.

    It was Thursday, June 20th.

    Three

    ANDOVER

    I had been impressed at the time by Poirot’s forebodings about the anonymous letter he had received, but I must admit that the matter had passed from my mind when the 21st actually arrived and the first reminder of it came with a visit paid to my friend by Chief Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. The CID inspector had been known to us for many years and he gave me a hearty welcome.

    Well, I never, he exclaimed. If it isn’t Captain Hastings back from the wilds of the what do you call it! Quite like old days seeing you here with Monsieur Poirot. You’re looking well, too. Just a little bit thin on top, eh? Well, that’s what we’re all coming to. I’m the same.

    I winced slightly. I was under the impression that owing to the careful way I brushed my hair across the top of my head the thinness referred to by Japp was quite unnoticeable. However, Japp had never been remarkable for tact where I was concerned, so I put a good face upon it and agreed that we were none of us getting any younger.

    Except Monsieur Poirot here, said Japp. Quite a good advertisement for a hair tonic, he’d be. Face fungus sprouting finer than ever. Coming out into the limelight, too, in his old age. Mixed up in all the celebrated cases of the day. Train mysteries, air mysteries, high society deaths—oh, he’s here, there and everywhere. Never been so celebrated as since he retired.

    I have already told Hastings that I am like the prima donna who makes always one more appearance, said Poirot, smiling.

    I shouldn’t wonder if you ended by detecting your own death, said Japp, laughing heartily. That’s an idea, that is. Ought to be put in a book.

    It will be Hastings who will have to do that, said Poirot, twinkling at me.

    Ha ha! That would be a joke, that would, laughed Japp.

    I failed to see why the idea was so extremely amusing, and in any case I thought the joke was in poor taste. Poirot, poor old chap, is getting on. Jokes about his approaching demise can hardly be agreeable to him.

    Perhaps my manner showed my feelings, for Japp changed the subject.

    Have you heard about Monsieur Poirot’s anonymous letter?

    I showed it to Hastings the other day, said my friend.

    Of course, I exclaimed. It had quite slipped my memory. Let me see, what was the date mentioned?

    The 21st, said Japp. That’s what I dropped in about. Yesterday was the 21st and just out of curiosity I rang up Andover last night. It was a hoax all right. Nothing doing. One broken shop window—kid throwing stones—and a couple of drunk and disorderlies. So just for once our Belgian friend was barking up the wrong tree.

    I am relieved, I must confess, acknowledged Poirot.

    You’d quite got the wind up about it, hadn’t you? said Japp affectionately. Bless you, we get dozens of letters like that coming in every day! People with nothing better to do and a bit weak in the top storey sit down and write ’em. They don’t mean any harm! Just a kind of excitement.

    I have indeed been foolish to take the matter so seriously, said Poirot. It is the nest of the horse that I put my nose into there.

    You’re mixing up mares and wasps, said Japp.

    Pardon?

    Just a couple of proverbs. Well, I must be off. Got a little business in the next street to see to—receiving stolen jewellery. I thought I’d just drop in on my way and put your mind at rest. Pity to let those grey cells function unnecessarily.

    With which words and a hearty laugh, Japp departed.

    He does not change much, the good Japp, eh? asked Poirot.

    He looks much older, I said. Getting as grey as a badger, I added vindictively.

    Poirot coughed and said:

    You know, Hastings, there is a little device—my hairdresser is a man of great ingenuity—one attaches it to the scalp and brushes one’s own hair over it—it is not a wig, you comprehend—but—

    Poirot, I roared. Once and for all I will have nothing to do with the beastly inventions of your confounded hairdresser. What’s the matter with the top of my head?

    Nothing—nothing at all.

    "It’s not as though I were going bald."

    Of course not! Of course not!

    The hot summers out there naturally cause the hair to fall out a bit. I shall take back a really good hair tonic.

    Précisément.

    And, anyway, what business is it of Japp’s? He always was an offensive kind of devil. And no sense of humour. The kind of man who laughs when a chair is pulled away just as a man is about to sit down.

    A great many people would laugh at that.

    It’s utterly senseless.

    From the point of view of the man about to sit, certainly it is.

    Well, I said, slightly recovering my temper. (I admit that I am touchy about the thinness of my hair.) I’m sorry that anonymous letter business came to nothing.

    I have indeed been in the wrong over that. About that letter, there was, I thought, the odour of the fish. Instead a mere stupidity. Alas, I grow old and suspicious like the blind watchdog who growls when there is nothing there.

    If I’m going to cooperate with you, we must look about for some other ‘creamy’ crime, I said with a laugh.

    You remember your remark of the other day? If you could order a crime as one orders a dinner, what would you choose?

    I fell in with his humour.

    Let me see now. Let’s review the menu. Robbery? Forgery? No, I think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder—red-blooded murder—with trimmings, of course.

    "Naturally. The hors d’oeuvres."

    Who shall the victim be—man or woman? Man, I think. Some bigwig. American millionaire. Prime Minister. Newspaper proprietor. Scene of the crime—well, what’s wrong with the good old library? Nothing like it for atmosphere. As for the weapon—well, it might be a curiously twisted dagger—or some blunt instrument—a carved stone idol—

    Poirot sighed.

    Or, of course, I said, there’s poison—but that’s always so technical. Or a revolver shot echoing in the night. Then there must be a beautiful girl or two—

    With auburn hair, murmured my friend.

    Your same old joke. One of the beautiful girls, of course, must be unjustly suspected—and there’s some misunderstanding between her and the young man. And then, of course, there must be some other suspects—an older woman—dark, dangerous type—and some friend or rival of the dead man’s—and a quiet secretary—dark horse—and a hearty man with a bluff manner—and a couple of discharged servants or gamekeepers or somethings—and a damn fool of a detective rather like Japp—and well—that’s about all.

    That is your idea of the cream, eh?

    I gather you don’t agree.

    Poirot looked at me sadly.

    You have made there a very pretty résumé of nearly all the detective stories that have ever been written.

    Well, I said. "What would you order?"

    Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came purringly from between his lips.

    "A very simple crime. A crime with no complications. A crime of quiet domestic life…very unimpassioned—very intime."

    "How can a crime be intime?"

    Supposing, murmured Poirot, "that four people sit down to play bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and intent on the play of the hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for you! Which of the four was it?"

    Well, I said. "I can’t see any excitement in that!"

    Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.

    No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poisons. You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not one murder, but a series of murders.

    I admit, I said, that a second murder in a book often cheers things up. If the murder happens in the first chapter, and you have to follow up everybody’s alibi until the last page but one—well, it does get a bit tedious.

    The telephone rang and Poirot rose to answer.

    ’Allo, he said. ’Allo. Yes, it is Hercule Poirot speaking.

    He listened for a minute or two and then I saw his face change.

    His own side of the conversation was short and disjointed.

    Mais oui….

    Yes, of course….

    But yes, we will come….

    Naturally….

    It may be as you say….

    "Yes, I will bring it. A tout à l’heure then."

    He replaced the receiver and came across the room to me.

    That was Japp speaking, Hastings.

    Yes?

    He had just got back to the Yard. There was a message from Andover….

    Andover? I cried excitedly.

    Poirot said slowly:

    An old woman of the name of Ascher who keeps a little tobacco and newspaper shop has been found murdered.

    I think I felt ever so slightly damped. My interest, quickened by the sound of Andover, suffered a faint check. I had expected

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