The A B C Murders by Agatha Christie

things, I suppose.”
    “They've no idea who -? They don't know -?”
    He stopped.
    He had all a sensitive, shy person's dislike of putting violent facts into words.
    Poirot moved forward a little and asked a question. He spoke in a business-like,
     matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail.
    “Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?”
    Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically.
    “She told me she was going with a girl friend to St. Leonards.”
    “Did you believe her?”
    “I -” Suddenly the automaton came to life. “What the devil do you mean?”
    His face then, menacing, convulsed by sudden passion, made me understand that a girl might
     well be afraid of rousing his anger.
    Poirot said crisply:
    “Betty Barnard was killed by a homicidal murderer. Only by speaking the exact truth can
     you help us to get on his track.”
    His glance for a minute turned to Megan.
    “That's right, Don,” she said. “It isn't a time for considering one's own feelings or any
     one else's. You've got to come clean.”
    Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot.
    “Who are you? You don't belong to the police?”
    “I am better than the police,” said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It
     was, to him, a simple statement of fact.
    “Tell him,” said Megan.
    Donald Fraser capitulated.
    “I - wasn't sure,” he said. “I believed her when she said it. Never thought of doing
     anything else. Afterwards - perhaps it was something in her manner. I - I, well, I began
     to wonder.”
    “Yes?” said Poirot.
    He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the other man's, seemed to be
     exercising a mesmeric spell.
    “I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But - but I was suspicious... I thought
     of going down to the front and watching her when she left the caf
    
    
     Ž
    
    
     . I actually went there. Then I felt I couldn't do that. Betty would see me and she'd be
     angry. She'd realize at once that I was watching her.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I went over to St. Leonards. Got over there by eight o'clock. Then I watched the buses -
     to see if she were in them. But there was no sign of her...”
    “And then?”
    “I - I lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I thought it probable
     he had taken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there - looked in hotels and
     restaurants, hung round cinemas - went on the pier. All damn foolishness. Even if she was
     there I was unlikely to find her, and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might
     have taken her to instead of Hastings.”
    He stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of that blind,
     bewildering misery and anger that had possessed him at the time he described.
    “In the end I gave it up - came back.”
    “At what time?”
    “I don't know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when I got home -”
    “Then - ”
    The kitchen door opened.
    “Oh, there you are,” said Inspector Kelsey.
    Inspector Crome pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at the two strangers.
    “Miss Megan Barnard and Mr. Donald Fraser,” said Poirot, introducing them.
    “This is Inspector Crome from London,” he explained.
    Turning to the inspector, he said:
    “While you pursued your investigations upstairs I have been conversing with Miss Barnard
     and Mr. Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find something that will throw light upon the
     matter.”
    “Oh, yes?” said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon the two newcomers.
    Poirot retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly as he passed:
    “Get anything?”
    But his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for a reply.
    I joined Poirot in the hall.
    “Did anything strike you, Poirot?” I inquired.
    “Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings.”
    I had not the courage to say