The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie Page A

ONALD F RASER
    I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed how great a shock he had had.
    He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing close on six foot, not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled face, high cheek-bones and flaming red hair.
    â€œWhat’s this, Megan?” he said. “Why in here? For God’s sake, tell me—I’ve only just heard—Betty….”
    His voice trailed away.
    Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it.
    My friend then extracted a small flask from his pocket, poured some of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said:
    â€œDrink some of this, Mr. Fraser. It will do you good.”
    The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a little colour back into his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled.
    â€œIt’s true, I suppose?” he said. “Betty is—dead—killed?”
    â€œIt’s true, Don.”
    He said as though mechanically:
    â€œHave you just come down from London?”
    â€œYes. Dad phoned me.”
    â€œBy the 9:30, I suppose?” said Donald Fraser.
    His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details.
    â€œYes.”
    There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said:
    â€œThe police? Are they doing anything?”
    â€œThey’re upstairs now. Looking through Betty’s things, I suppose.”
    â€œThey’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 businesslike, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail.
    â€œDid Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?”
    Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically:
    â€œShe told me she was going with a girl friend to St. Leonards.”
    â€œDid you believe her?”
    â€œI—” 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:
    â€œBetty 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.
    â€œThat’s right, Don,” she said. “It isn’t a time for considering one’s own feelings or anyone else’s. You’ve got to come clean.”
    Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot.
    â€œWho are you? You don’t belong to the police?”
    â€œI am better than the police,” said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact.
    â€œTell him,” said Megan.
    Donald Fraser capitulated.
    â€œI—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.”
    â€œYes?” said Poirot.
    He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the other man’s, seemed to be exercising a mesmeric spell.
    â€œI was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But—but I was suspicious…I thought of going to the front and watching her when she left the café. 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.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œI 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….”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œI—I lost my head rather. I was