The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie

And then perhaps she’d meet them and go to the pictures or something like that. Nothing serious—never anything of that kind—but she just liked her fun. She used to say that as she’d got to settle down with Don one day she might as well have her fun now while she could.”
    Megan paused and Poirot said:
    â€œI understand. Continue.”
    â€œIt was just that attitude of mind of hers that Don couldn’t understand. If she was really keen on him he couldn’t see why she wanted to go out with other people. And once or twice they had flaming big rows about it.”
    â€œM. Don, he was no longer quiet?”
    â€œIt’s like all those quiet people, when they do lose their tempers they lose them with a vengeance. Don was so violent that Betty was frightened.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œThere was one row nearly a year ago and another—a worse one—just over a month ago. I was home for the weekend—and I got them to patch it up again, and it was then I tried to knock a little sense into Betty—told her she was a little fool. All she would say was that there hadn’t been any harm in it. Well, that was true enough, but all the same she was riding for a fall. You see, after the row a year ago, she’d got into the habit of telling a few useful lies on the principle that what the mind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve over. This last flare-up came because she’d told Don she was going to Hastings to see a girl pal—and he found out that she’d really been over to Eastbourne with some man. He was a married man, as it happened, and he’d been a bit secretive about the business anyway—and so that made it worse. They had an awful scene—Betty saying that she wasn’t married to him yet and she had a right to go about with whom she pleased and Don all white and shaking and saying that one day—one day—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHe’d commit murder—” said Megan in a lowered voice.
    She stopped and stared at Poirot.
    He nodded his head gravely several times.
    â€œAnd so, naturally, you were afraid….”
    â€œI didn’t think he’d actually done it—not for a minute! But I was afraid it might be brought up—the quarrel and all that he’d said—several people knew about it.”
    Again Poirot nodded his head gravely.
    â€œJust so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egoistical vanity of a killer, that is just what would have happened. If Donald Fraser escapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A B C’s maniacal boasting.”
    He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
    â€œDo you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man, lately?”
    Megan shook her head.
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve been away, you see.”
    â€œBut what do you think?”
    â€œShe mayn’t have met that particular man again. He’d probably sheer off if he thought there was a chance of a row, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Betty had—well, been telling Don a few lies again. You see, she did so enjoy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Don couldn’t afford to take her all the time.”
    â€œIf so, is she likely to have confided in anyone? The girl at the café, for instance?”
    â€œI don’t think that’s likely. Betty couldn’t bear the Higley girl. She thought her common. And the others would be new. Betty wasn’t the confiding sort anyway.”
    An electric bell trilled sharply above the girl’s head.
    She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her head sharply.
    â€œIt’s Don….”
    â€œBring him in here,” said Poirot quickly. “I would like a word with him before our good inspector takes him in hand.”
    Like a flash Megan Barnard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand.

Twelve
D