ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [49]
Clarke said quietly:
“It’s easy to see you’re not a sporting man, inspector.”
Crome stared at him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Clarke?”
“Man alive, don’t you realize that on next Wednesday the St. Leger is being run at Doncaster?”
The inspector’s jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar “Oh, yes?” Instead he said:
“That’s true. Yes, that complicates matters….”
“A B C is no fool, even if he is a madman.”
We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the race course—the passionate, sport-loving English public—the endless complications.
Poirot murmured:
“C’est ingénieux. Tout de même c’est bien imaginé, ça.”
“It’s my belief,” said Clarke, “that the murder will take place on the race course—perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.”
For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought….
Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him.
“The St. Leger is a complication,” he allowed. “It’s unfortunate.”
He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered.
She said anxiously:
“The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?”
It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her golden head.
It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer.
“Doncaster—and on the day of the St. Leger.”
We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated the plans we had made tentatively beforehand.
A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes do?
As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest.
“Mes enfants,” he said. “We must not disperse the strength. We must approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts. We must look within and not without for the truth. We must say to ourselves—each one of us—what do I know about the murderer? And so we must build up a composite picture of the man we are going to seek.”
“We know nothing about him,” sighed Thora Grey helplessly.
“No, no, mademoiselle. That is not true. Each one of us knows something about him—if we only knew what it is we know. I am convinced that the knowledge is there if we could only get at it.”
Clarke shook his head.
“We don’t know anything—whether he’s old or young, fair or dark! None of us has ever seen him or spoken to him! We’ve gone over everything we all know again and again.”
“Not everything! For instance, Miss Grey here told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was murdered.”
Thora Grey nodded.
“That’s quite right.”
“Is it? Lady Clarke told us, mademoiselle, that from her window she saw you standing on the front doorstep talking to a man.”
“She saw me talking to a strange man?” The girl seemed genuinely astonished. Surely that pure, limpid look could not be anything but genuine.
She shook her head.
“Lady Clarke must have made a mistake. I never—Oh!”
The exclamation came suddenly—jerked out of her. A crimson wave flooded her cheeks.
“I remember now! How stupid! I’d forgotten all about it. But it wasn’t important. Just one of those men who come round selling stockings—you know, ex-army people. They’re very persistent. I had to get rid