In Agatha Christie's The A.B.C. Murders, Hercule Poirot solves a serial killer's alphabetical murders by recognizing that the seemingly random crimes are actually a carefully constructed scheme designed to frame an innocent man. The murderer, Franklin Clarke, exploited the tabular mind of his accomplice Alexander Bonaparte Cust by sending him letters from a fake hosiery company, directing him to visit specific locations where Clarke would commit the murders. Poirot's breakthrough came when he noticed that every victim had been approached by a man selling stockings, which led to the discovery that the murderer had been systematically planning the crimes while using Cust as a 'stalking horse' to divert suspicion. The case demonstrates that solving complex mysteries requires not just gathering evidence but understanding the psychological profile of the criminal and recognizing patterns that others might miss.
Agatha Christie’s The A.B.C. Murders | Radio BBC | Classic Hercule Poirot Mystery ExplainedAdded:
Now then, my friend, may I offer you a little refreshment? Your usual whiskey and soda, perhaps? No, thanks, Poirot.
It's a little early in the day. As you wish.
You do not object if I drink a little tisane? Of course not. Though I can never understand what you see in that disgusting stuff.
>> And while I sip my tisane, there is something I would like you to take a look at, Hastings. It came by this morning's post. Read it.
Mr. Hercule Poirot, you fancy yourself, don't you, at solving mysteries that are too difficult for our thick-headed British police. Let us see how clever you can be. Perhaps you'll find this not too hard to crack.
Look out for Andover on the 21st of the month. Yours, A. B. C.
>> [music] [music] [music] [music] >> was to call on my old friend Hercule Poirot.
He was looking wonderfully well, hardly a day older than when I had last seen him.
Even his gray hairs seemed to have vanished.
Ah, but you have such a beautifully unsuspicious mind, my friend.
Examine this bottle.
Revive it.
To bring back the natural tone of the hair in five shades.
Poirot, you've dyed your hair.
So, that's why you're looking in such fine fettle.
>> Ah, no, my friend. It is not simply the Revive It.
It is the constant exercise of the little grey cells.
Just when I feel the time has come to retire and grow the vegetable marrows, another matter comes along.
I am like the prima donna who makes positively the farewell performance, and that performance it repeat itself an indefinite number of times.
But for all my old friend's gaiety and vivacity, I could see that something was troubling him. Was it the letter from the mysterious A. B. C.?
Perhaps.
What do you think, mon ami? Some madman or other, I suppose.
Very probably.
But a madman is always to be taken seriously. What have you done about it?
>> What can I do?
I showed it to Inspector Japp. He is of the same opinion as you. They get these things every day at Scotland Yard.
But nevertheless, there is something about that letter that I do not like.
Something that is wrong.
But I cannot say precisely what it is.
Well, the 21st is on Friday. If a whacking great train robbery takes place at Andover on Friday >> Ah, what a comfort that would be.
How can a robbery possibly be a comfort?
>> Because it would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else.
Something else?
Murder, Hastings.
Murder.
Uh good morning. I would like a second class ticket to Andover, please.
>> Andover. And will you be traveling today, sir?
>> Oh, yes. By the next train.
I want to get there as soon as possible.
But Friday the 21st of June came and went, and there were no reports from Japp of anything amiss in Andover.
I was wrong. I thought there was something of the order of fish about that letter. Instead, a mere stupidity.
Alas, I grow old and suspicious like the blind watchdog growls when there is nothing there. So, now you're disappointed of being cheated of a really juicy crime. Juicy? Oh, what a terrible word.
Now, I admit that I would like to have been confronted by something recherché, something rare.
>> [clears throat] >> And what would be your ideal murder mystery, Poirot?
A very simple crime.
A crime with no complications. A crime that was unemotional and untidy.
Well, how can a crime be untidy?
Supposing 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, that man 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.
There would be a real crime.
I can't see any excitement in that.
>> Ah, well, that is because you have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. For you, there must be the curiously twisted dagger, the stolen eye of the god, the beautiful woman with auburn hair.
No, you would like not one murder, but a series of murders. Well, I I must admit that that a second murder in a book can often cheer 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, it can get a bit tedious.
Hello?
Oh, good morning.
Yes. Yes, he's he's he's just here.
It's Japp for you.
Yes, Chief Inspector? It looks as if I spoke a bit too soon. There was a murder in Andover last night.
And who was it that was killed? An old woman by the name of Asher. She kept a little tobacco and newspaper shop and our police think they can put their hand on the man that did it, but they'd like to have a look at that anonymous letter of yours.
And in view of your involvement, I thought I might stretch a point of protocol and go down there myself.
>> Mhm.
Perhaps you and Captain Hastings might care to join me on the 10:15 from Waterloo.
When did they find the body? At 1:00 this morning. A constable was going on his rounds and noticed that the shop door was unfastened. He went in and found the body huddled behind the counter.
It looks as if she was struck down by a heavy blow on the back of the head while she was reaching up for a packet of cigarettes from the shelf. And do they know when the murder took place?
Well, they've narrowed it down to between 5:30 and 6:00. And who is the man they reckon committed the murder?
Her husband. Huh.
He's a German and a very unpleasant piece of goods by all accounts.
He had a job as a waiter for a time, but he took to drink, made himself quite unemployable.
He's got the shakes, which doesn't do much for you when you're serving at table.
They separated years ago, but he used to come around every now and then to get money out of her for drink.
Sometimes he'd get quite violent, apparently. And what does he say?
Well, the what you'd expect, that he was off on a pub crawl with his mates.
>> Was anything taken from the shop? Well, as you noticed, but there was one thing that might interest you, Poirot. Mhm.
There was a railway guide turned face down on the counter open at Andover.
A Bradshaw or an ABC?
An ABC.
So, it is not a coincidence.
That was clearly meant for me. Mhm.
Some old enemy of yours, perhaps.
Anyway, if it's all the same with you, Poirot, I'd like to take a look at the body as soon as it's convenient.
She must have been beautiful What makes you say that?
Look at the line of the jaw, the molding of the head.
Don't they think much force would have been needed to strike the blow? You mean could a 70-year-old alcoholic with shaky hands have done it?
I didn't say So it could equally well have been done by a woman.
Mhm, suppose it could. And did the dead woman have any children? No.
There is a niece, I believe. Very reliable by all accounts. She's in service at a house near Overton. That is far from here? Mhm, couple of miles at most. Then I should like to go and talk to her straight away. Wouldn't it be better to go to the scene of the crime?
>> No.
I prefer to do that later.
Do you know the name of this niece, Inspector Japp? Uh, just a minute. I've got it written down somewhere.
Ah, here it is. Mary Drover.
She was very good to me.
Always.
She brought me up after my mother died.
She didn't have an easy life, and she went through a lot of trouble on account of that German fellow.
My old devil, she used to call him. Did he threaten her? Oh, he used to say the most awful things, that he'd cut her throat and such like.
>> So you were not very surprised when you heard what had happened? Oh, but I was, sir. I never believed for one moment that he'd really lay a hand on her.
It wasn't as if she was afraid of him.
More likely the other way around. Hey bien.
Suppose that he did not kill her.
Suppose that it was somebody else.
Have you any idea who that someone else might be?
None at all, sir. Well, it doesn't seem very likely, does it? You never heard her mention anyone who had a grudge against her? Never, sir.
>> Now, tell me, Mary, did your aunt ever get anonymous letters?
What kind of letters? Letters that were not signed, or signed by somebody calling themselves A.B.C. Oh, no, sir.
Nothing like that.
What is this all about, sir? I at present one is in the dark. There is no direction.
Now, if I want you at any time, Mary, can I write to you here?
Oh, I shan't stay on here now, sir.
I only came here to be near auntie.
I don't care for the country very much.
Now that she's gone, I shall go back to London.
It's gayer for a girl there. In that case, here is my card. Let me know where you are living. Please, sir.
Is there something queer going on?
Yes, my child.
There is something queer going on.
Later, you may be able to help me.
It was 5:30 by the time we reached Mrs. Ascher's shop.
And then I realized why Poirot had delayed. He wanted to see the place at the same time at which the murder had been committed. There was no mistaking the shop. The sign could be read clearly from the end of the street.
Could that be why, perhaps?
But let us go inside.
Not that there was very much to tell us anything there.
Only the counter where the ABC guide had been left. And the place where Mrs. Ascher had met her death while reaching for a packet of cigarettes for a customer.
So, here is a further proof of Mr. Ascher's innocence. If he had been having a quarrel with his wife and threatening her, she would have been facing him across the counter. You said a further proof. What was the other? As such a man as has been described to us could not possibly have written that precisely printed letter.
But let us take a look at the bedroom upstairs.
Uh, I imagine the police have already been over everything up here pretty thoroughly.
An old woolly jumper.
Some well-darned underwear. A pair of cheap new stockings. And um and a novel called Green Oasis.
Ah, poor Florence.
There is nothing for us here, Hastings.
We can leave the rest to the police report.
Now, with great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the 7:02 back to London.
So, what do you think, Poirot? The crime was committed by a man of medium height with red hair and a cast in the left eye. He limps slightly on the right foot and has a mole just below the shoulder blade. Poirot, you're having me on.
>> Well, what do you expect, my friend?
You fix upon me a look of dog-like devotion and demand of me a pronouncement a la Sherlock Holmes.
Now, for the truth.
I do not know what the murderer looks like, nor where he lives, nor how to set hands on him. If only he'd left us some clue.
>> Oh, yes, the clue. It is always the clue that attracts you.
But, there is no cigarette ash, only an ABC guide with no fingerprints on it.
We do not even know what we are looking for.
We are like children playing catch-catch in the dark.
In the days that followed, I found Poirot curiously reluctant to discuss the case, and I thought I knew the reason. He had sustained a defeat. ABC had challenged him, and ABC had won.
The crime attracted little attention in the press, and I was certain that we had heard the last of it. When, on July the 25th, another letter arrived by the 6:00 post. But, read it to me, Hastings. Read it.
Dear Mr. Poirot, well, what about it?
The Andover business went with a swing, didn't it? But, the fun's only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea, date the 25th of July.
What a merry time we're having.
Yours, ABC.
Good God. Does this mean he intends to commit another murder?
>> But naturally, Hastings. Did you expect the Andover business to be an isolated case?
>> We must be up against a homicidal maniac.
>> Exactly. And this time, the surname of the intended victim will begin with the letter B. But there must be something we can do to stop it.
>> I will warn the police, of course. But however well we are prepared, what is the sanity of Scotland Yard against the insanity of one man?
Remember the long continued success of Jack the Ripper. Oh, it's horrible. Yes, Hastings.
It is horrible.
I am afraid.
I am very much afraid.
But all we can do is wait.
On the morning of the 25th of July, we were up early. But we had scarcely begun breakfast when there was a repeated ring at the door. It was Japp. It's happened, Poirot. But the letter said the 25th. I mean, it's only half past seven. It took place in the early hours of this morning, shortly after midnight.
>> At Bexhill-on-Sea? Yes.
The body of a young girl has been found on the beach, strangled.
She's been identified as Elizabeth Barnard. She was a waitress at one of the cafes, lived with her parents. And there's something you should know, Poirot.
>> Yes. An ABC guide was found underneath her body, open at the page for Bexhill.
And are you going down there now? Not possible, I'm afraid, Poirot. I've got my hands full with the Aswell business.
Inspector Crome's gone down there.
I have an idea, you may find that he's not exactly quite your type.
The body was found by one of those fresh-air early morning colonels that abound in places like this.
He was out with his dog about 6:00 a.m., went along the front in the direction of Cooden and down to the beach. Dog ran off and sniffed at something. Wouldn't leave it alone and the Colonel took a look for himself. He very properly didn't touch the body but went off and rang the police.
>> And the time of death was around midnight?
>> Between midnight and 1:00 a.m. Your homicidal joker is a man of his word, Mr. Poirot. If he says it's the 25th, it will be the 25th, even if only by a few minutes.
>> Yes, his personality is very interesting.
>> As it happens, I've been going into the psychology of the series killer.
>> Huh. On the surface, the fellow looks the same as you or I. But there are various tests, you know, verbal traps, that sort of thing. Quite modern. There was nothing of that kind in your day.
Once you can induce a man to give himself away, you've got him. He knows you know and his nerve goes.
>> Mhm. Even in my day that happened sometimes.
What can you tell me about the dead girl, Inspector? She was 23 years of age and worked as a waitress at the Ginger Cat Cafe.
>> I know that. I was wondering if she was pretty. Pretty?
She didn't look very pretty in the mortuary. And with what was the girl strangled?
>> With her own belt. Ah, mhm. At last, a piece of definite information.
Now that tells one something, does it not?
>> It was a thick knotted affair, apparently. The pathologist is having a look at it. The girl was living with her parents, I understand.
>> Yes, they've got a bungalow about half a mile from here. And there are other members of the family? There's a sister, works for a typing bureau in London.
She's on her way down now. And there's her fiance, Donald Fraser, an estate agent, Scottish, apparently. The girl was supposed to have been out with him last night. But I shall know more when I've seen the parents. I was just about to set off there when you arrived.
>> We will accompany you, Inspector. As you wish, Mr. Poirot. I don't think we should all crowd in on them together.
Rather overwhelming for them, don't you think?
>> Mhm.
>> If you have any questions you wish to put to Mr. and Mrs. Barnard, perhaps you could wait until I've had a word with them.
It doesn't seem as if he's very impressed by your legendary reputation, Poirot.
On the contrary, my friend. He is very impressed by it. That is why he is so anxious that I should not How do you say it? Steal any of his lightning.
Well, since we've been relegated to the kitchen, perhaps we should make ourselves a cup of coffee.
>> no, no, no, no. Hastings, I know exactly the kind of coffee they would have in a house like this.
Oh.
What are you doing here?
Are you the police? Uh well, not exactly. Oh, I see. Well, I don't think I've got anything to say to you. My sister was a nice, bright girl with no men friends.
>> I'm not a reporter, if that's what you're getting at.
Where's Mom and Dad? Your father is showing the police your sister's bedroom. Your mother's in the sitting room, I believe. So, who exactly are you?
>> I am Mademoiselle M. Hercule Poirot.
>> [sighs] >> Oh, I've heard of you.
You're the fashionable private sleuth, aren't you?
As a description, I suppose it must suffice. Somehow, I don't see why Mr. Hercule Poirot should concern himself with our humble little crime.
>> Mademoiselle, what you do not see and what I do not see would probably fill a volume.
But what I am seeking at this present moment is the truth.
Now that you are satisfied that my friend Hastings is not from a sensational daily paper, it would greatly assist me if you could tell me what you really felt about your sister.
Betty was an unmitigated little ass.
>> Ah, la bonne heure.
You are intelligent, Mademoiselle.
I take it that the opposite of what you said is true.
About the men friends? Well, there wasn't any harm in Betty.
She wasn't the weekending kind, nothing of that sort.
But she liked being taken out and dancing and cheap flattery and that kind of thing.
>> And you felt perhaps that she was behaving unfairly towards her fiance, towards Mr. Fraser? That's it exactly.
Don's a very quiet sort of person.
But he did resent certain things and then he And then he would do what, mademoiselle?
I was afraid he might chuck her altogether.
He's a good steady type.
>> Ah, sacre bleu, we do not speak the truth any longer.
Now listen, mademoiselle.
It is no ordinary murderer that we have to deal with.
This is a homicidal maniac who is working his way through the alphabet. A few weeks ago, a murder in Andover. Last night he chose Bexhill.
>> Is this true? It's perfectly true, Miss Bernard. You mean that Betty was killed by a madman?
>> Exactly. So you see, the information you can give will not harm anyone.
All right, Mr. Poirot. I'm going to trust you.
Don is a very quiet person, but he bottles things up. And when he loses his temper, he loses it with a vengeance.
One time he got so violent that Betty got quite frightened.
>> When was this?
Just over a month ago.
She told Don she was going into Hastings to see a girlfriend, but he found out that she'd been over to Eastbourne with some man.
He was a married man, as it happened.
Don got all white and shaking, saying that one day Yes, mademoiselle?
That he'd kill her.
And so when you heard of Betty's death this morning, you were naturally afraid >> Well, I didn't think that he'd actually done it, but Oh, that'll be Don. Bring him in here. I would like to have a word with him before our good inspector takes him in hand.
She told me she was going to St. Leonard's with a girlfriend.
>> And did you believe her? I suppose I did when she said it, but afterwards there was something in her manner I began to wonder. Yes? And I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious.
I hung about outside the Ginger Cat Cafe watching to see where she would go.
But then I thought she might catch sight of me. So, what did you do?
Eventually, I went over to St. Leonard.
Got there by 8:00, but there was no sign of her anywhere.
And then I thought this man might have taken her in his car to Hastings.
So, I went on there, looked in hotels and restaurants, and hung around the cinemas. I must have been out of my mind. Even if she was there, it wasn't very likely that I'd catch sight of her.
There were scores of places he could have taken her to other than Hastings.
In the end, I just gave up and came back.
>> And what time was that? I don't know.
It must have been well, after midnight.
Ah, so that's where you've got to.
May I introduce Miss Megan Barnard and Mr. Donald Fraser. This is Inspector Chrome from Scotland Yard. How do you do? While you've been pursuing your investigations, Inspector, I have been conversing with these two charming people, endeavoring, if I could, to find something that might throw light on this strange case. Oh, yes?
But now we will leave you to pursue your inquiries, Inspector.
Au revoir, Mademoiselle Barnard. Au revoir. Monsieur Fraser.
Did anything strike you, Poirot? Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings.
What do you mean by that? Franz Ascher would have been arrested for the murder of his wife. Donald Fraser would be the principal suspect for the murder of Betty Barnard, if it had not been for the warning letters of ABC.
Is he then so soft-hearted that he cannot bear others to suffer for something they did not do?
A soft-hearted murderer?
No, Hastings.
I use think not.
The press were full of it. The death of Mrs. Ascher at Andover had attracted little or no attention, but the murder of a pretty young waitress strangled with her own belt at Bexhill-on-Sea was just the thing to fill the pages of the popular papers.
There were interminable conferences called by the Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard to determine whether to make public the full facts. And this put my old friend into something of a quandary.
It is difficult for me, you understand.
I am, you might say, an interested party.
The challenge was sent to me.
If I want the facts suppressed, will it not be thought that I am afraid for my reputation?
As yet, to give the case full publicity is what the criminal seeks. Notoriety.
Since there was no line of action that he could profitably pursue, Poirot was given to brooding endlessly on the character or the possible character of his adversary. I ask myself, what passes in the mind of the murderer?
He kills, it would seem from his letters, poor Les Sprague to amuse himself.
Can that really be true?
If he kills merely to amuse himself, he would not advertise the fact, since otherwise he could kill with impunity.
Is there, in fact, some link between his mania and his victims?
Or is he someone who, unknown to myself, I had vanquished in my career?
As for Inspector Crome, he decided that he would wait until the arrival of the third letter and then tell the public exactly what the situation was.
It will probably create a bit of a panic in the town in question, but it will put everyone whose name begins with C on their guard, and it'll put ABC on his metal. They'll be determined to succeed in spite of it all, and that's where we'll get him.
Unfortunately, things did not work out as Chrome had planned. The third letter arrived late one evening by the 10:00 p.m. post.
It has come? Open it, Hastings. We cannot afford to waste a single moment.
Read it. Um Dear Mr. Poirot, not so good at these little criminal games as you thought you were, are you?
Perhaps you're getting rather past your prime.
Let's see if you can do any better this time. I made it deliberately easy for you. Churston on the 30th. Do try and do something about it. It's a bit dull having it all my own way. Good hunting.
Ever yours, A.B.C.
Churston, where exactly is that?
Hastings, when was that letter written?
Is there a date on it? Uh it it it was written on the 27th.
>> But did I hear you correctly? Did he give the date of the murder as the 30th?
Yes, that's right.
>> But Hastings, surely you must realize, today is the 30th.
What does it say on the envelope?
He must have got the address wrong.
Hercule Poirot, White Horse Mansions.
And there's a note scribbled on it, not known at White Horse Mansions, try Whitehaven Mansions.
>> Ah, monsieur, we have lost two whole days, and there is only 1 hour and 40 minutes of the 30th left.
Where is this place, Churston? I I'll look it up in the A.B.C.
Churston, here we are. Devon.
Uh miles from Paddington, population 356.
Surely our murderer is bound to be noticed in a place of that size.
>> Is there a train tonight? Uh well, yes, at midnight. Sleeping car to Newton Abbot, gets there at 8 minutes past 6 in the morning, and reaches Churston at 7:15.
>> Good. We will take that train, Hastings.
You'll hardly have time to get any news before we start.
>> Ah, does it greatly matter whether we receive bad news tonight or tomorrow morning? I will telephone to Inspector Crumb to explain to him what has happened. I'll I'll throw a few things into your suitcase.
The inspector will travel down with us on the same train.
But what are you doing, Hastings? I'm packing for you. I thought it would save time.
>> But is that a way to fold a coat? And see what you have done to my pajamas. If the hair wash breaks, what will be fall them?
>> But Poirot, this is a matter of life and death. What does it matter what happens to your Hello, you have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch the train earlier than it leaves, and to ruin our clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder. Here, just look at the creases in this shirt.
We've got all available men on the lookout, and they're doing their best to warn anyone in Churston whose name begins with the letter C. It's just a chance.
May I see the letter?
Yeah.
Of all the damned luck.
The stars in their courses fight for this fellow. You don't think he did it on purpose? Oh, no.
I understand this man's psychology. He's got his own rules. Crazy rules, maybe, and he abides by them.
That's where his boastfulness comes in.
I'd almost bet he was drinking White Horse whiskey.
Ah, Monsieur Dentian, you see, he prints the letter with the bottle in front of him. Whatever happens, Churston is our best place to be. Our murderer is there, or has been there today.
We better be getting on board. Inspector Crumb. Hm?
I brought a note from Scotland Yard, sir. They said it was most urgent. Thank you, Sergeant.
Is it to do with a murder?
Yes, and it's about as bad as it can be.
Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found with his head bashed in.
Let us get on the train. There is no time to be lost.
Throat specialist, wasn't he? I have an idea that an aunt of mine consulted Carmichael Clark some years back.
>> It must have been quite a time again.
He's been retired for 5 years.
He's got a very valuable collection of Chinese pottery and porcelain. That's all I know about him. Ah, now there will be no need to make the publicity. The death of such an eminent man following so closely on the strangling of a flirtatious waitress is certain to make the sensation. I suppose there's no doubt that it is our man. None whatsoever, I'm afraid.
The body was found in a field and the murderer had placed a copy of the ABC guide face downwards on the body.
>> So, now the whole country will be looking for ABC. Unfortunately, that seems to be all he wants. Let's hope that it may be his undoing. We can only trust that he'll become drunk with his own cleverness.
But we better be turning in. I've arranged for us to go up to the house as soon as we arrive so that we can have a word with Franklin Clark, the dead man's brother.
But why? It all sounds utterly fantastic.
What possible earthly benefit can there be for such a crime? Even the most diseased imagination. You go straight to the point, Mr. Clark.
>> It's not much good looking for motives at this stage. That's a matter for an alienist. Though I may say I've had a certain experience of criminal lunacy and the motives are usually thoroughly inadequate.
There is a desire to assert one's personality, to make a splash in the public eye. Now, is that true, Monsieur Poirot? Absolutely true.
But at any rate, such a man cannot escape detection long. Vous croyez?
Ah, but they are cunning such a man. And you must remember >> Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr. Clark? Certainly.
If we could begin with the actual circumstances of the murder.
Well, for some time now, my brother's been in the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening.
The police rang here last night sometime after 11:00 with some warning about people whose names began with C.
>> They were acting on my instructions, Mr. Clark. Well, that must have been the butler discovered that my brother had not returned from his walk.
We got together a search party of swords and we found the body by the side of a field about 3/4 of a mile away.
He'd been struck a blow on the back of the head. And was your brother in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no unexpected letters, nothing that might have disturbed him? No, he was quite his usual self. Not upset or worried in any way?
>> No, I didn't say that. To be upset and worried was my brother's normal condition. And why was that?
Well, you probably don't know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clark, is suffering from an incurable cancer and cannot live much longer.
Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother's mind.
I was shocked at the change in him when I returned a little while ago from the East.
>> Supposing, Mr. Clark, that your brother had been found at the bottom of a cliff or with a revolver beside his body, what would have been your first thought? That he committed suicide.
>> Anyway, it wasn't suicide.
You say that it was your brother's custom to take a stroll every evening.
>> Yes, that is so. And everyone in the house knew of this? Of course. And what about in the village?
Strictly speaking, we haven't got a village. There's a post office and a few cottages at Churston Ferrers, but that's about it. So, I suppose any stranger hanging around the place would be easily noticed. Not at this time of year.
Place is positively swarming with trippers from Torquay and Paignton.
Elberry Cove is a well-known beauty spot, I'm afraid.
Far too well-known for my liking. So, a stranger wouldn't have been noticed. Not unless he looked off his head.
>> This man doesn't look off his head. He may have been spying out the land beforehand and discovered your brother's habit of taking an evening stroll.
Do you happen to know whether any stranger came up to the house yesterday and asked to see Sir Carmichael? I believe the local police have already questioned the butler and the housemaid on that point and they saw no one.
Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that Oh, this is Miss Gray, my brother's secretary.
Flora, this is Inspector Chrome of Scotland Yard. Monsieur Poirot and Mr. Um Captain Hastings.
>> How do you do, Miss Grey? Is there any way in which I can be of any help? Did you deal with Sir Carmichael's correspondence? Yes, all of it. Did he ever receive any letters signed A.B.C.?
A.B.C.? No, I'm sure he didn't. He didn't mention anyone hanging around during his evening walks lately?
>> No, nothing of the kind.
>> And you yourself have noticed no strangers?
>> Not near the house. Elsewhere, practically everyone one meets is a stranger at this time of year. Mr. Clark, I'd be grateful if you could take us over the ground of your brother's evening walk.
>> Of course, Inspector. Would you care to join us, Fora? Yes, yes, I'll come.
All this must have come as a terrible shock to you. It seems quite unbelievable. I'd gone to bed last night when the police rang up. I heard voices and came down to find out what the matter was. The butler and Mr. Clark were just sitting out with lanterns.
What time did Sir Carmichael usually come back from his evening walk? About a quarter to 10:00. He let himself in by the side door and generally went straight to bed. Or sometimes he went up to the gallery where he kept his collections. Huh.
If the police hadn't rung up, his absence wouldn't have been noticed until he was called in the morning.
Must have been difficult breaking the news to his wife. Lady Clark is kept under morphine a good deal. I think she's in too dazed a condition to appreciate much of what goes on around her.
Uh from here, path goes down to the cove. But at this point, my brother turned off across the fields back towards the house.
>> And it was there that his body was found?
>> Yes.
I'll take you to the place. There's a gap in the hedge here. Huh.
Yes, it all seems clear enough.
The man would have stood in the shadow of this tree. In the gathering dusk, your brother wouldn't have noticed anything until the blow fell. Oh. Hold up for her.
It's pretty beastly, but there's no use shirking facts.
>> No, it's not that. I was thinking about B.
About B? You mean the next murder, Mademoiselle?
But something's got to be done. The man's got to be stopped. We'll get him now.
Never you worry. I'm wondering where he is at this moment. But he may not be far away. It's not 12 hours since it happened.
What is passing through his mind?
Where is he planning to strike next?
Sir Carmichael Clark murdered.
Terrible tragedy at Churston.
Only a month ago England was horrified by the brutal murder of a young waitress at Bexhill.
It may be remembered that an ABC guide figures in that case.
An ABC was also found by the body of Sir Carmichael Clark.
And the police inclined to the belief that both crimes were committed by the same person.
Is a homicidal lunatic going the rounds of our seaside resorts?
Can I take your order, sir? Uh what?
Ah.
I I I'm sorry.
What did you say? Your order, sir. What can I get for you? Oh.
A cup of coffee, if you please.
And a scone.
Ah.
With uh Devonshire cream. Very well, sir.
Are you all right? Ah.
>> [sighs] >> Yes. Yes, it's just a headache.
I get them quite badly every now and then.
Sometimes I hardly know what I'm doing.
So, where do we go from here? We go nowhere, Hastings. What would be the point? But you can't just sit here at home. That is precisely what I I to do, my friend.
The police are running round making the routine inquiries, but it is in my brain and not in my feet that my strength lies. In the little grey cells.
All the time I am reflecting. But what can you possibly gain by reflection? You know all the facts of the three cases by heart.
>> It is not the facts that matter. It is the mind of the murderer.
The mind of a madman? Precisely. And therefore not to be arrived at in a minute.
When I know what the murderer is like, I shall be able to find out who he is.
>> And in the meantime people are dying right and left. Three people.
And there are what is it about 120 road deaths every week.
>> But that is entirely different.
>> It's probably exactly the same to those who die.
But at least I have one project that will please you. Since it is active and not passive.
Also it will involve a lot of conversation and practically no thought.
What is it?
The extraction from the friends and relatives of the deceased of all that they know.
You suspect them of keeping things back?
>> No, not intentionally.
But the act of telling what you know involves selection.
People say what they think is important, but quite frequently they think wrong.
And how do you propose to get them thinking in the right direction? By discussing a certain happening or a certain person or a certain day over and over again. It's just like looking for the needle in the haystack. I grant you, but in the haystack there is a needle.
Of that I am certain. But how how do we go about this?
>> We do very little Hastings.
Yesterday I received a letter from Mary Dower, the niece of Mrs. Asher, the woman killed at Andover. Already she has written to Megan Barnard, the sister of the girl who was strangled at Bexhill.
She thought that if they got together, they might find out more about the murder. And today, I received a letter from Franklin Clarke, who has, I believe, a similar proposal to put to me.
Do not despair, my friend. The hunt for the needle in the haystack is about to begin.
Frankly, I'm not satisfied with the way the investigation is going.
I've no doubt that Inspector Crome is a very efficient officer, but to tell you the truth, he puts my back up. That air of always knowing best.
My idea is that we oughtn't to let the grass grow under our feet. Just what I'm always telling Poirot.
>> We've got to be prepared for the next murder. So, you think there will be a next murder? Don't you? Certainly.
So, what is your idea, exactly? Well, I propose that we form a special legion to work under your orders of those closely associated with the murder victims.
By putting our heads together, we might discover something.
Also, when the next warning comes, if they're all there on the spot, we might possibly recognize some person as having been there at the scene of one of the previous crimes.
>> Mhm. There is one little difficulty, Mr. Clarke. Oh. The relatives and friends of the other victims are hardly in your sphere of life.
They are employed persons. And though they might be given a short vacation >> Oh, naturally. I shall foot the bill.
Ah.
The members will be paid for their services according to what their normal earnings are, with any additional expenses.
>> And who do you propose should form this legion? I've already been in touch with Megan Barnard, and I gather that the niece of the woman who was killed at Andover, um Mary Jordan. Mhm.
Well, I gather she's already come up with a similar idea.
Then there's Betty Barnard's fiance.
Donald Fraser.
Anybody else?
Well, yes.
Miss Gray. Miss Gray? You see, Miss Gray was with my brother over two years. She knows the countryside and the people around far better than I do. Then she will be very valuable.
I was saying only the other day to Hastings that a rapprochement with the people concerned was desirable.
It may provide the vital breakthrough that we so urgently need.
A few days later, the special legion met in Poirot's apartment. Of course, he was unable to resist the occasion to deliver a little speech.
Mesdames et Messieurs, you know what we are here for.
We have three murders, an old woman, a young girl, and a man in his 60s.
Only one thing links these people together, the fact that the same person killed them.
And that person has so far covered his tracks completely. They're all hers, perhaps. Quite right, Hastings. We must not rule out the possibility that our ABC is a woman.
The police have vague suspicions, but nothing on which they can act.
Nevertheless, there must exist other indications which are not at all vague.
For example, the assassin did not arrive at Bexhill at midnight and find conveniently on the beach a young lady whose name began with B. Must we go into all this? It is necessary to go into everything, Mr. Fraser.
You are not here to save your feelings by refusing to think of details, but if need be, to harrow them by going into the matter as deeply as possible.
I make the assumption that one of you, perhaps all of you, knows something that they do not realize they know.
It is like a jigsaw puzzle.
Each of you may perhaps have a piece apparently without meaning, but which, when it is put in its place, may show a definite portion of the picture as a whole. Words.
>> Huh? What did you say, Mademoiselle Bernard? What you've been saying. It's just words, it doesn't mean anything.
Well, I think it makes sense. It's often only when you're talking things over that you can see your way clear. And what do you think, Miss Grey? I think that the principle of talking over things is always sound. Quite right, my dear.
Suppose you all go over your own remembrances of the time preceding the murder.
Now, shall we start with you, Mr. Clark?
In the morning, I went off sailing. Now, reflect. Did you notice anyone on your way down to the sea that morning?
>> Oh, lots of people.
There was a remarkably fat woman in a striped silk dress.
Two young men with a fox terrier on the beach throwing stones for it.
And a girl with yellow hair screaming as she ran into the sea. Huh, you are a good subject, Mr. Clark.
Now, what about you, Miss Grey? I did the correspondence with Sir Carmichael and saw the housekeeper. In the afternoon, I did some needlework.
It was quite an ordinary day. I went to bed early. Miss Bernard?
Can you trace your memories of the last time you saw your sister? It was about a fortnight before her death.
I was down for the weekend and we went over to St. Leonard's. And can you remember what you talked about? Yes.
She said how much she disliked Milly Bigley.
Milly Bigley? She was another waitress at the cafe. And what can you remember about the day she was killed? After I had talked to you, sir. Yes.
Just one little thing.
Mom had bought Betty some new stockings on the day before it happened. I found her crying over them.
"I bought them for Betty," she said, "and she never wore them."
And what about you, Mr. Fraser?
You said that at first you waited for a while outside the cafe to see which way Betty might go. Did you notice anyone at all while you were waiting there? There were a number of people walking along the front. I really can't remember any of them. But however preoccupied you were, you must I don't remember anything. Oh.
Miss Straughan?
I suppose you got the letters from your aunt. Oh, yes, sir. There was one only two days before the murder. She said that the old devil had been round.
Meaning Mr. Ascher. Yes, and she'd sent him away with a flea in his ear.
And she expected me over on the Wednesday. It was it was going to be my birthday.
I'm sorry, sir. Oughtn't we to be making plans for the next >> we should. The moment the next letter arrives, we should all join forces.
>> But we do not have to wait until then.
You must continue to search your memories.
And there are a few practical things you can do. Of course, I'll make a note of them.
Go ahead. I consider it possible that the waitress Milly Bigley may have something to tell us. A.
Milly Bigley. Perhaps you might try showing signs of interest in her, Mr. Fraser. I must say I don't much care for the idea. Is it altogether necessary? Shall I try my hand with her, Monsieur Poirot?
>> You've got your own part of the world to attend to. Oh, yes, of course. Oh, perhaps perhaps Miss Grey might care.
>> I have left Devon for good, Monsieur Poirot.
>> Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear things, but naturally she prefers a post in London.
And how is Lady Clark? Oh, pretty bad.
I was wondering whether you might perhaps find time to pay her a visit.
She told me that she was sorry she hadn't been well enough to see you and asked whether it would be too much trouble to go down to Devon and talk to her. Certainly, Mr. Clark.
Shall we say the day after tomorrow?
Excellent. I'll let the nurse know.
Miss Trower, I suggest that you talk to the children in Andover.
I noticed many of them playing about by Mrs. Ascher's shop. It is possible that they may have noticed someone behaving suspiciously.
Yes.
B. Children in Andover.
Do you think we might draw our man out if we were to insert an advertisement in one of the newspapers? You know, ABC, urgent. I am close on your track.
What about something for my silence?
XYZ.
Well, nothing quite as crude as that, but you get the idea. I see, Mr. Clark, that you are, if I may say so without being offensive, still a boy at heart.
Oh.
Do you think so?
Still, it can do no harm to try.
See advertisement.
Do you really think that any of these lines will lead to anything, Poirot?
>> Oh, it is always possible.
In the midst of tragedy, we start the comedy. Is it not so? What on earth are you talking about?
>> Did you not notice the sudden jealousy of Miss Grey when Mr. Clark suggested he might have a word with the waitresses?
Enter Oh, Miss Grey. Forgive me, but I thought there was something I should tell you, Monsieur Poirot.
>> But certainly, mademoiselle. It is just this.
Mr. Clark very generously gave you to understand that I left his brother's house at my own wish.
But as a matter of fact, it was not quite like that.
>> Mhm.
Lady Clark insisted that I should leave.
But she suddenly took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house. Well, I think it's splendid of you to come and tell us this. It is always better to tell the truth.
I didn't want to shelter behind Mr. Clark's chivalry. You have been very honest, mademoiselle. It was rather a blow to me.
I always thought Lady Clark was rather fond of me.
One lives and learns.
That was all I had to say. Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot. Au revoir, mademoiselle. Captain Hastings.
Well, I call that very sporting of her.
She's got courage, that girl. And calculation.
What do you mean by that? I mean that she takes care to safeguard herself. She is certainly a lovely girl. I [sighs] cannot rid my mind of the impression that something was said in our conversation this afternoon that was significant, but I cannot pinpoint what it was.
No matter, presently it will come to me.
In the meantime, there is Lady Clark.
Perhaps she will enlighten me on her reason for dismissing your beautiful Miss Gray.
I never thought it would be that way around.
I was so sure that I should be the first to go.
Carl was never ill.
Was it Franklin who asked you to come here?
>> Yes, Lady Clark. I do hope he isn't going to be foolish over that girl.
He's so easily taken in, despite having knocked around the world so much. He has an impulsive nature.
>> Oh, yes, and so very chivalrous.
Everything's so dim.
One's body is such a nuisance when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else whether the pain will hold off or not.
I know, Lady Clark.
It is one of the tragedies of this life.
It makes one so stupid.
I can't even remember what it was I wanted to say to you.
Was it something to do with your husband's death?
>> Oh, yes, yes, yes.
It must have been.
Mad, poor creature, the murderer, I mean.
I've always been so sorry for mad people.
You haven't caught him yet. No, not yet.
The man must have been hanging around the house all day. But no stranger came to the house?
>> Who says so? The servants, Miss Gray.
Oh, that girl is a liar.
I didn't like her.
Charles thought the world of her, such a good worker, he said, so brave. She was She was supposed to be an orphan.
I soon sent her packing.
Franklin had the impertinence to suggest that she might be a comfort to me.
Comfort to me.
The only thing that would give comfort to me, I told him, would be to see the back of her.
I didn't want her to make a fool of Franklin. I I didn't want him to get mixed up with her. He He's like a boy.
No sense.
That's one thing about being ill.
People can't argue with you.
Why did you say that Miss Gray was a liar? Because she is.
You said that she told you no one came to the house that day. Yes. Very well, then. I saw her with my own eyes out of this window talking to a perfectly strange man on the doorstep.
>> Huh?
What did the man look like? An ordinary sort of man.
A tradesman? No.
A shabby sort of person.
Uh I can't remember.
I'm a little tired.
Huh!
Uh Uh please Uh please, you must go now.
Forgive me.
By the time Poirot returned from Devon, the fourth letter, written in that painstakingly careful print with which we were by now all too familiar, had arrived for him.
Still no success.
What do you and the police think you are doing?
Poor Mr. Poirot, I'm quite sorry for you.
We've a long way still to go. Tipperary?
No, that comes further on.
The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11th. So long, ABC.
We had better inform Inspector Crome Hastings. Right. And warn Mr. Clark to be ready for action.
I'll take the letter with me if I may, Mr. Poirot, for our fingerprint experts.
If you'd care to make a copy.
>> No, no, it's just not necessary. What are your plans, Inspector? Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr. Clark. You've got a tricky task on your hands.
I rather fancy old ABC has done you again.
>> The public won't have much to criticize in our arrangements this time. The 11th is until Wednesday of next week. That gives us ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. And we'll draft extra police into Doncaster on a fairly large scale. The whole of the town, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man. And with reasonable luck, we ought to get him.
It's easy to see you're not a sporting man, Inspector. What do you mean by that?
>> Well, don't you realize that next Wednesday the St. Leger is being run at Doncaster?
I hadn't taken that into account.
It does rather complicate matters. Well, ABC is no fool, even if he is a madman.
Quite ingenious.
It is well planned, one has to admit it.
It's my belief that the murder will be committed on the race course while the St. Leger is actually being run.
>> I'll telephone the assistant commissioner if I may, Mr. Poirot. By all means, Inspector. And we had better convene an emergency session of the Secret Legion, Mr. Clark.
But how can we be on the lookout for this man when we know nothing about him?
None of us has ever seen him or spoken to him. We've all gone over everything that we know over and over again.
>> Not everything.
For instance, Miss Grey told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger at the house on the day that Sir Carmichael was murdered. Yes, that's right. Is it?
Then why did Lady Clark tell me that she saw you from her window standing on the front doorstep talking to a man? Well, Lady Clark must have made a mistake.
Well, I never spoke to Oh.
I remember now. How stupid.
I'd forgotten all about it. But but it wasn't important. Just one of those people who come round selling stockings.
I was just crossing the hall when he came to the door.
Well, he was quite a harmless sort of person. I suppose that's why I forgot all about him. Stockings.
Stockings.
What is it?
What is it that I'm trying to remember?
Poirot, I have it. You have what, Poirot? You remember the shop in Andover?
In Mrs. Ascher's bedroom, on a chair, we found a pair of new stockings.
>> Yes, and mother bought Betty a pair of new stockings on the day before the murder. It is the same pattern three times repeated. That cannot be a coincidence. Now, tell me, mademoiselle, is it not true that your mother bought those stockings not at a shop, but from someone who came to the door? Yes. Yes, she did. She said something about being sorry for those wretched men who go round and try to get orders. But what's the connection? A man comes round selling stockings. That proves nothing.
>> Three crimes, and every time a man comes round selling stockings and spying out the land.
Describe him, mademoiselle. I can't. He had glasses, I I think. And a shabby overcoat.
>> Oh, come, mademoiselle, you can do better than that. He stooped. I hardly looked at him.
Well, he wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.
>> You're quite right, mademoiselle.
The whole secret of the murders lies in your description of the murderer.
He wasn't the sort of person you'd notice.
There is no doubt about it.
That is our murderer.
A second at class return, please. And where would that be too, sir? Doncaster.
I'm going to Doncaster. And when would you be coming back, sir? Oh, very soon.
I don't think that I shall be staying long.
We all gathered together at Doncaster on the morning of the 11th of September. I was sure that we were building on a false hope, on the chance of recognizing among a crowd of thousands of people a face glimpsed only for a moment.
But I told you I never really looked at him. You're all depending on me and I shall let you down because even if I did see him again, well, I mightn't recognize him.
>> Now then, my petite chérie, this is no time for the hysteria. You will certainly recognize that man if you see him again. How can you be so sure?
>> Because in the end, the red always succeeds the black. What do you mean by that, Monsieur Poirot?
>> I speak the language of the tables. At roulette, there may be a long run on the black, but in the end, the red must turn up. You mean that luck always turns?
>> Exactly, Mr. Ross. A murderer is always a gambler and like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know where to stop. With each crime, his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say, "I have been lucky." He only says, "I have been clever." And his opinion of his cleverness grows. And then, mes amis, the ball spins and the run of the color is over. You believe that will happen in this case?
>> I believe that our luck has already turned. The clue of the stockings was the beginning. I must say you're very heartening, Monsieur Poirot. We all need a bit of comfort.
>> It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value. Don't be such a defeatist, Don.
And now it is time to make the beginning.
This morning, you will each cover a different area of the town. This afternoon, you will all concentrate your attention on the racecourse.
Mr. Clark will give you the exact details. Now, go and get whatever you need for the day. I warn you, it may be a long >> one.
And you, my friend?
You are determined to accompany the expedition? Oh, yes. I shouldn't be happy staying here doing nothing. And would I be correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies? Oh, yes.
That was the general idea. Mhm.
And which lady do you propose to honor with your company? I hadn't really considered.
>> No.
Miss Banard, perhaps? She's rather the independent type. And uh Miss Grey?
That's a better idea. Well, my friend, I'm sorry to interrupt your plans, but I must request you to turn your thoughts elsewhere. Hm?
The person you are to escort is Mary Drawa.
And I must request you not to leave her.
Why is that, Poirot?
Because, my good friend, her name begins with a D.
One 109 B, please.
There you are, sir, and there's change.
The film's just beginning.
>> [music] >> In a cinema, and I had 40 men out on the racecourse. How was the man killed? With a knife.
And I have to admit it was a pretty audacious piece of work. The killer was making his way out along the row. He pretended to stumble, and he leaned over the seat in front to pick up his hat. He stabbed the man sitting there and slipped an ABC guide under the seat. And nobody noticed.
They just thought the fellow was asleep.
>> Has the dead man been identified?
>> He has. And ABC seems to have slipped up this time.
The man was called Earlsfield. George Earlsfield. Curious. What's even more curious is that the chap sitting two seats away, the one who realized that the victim was not just having a good sleep, was a schoolmaster called Roger Downes. Did ABC simply get the wrong man, do you think? There's a young lady here, Inspector, from the White Swan Hotel. She thinks she may have some information on the murder.
>> You better show her in then, Sergeant.
And you come in, miss.
This is Inspector Crome, and uh a French gentleman. Belgian. Do please sit down. Thank you, sir. What is your name? Marjorie Stroud, sir. And what have you to tell us?
It were the gentleman in room 15, sir. I went up to take him his hot water, and knocked on the door, otherwise I wouldn't have gone in, and he were at the basin washing his hands. Mhm, go on.
"Is your hot water, sir?" I said. "Oh, I've already washed in cold," he said.
And I happened to look in the basin, and it were all red, and he had his coat off. He were holding the sleeve of it as if he'd been washing it in the basin.
Can you describe this man for us?
Rather shabby-looking. He stooped and wore glasses. When was this?
About a quarter to five, sir.
But that was over two hours ago. Why didn't you contact us at once?
>> Oh, we didn't hear about the murder till half hour ago.
Then I sort of put two and two together.
Is this man still there, do you know? I don't think so. One of the lads in the courtyard said he thought he saw him sneaking off that way.
>> We'll get over there straight away. Will you come with us, Mr. Poirot?
Here's the register, sir. Doesn't look as if he left a proper address. Camden Town. Even that's probably not true.
And what's his name? His writing's very cramped. Alexander Bonaparte Cust.
A. B. C. Looks as if he's done a runner, sir. What about his luggage? There's a good size suitcase left here, full of cardboard boxes. Anything in them?
Stockings, sir. Silk stockings.
Congratulations, Mr. Poirot.
Your hunch was right.
I hoped that the Doncaster business might have knocked some of the stuffing out of Chrome.
But now that you can see where he's going at last, there's no stopping him.
He's managed to establish quite a detailed little timetable for ABC.
Selling stockings in Andover and Bexhill and Churston. And he's found out the various hotels where he was staying.
But that's only the half of it.
What's he discovered?
>> Well, he hasn't discovered anything.
He's had a very useful tip-off from a man called Hartigan, whose girlfriend's mother lets out rooms at a house in Camden Town. Camden Town? He'd been reading about the case in the papers and got very suspicious on account of a chap called Cust, who'd had a room in the place for over a year.
>> What made him suspicious? Well, apparently, Cust had told the people of the house that he was off to Cheltenham for a day or two. But Hartigan happened to be at Euston Station and noticed him getting on a train for Doncaster. And what kind of a man did he say this Mr. Cust was? Well, a man who'd come down in the world a bit. But the sort of creature you'd reckon would never harm a fly.
We've got him, Mr. Poirot. We've got him. Oh, um do take a seat, Inspector.
Thank you.
Oh.
Hello, Jack.
>> I've been telling these good gentlemen about your little tip-off.
>> I didn't realize you'd heard about it.
We went round to the house in Camden Town this morning. Cust came without any trouble. He seemed more bewildered than anything. A search of his rooms revealed a number of packages of hosiery and at the back of the cupboard where they were stored, we found a parcel. Much the same size and shape, but which turned out to contain not silk stockings, but eight new ABC guides. And what did he say about those? What you'd expect. He'd never seen them before in his life.
But there was something else that we found. You see, there was no sign of the knife in his room.
>> It would have been the act of an imbecile to bring that back from Doncaster with him. Just you wait, Mr. Poirot.
I asked myself where in the house he might have hidden it. And I got the answer straight away.
The hall stand. Gosh. No one ever moves a hall stand. With a lot of trouble, we got it out from the wall. Felt as if it weighed a ton, and there it was. The knife? The knife, Japp. Not a doubt of it. The dry blood still on it. That's astonishing. There is one minor little snag, but I'm sure there's an answer to it. Cust seems to have an alibi for the Bexhill killing. Some fanatical dominoes player who cornered him in the hotel in Eastbourne where he was staying and forced him to play dominoes until the small hours of the morning.
However, we've got him for the Doncaster killing.
A little task for you, perhaps, Poirot.
Find out how he managed to strangle Betty Barnard while he was allegedly playing dominoes.
>> Mhm. Anyway, I'm off back to the yard. Huh. Well, I may as well come with you.
So long, Poirot. Goodbye, Inspector Japp.
>> Goodbye, Japp.
Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?
Oh, yes. Practically speaking, they've got the man, they've got most of the evidence.
>> But where is the motive? The man's a madman.
The man until we know about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever.
All along I have been groping my way, trying to get to know the murderer.
And now you realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at all. Well, that's easily arranged. Why don't you go and see this Alexander Bonaparte Cust for yourself? I don't imagine there'd be any difficulty.
Do you know who I am?
No.
No, I I I can't say I do.
I am Hercule Poirot.
Oh.
Yes.
I am the man to whom you wrote the letters. Th- Those letters weren't written by me.
I've said so over and over again.
But if you did not write them, who did?
An enemy.
I must have an enemy.
Everyone's hand has always been against me.
All my life, nothing has gone right for me. I I got this wound in my head in the war.
I could never hold down a decent job after that.
Towards the end, I'd hardly got enough left of my little savings to hold body and soul together.
And then I got this offer to go round selling stockings. But you are aware of the fact that the firm you say employed you deny all knowledge of you.
But I've got all their letters.
Telling me where to go and on on what dates. But the police say that those letters were written on your own typewriter. But the typewriter was sent to me by the firm at the beginning of the job. The letters were written after then, Mr. Cast.
And what about the ABC guides that were found in your cupboard? I knew nothing about them.
I thought they were more packages of stockings. I didn't even bother to open them.
It's all a plot against me. Can't you understand?
Look at the second crime, the murder at Bexhill.
I was in an hotel playing dominoes. You play the game very well, I understand.
>> Oh, yes.
I do.
I used to play every lunchtime at a cafe in the city.
You meet a lot of interesting people that way.
There was one gentleman who talked to me for hours.
I've never forgotten him because of what he told me.
I thought by the end that I'd known him all my life. What was it he told you, Mr. Cust? It gave me a turn.
A nasty turn.
We were talking about your fate being written in your hand.
And he showed me his hand and the lines that showed he'd have two near escapes.
One was being drowned and and I I've forgotten what the other one was.
And then he took my hand. And what did he say he saw there? He said I was going to be one of the most celebrated men in England before I died.
Said the whole country would be talking about me.
And then Yes, Mr. Cust?
He said it looked as though I might die a violent death.
And he laughed.
"Almost looks as if you might die on the scaffold." He said.
Well, he was only joking, but it's it's my head, you see.
I suffer badly with my head and there are times when I I don't know I when when I I don't know.
But you know, do you not, that you committed the murders?
Yes.
I know. But I am right, am I not?
You do not know why you did them.
No.
I don't.
I don't know why.
During the next few days, Poirot was very busy. There were mysterious comings and goings, of which I was not invited to accompany him.
He was always frowning to himself and talked very little, although he did on one occasion pay me a singularly backhanded compliment.
While I was asking myself certain questions, I remembered a remark of yours.
A remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Huh.
Did I not once say you had a genius for stating the obvious?
It is the obvious that I have neglected.
The following day, he asked me to call an emergency session of our special legion.
All along I have been worried about the why of this case.
The mystery was not the mystery of the murders, but the mystery of ABC.
Why did he find it necessary to commit these murders? And why did he select me as his adversary? But what's the point of asking these questions now, Monsieur Poirot?
>> A man has been arrested, but for me the mystery has not been solved, Mademoiselle Grey.
Let me go back to the very beginning.
The arrival of the first letter.
It seemed to me at once that there was something very wrong about it.
>> And you were quite right.
>> But I did not pay sufficient attention to my feeling, my very strong feeling.
And when the first murder was committed, and then the second, I concentrated on one question.
Why did ABC need to commit these murders? Isn't there such a thing as bloodlust?
>> You are quite right, Mademoiselle. But a homicidal maniac desires to kill as many people as possible. Such a killer is concerned to hide his traces, not to advertise them.
When we consider the first three victims selected, the murderer could have done away with them without incurring any suspicion.
Why did he feel it necessary to draw to himself?
>> Because he wanted to score over you.
Mhm.
It is a very pathetic motive for murder, Mr. Fraser.
I found it quite inconceivable at this point to enter into the mind of the murderer. And yet I did feel that there were things I was beginning to learn about him. What kind of things?
>> To begin with, he had a tabular mind.
His crimes were listed by alphabetical progression, although the selection of his victims appeared to be completely haphazard.
Then ABC suggested what I may call a railway-minded man.
This is more common in men than in women.
Though I still did not rule a woman out.
It might perhaps be the sign of an underdeveloped mind. You mean a kind of overgrown schoolboy?
>> Exactly.
The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of her death gave certain other indications.
To begin with, she was strangled with her own belt.
And it was what you said to me, Mademoiselle Megan, that instantly confirmed the way I was thinking. You mean what I said about her being a shameless flirt? Sorry, Don, but it was true, you know it. She liked attention from a personable male.
Therefore, ABC had to be a person with a less sex appeal.
I visualize the scene of Betty's death thus.
They walk together on the beach.
The man admires her belt.
She takes it off.
He passes it playfully around her neck, pretending to strangle her.
She giggles, and the pretense becomes the reality.
>> Mr. Poirot >> say no more, it is over.
Then came the third murder of a Sir Carmichael.
And then the fourth.
But by then we had obtained a vital indication. The man selling stockings.
And the police found the sleeve of his jacket was all bloody.
>> And the knife behind the hall stand.
>> And he was arrested and charged and will probably end his days in Broadmoor.
>> Except for one little thing.
Alexander Bonaparte Cast has an alibi for the night of the crime at Bexhill.
Yes, that's been worrying me all along.
>> Which leads us to two very interesting speculations.
Supposing that he did not commit the murder at Bexhill. But Mr. Poirot, that just doesn't make sense.
>> Be quiet, Mademoiselle.
I am for the truth.
Supposing somebody had forestalled him.
What would he do?
Commit a second murder? Or lie low and accept the death of Betty Barnard as a kind of macabre a present?
>> But surely all the crimes must have been committed by the same person.
>> Exactly, Mademoiselle Grey.
Supposing that someone else committed the Bexhill crime.
Could that person have been responsible for the other crimes also?
I did then what I should have done at first.
I examined the letters again.
I had thought that what was wrong with them was that they had been written by a madman. But this time I came to a totally different conclusion.
What was wrong with them?
Was that they had been written by someone who was totally sane.
>> But the man couldn't possibly have been sane.
>> You see.
Was it not your great Shakespeare who has said you cannot see the trees for the wood? I I don't think he actually >> Where do you notice a pin least?
When it is in a pin cushion.
When do you notice an individual murder least?
When it is one of a series of unrelated murders.
I realized I had to deal with an intensely clever, resourceful murderer, a person who had thought up a most fantastical defense for himself. To create a homicidal murderer. Surely that's impossibly far-fetched. Do you think so?
I had now to review the ABC murders to trace the guilty person.
I could hardly imagine Mrs. Ascher's broken alcoholic of a husband carrying out such an elaborate scheme.
Betty Barnard's fiance, Donald Fraser, was a possibility.
>> But Don isn't that kind of person.
>> Precisely, mademoiselle.
His motive could only be jealousy. And jealousy does not tend to premeditation.
But when we come to the Carmichael crime, we are on infinitely more promising ground. What exactly do you mean by that, Monsieur Poirot?
>> Sir Carmichael Clarke was an immensely rich man.
Who inherits his money?
His wife, who has only a few months left to live.
And then it goes to his brother, Franklin Clarke. But what possible motive could I have for killing Clarke?
Your motive, Mr. Clarke, is sitting by your side.
Miss Thora Grey. But I've got nothing whatever to do with it. You told my friend Hastings, Mr. Clarke, of the great affection your brother had for Miss Grey. He was like a father to her, you said.
You knew very well that there was a very strong chance that on the death of your sister-in-law, Sir Carmichael would turn to this beautiful girl for sympathy and comfort, and that it might end, as so often happens with elderly men, in his marrying her.
You judged, correctly or not, that Miss Grey was a young woman on the make.
>> That's a monstrous to say. You had no doubt that she would jump at the chance of becoming Lady Clark.
There might be children, and your chance of inheriting your brother's fortune would vanish. This is all very ingenious and fanciful, Monsieur Poirot.
But what about the wretched Mr. Cust, caught red-handed?
What about the blood in his coat?
And the knife he hid in his lodgings?
He made a knife a crime. On the contrary, he admitted the fact. Well, then sure He has neither the nerve nor the daring, nor, I may add, the brains to conceive the plan and carry it out.
But you, Mr. Clark, fit the personality of ABC quite perfectly.
The attractive free and easy manner, nothing simpler for you than to pick up Betty Barnard, the meticulous tabular mind, remember the notes you made at our meetings, and the irrepressible boyish enthusiasm.
But how do you account for the fact that Cust not enough for you, Mr. Clark, to devise this plan of a series of crimes to divert attention from the single crime you intended to commit. You needed also to have a stalking horse.
Mr. Cust has told me of an encounter with a stranger in a London coffee house. You were that stranger, Mr. Clark.
Cust was exactly the kind of shrinking and insignificant person you needed. His absurdly bombastic Christian names, spelling out ABC, gave you the basis for the whole alphabetical plan. Because the man he was intending to murder began with a C. You made your arrangements very carefully.
You sent a letter to Cust, purporting to come from a hosiery firm, offering him a good salary and a generous commission.
In Cust's name, you wrote for a large consignment of hosiery to be sent to him, and then you subsequently sent him a parcel of ABCs, packed up so that he would sink. It was another consignment of stockings. You knew very well that he would not bother to open it until the first batch was exhausted.
Your plans were so well laid beforehand that you typed all the letters that were to be sent to him telling him what places he should call at with the stockings in advance.
For you had planned on exactly what dates the murders would be committed.
And when you had written all your letters to Mr. Cust, you sent off to him the machine on which they had been typed as if from the Hosiery Company stating that it had been loaned to him for his work. But what was the point of that?
>> So that when the police found the typewriter, they would recognize it as the machine on which all the letters had been typed and Cust would be accused of having set up the whole operation himself. And that, of course, was exactly what happened. By the time Cust received the letters from what he believed to be the Hosiery firm, your first two victims had already been selected.
A.N. Bale. Just so.
Mrs. Ascher's name was written above her shop for all the world to see.
And since she was often alone in there, disposing of her presented you with very little difficulty.
In Betty Barnard, you found exactly the easy-going, gullible girl to suit your purpose.
On the days you had told me the murder would occur, Cust followed his instructions and obediently presented himself at Andover and Bexhill.
And you carried out the murders as you had planned. How unutterably cold-blooded.
Which brings us to the third murder.
The real murder from your point of view, Mr. Clark.
In your letters to me, you had given ample warning of ABC's intentions, which was all very well for a town like Andover or Bexhill, but since Churston has so few inhabitants, you had to commit the murder before the police arrived on the scene.
And so you arranged for your third letter to me to be sent deliberately to the wrong address. That's what I said.
>> And no one paid any attention to you.
From the very beginning, I could not understand why the letters had been sent to me personally and not to the police or to a newspaper.
And then I realized why I had been chosen.
The third letter had to go astray.
This could hardly happen to a letter sent to Scotland Yard or to a newspaper, but a private address was another matter.
All you had to do was to make a deliberate error so that by the time the letter reached me, the crime would have been committed. But what about Mr. Cust? He must have committed the fourth murder. By the time Mr. Clark had reached the letter, indeed, it mattered very little who was the victim.
By way of our special legion, you were able, Mr. Clark, to arrange to be on the scene yourself.
Mr. Cust had been instructed by the hosiery firm to go to Doncaster, and your plan was to follow him around and trust to opportunity.
Mr. Cust went to a cinema, and from then, it was simplicity itself.
You took a seat a little way away from him.
When he got up to go, you did the same.
You pretended to stumble and stabbed a man asleep in the row in front and slipped the ABC onto his knees.
You contrived to collide with Mr. Cust in the darkness, wiped your knife on his sleeve, and slipped it into his pocket.
But did Mr. Cust really believe that he had committed the murder?
People in Mr. Cust's condition often have blanks in their memory and they cannot recall what they have done.
He was nervous, highly neurotic and very susceptible.
He had been in Andover and Bexhill and Churston and his mind was already in a state of confusion as to whether he might be the murderer.
The blood on his sleeve, the knife in his pocket were the final confirmation.
>> It's an ingenious theory, Mr. Poirot, but you really don't have a single shred of proof.
>> No, no, no, that is not so, Mr. Clark.
You were quite safe so long as no one suspected you, but once I was certain that you were the murderer, proofs were not difficult to come by. What kind of proofs? Your photograph was picked out from half a dozen others by two people who had seen you leaving the cinema at Doncaster at a time when you were supposed to be on the racecourse keeping an eye out for the murderer. Well, hardly very conclusive.
>> Milly Higley, a waitress at the cafe in Bexhill, recognized you as the man who took Betty Barnard out for a drive on that fatal evening and finally, most damning of all, your fingerprint was found on one of the keys of the typewriter you sent to Cast, which, if you are innocent, you could never have handled.
So, Mr. Poirot, it looks as if my luck has run out.
>> [laughter] >> You said I read would be bound to turn up in the end, but it was worth a gamble.
>> It's no good you're looking around for a way of escape, Mr. Clark. The building is surrounded. Who the devil are you?
Chief Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. I must warn you that anything you may say may be used in evidence against you. I have nothing to say.
>> Take him down to the car, Sergeant.
>> Right.
I can't wait to see Chrome's face when he learns about this.
He was so certain he'd got his man.
So, what's to become of the unfortunate Mr. Cust? Ah, he has already been released.
One of the popular newspapers has been pestering him for his life story.
He told me they had offered him a hundred pounds.
And what did you advise him to do?
>> I told him to settle for nothing less than 500 and not to confine himself to one paper. I also told him that he was now a very famous man.
At last, he can live up to his extravagant Christian names.
Alexander Bonaparte.
You know, Poirot, it was that fingerprint on the typewriter that really clinched it. It completely finished Franklin Clarke off. Yes, they are useful things, the fingerprints.
I put that in for you, my friend.
You mean to say it wasn't true?
>> Not in the least.
It is not the clues that count, the footprints and the traces of cigarette ash, but the steady penetration into the mind of the murderer. And there is only one way by which that can be achieved.
And what's that, Poirot? By exercising the little gray cells, mon ami.
The little gray cells.
>> [music] [music] [music] [music] >> Hey.
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