The ABC Murders

“‘You’re looking in fine fettle, Poirot,’ I said. ‘You’ve hardly aged at all. In fact, if it were possible, I should say that you had fewer grey hairs than when I saw you last.’ Poirot beamed on me. ‘And why is that not possible? It is quite true.’ ‘Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of from black to grey?’ ‘Precisely.’ ‘But surely that’s a scientific impossibility!’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘But that’s very extraordinary. It seems against nature.’ ‘As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention the solution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doing so!’”

This exchange gives the reader a sense of the passage of time since the first entry in the series, which took place in 1916: Hastings expects to find Poirot looking aged, but he does not. Poirot, for his part, is clearly a bit vain and proud of his appearance, and willing to make jokes at his friend’s expense. He, deadpan and serious, agrees with Hastings’s assertion that his hair is changing back, without explaining the mechanism. Poirot also notes his friend’s naivete: clearly, this is not a partnership of equals. Hastings can observe what is in front of him, but not contextualize it: Poirot has told the truth, after all, but not explained an underlying cause. Poirot clearly enjoys his feelings of superiority, though he will eventually explain and reveal his use of hair dye.

“‘As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: something will arise. As in former days we will hunt together, we two. But if so it must be no common affair. It must be something’—he waved his hands excitedly—‘something recherche [elaborate]—delicate—fine…” He gave the last untranslatable word its full flavour. ‘Upon my word, Poirot,’ I said. ‘Anyone would think you were ordering a dinner at the Ritz’ ‘Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true.’ He sighed. “‘But I believe in luck—in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivable error’ ‘And what do you call the unforgivable error?’ ‘Overlooking the obvious.’”

Poirot establishes that his friendship with Hastings is bound up in his occupation, not a shared hobby. His friend’s arrival signals relief from boredom: Hastings’s value is that his presence always brings about a new puzzle for Poirot to solve. Poirot calls detection the “hunt” emphasizing the search for thrills and vanquishing an adversary. He compares a good murder to fine food—signifying that he is invested in all forms of perfection, not merely aesthetic. Hastings appears mildly offended at the idea of ordering a crime as one would a meal. Poirot suggests that fate will provide a diversion for them—an assertion he will make throughout the case to come, that a solution will be found, and the killer will be caught. Poirot believes in an order of things—and fortunately for him the conventions of the genre in which he exists will prove him correct. Poirot also gets in a dig at Hastings’s intelligence, suggesting that his friend will always point out the obvious if he fails to.

“Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust rose from his seat and peered near-sightedly round the shabby bedroom. His back was stiff from sitting in a cramped position and as he stretched himself to his full height an onlooker would have realized that he was, in reality, quite a tall man. His stoop and his near-sighted peering gave a delusive impression.”

The third person narration introduces an element of mystery before a crime has even been committed. Christie does not introduce Cust or explain his importance. He is described mostly in terms of his weaknesses—his poor vision, his bad posture, his relative poverty. He is tall, so his habit of crouching is “delusive”—word choice that suggests he is more than he seems, or easily misread. This befits his position as a red herring who will be arrested for the crime before the actual culprit is caught because his true nature is misperceived.

“‘No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poisons. You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not one murder, but a series of murders.’ ‘I admit,’ I said, ‘that a second murder in a book often cheers 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—well, it does get a bit tedious.’”

Christie uses Poirot to make fun of her genre and its adherents. She trained as a chemist during World War I and several of her novels involve poisons, blackmail, or settings outside England in the Middle East. Poirot dismisses these tropes as uninventive, worthy of a mind like Hastings but not of a genius detective. And yet, the work delivers Hastings his wish—the case to come will be a series of murders, and the first will not be a key to the crime that one must revisit. This suggests that Christie was aware of the pressures of writing for an audience. However, the ABC Murders does require reconsidering a previous case, as Carmichael Clarke’s death turns out to be more important than the others.

“This sordid murder of an old woman in a back-street shop was so like the usual type of crime reported in the newspapers that it failed to strike a significant note. In my own mind I had put down the anonymous letter with its mention of the 21st as a mere coincidence. Mrs. Ascher, I felt reasonably sure, had been the victim of her drunken brute of a husband. But now the mention of the railway guide (so familiarly known by its abbreviation of A B C, listing as it did all railway stations in their alphabetical order) sent a quiver of excitement through me.”

These observations establish Hastings’s continued appetite for novelty and adventure. He dismisses Alice Ascher’s murder as “sordid” and a domestic drama worthy of journalism, but worthy of his attention or that of his genius friend. The railway guide near the body, however, makes a connection obvious enough even for him. There are no coincidences here, the puzzle pieces are taking shape. Boredom has given way to “excitement”—Hastings can put aside tragedy and think also of the amusements ahead.

“Disfigured by old-fashioned hairdressing and weird clothes, there was no disguising the handsomeness of the girl in the picture with her clear-cut features and spirited bearing. I looked closely at the second figure. It was almost impossible to recognise the seedy Ascher in this smart young man with the military bearing. I recalled the leering drunken old man, and the toil-worn face of the dead woman—and I shivered a little at the remorselessness of time….”

Hastings treats Alice Ascher’s death primarily as an emerging source of entertainment, but he is not without feeling. He looks in a kind of regretful astonishment at her past beauty and strong personality, and that even her drunken husband was once attractive. He compares their past selves to their present condition, and “shivers.” Hastings is clearly contemplating mortality, as he calls time “remorseless”—a force with no pity for him or Poirot, as each character will reflect on their age more than once throughout the work.

“For the moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my friend’s eye undeceived me. ‘Poirot!’ I said again, this time in reproach. ‘Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of dog-like devotion and demand of me a pronouncement à 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 upon him.”’

Here the reader sees that Poirot’s friendship with Hastings continues to have a comedic element. Poirot, for all his fame and reputation, still enjoys a joke. His eye “twinkles” as he invents a fictional murderer with a limp he is ready to apprehend, after visiting only one crime scene. He teases his friend for his “dog-like devotion”—his nearly inalterable faith, ready to believe anything Poirot says. By setting himself apart from Sherlock Holmes—with his own methods—Poirot, too, operates with awareness of the detective genre in the course of his work. For all his ego, and his willingness to tease his friend, Poirot does not pretend to perfect knowledge of the crime via a reading of evidence—as he will show, for Poirot solving the crime also depends on a knowledge of personality that only comes with time.

“‘Poirot,’ I said as we walked along by the river. ‘Surely this crime can be prevented?’ He turned a haggard face to me. ‘The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one man? I fear, Hastings—I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper.’ ‘It’s horrible,’ I said. ‘Madness, Hastings, is a terrible thing…I am afraid…I am very much afraid….’”

Poirot previously joked about wanting a prime murder, but the actual crime frequently fills him with horror. Realizing the crimes continue makes him “haggard”—filled with responsibility and dread. He invokes a famous crime of the past in the specter of Jack the Ripper, the Victorian serial murderer who was never caught. This reference, like the ones to Sherlock Holmes, allows Christie to show that Poirot has retained his own culture but is deeply aware of Britain’s past as well, particularly as it pertains to crime. He insists that “madness” will be difficult for him to thwart—at this stage in the narrative Poirot sees his adversary almost as supernatural force, filling him with trepidation.

“Somewhat to my surprise, Poirot plunged into the whole story of the A B C letters, the murder of Andover, and the railway guide found by the bodies. He had no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Her lips parted, her eyes gleaming, she hung on his words. ‘Is this all true, M. Poirot?’ ‘Yes, it is true.’ ‘You really mean that my sister was killed by some horrible homicidal maniac?’ ‘Precisely.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Oh! Betty—Betty—how—how ghastly!’ ‘You see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask you can give freely without wondering whether or not it will hurt anyone.’ ‘Yes, I see that now.’”

Hastings is surprised by Poirot’s forthrightness with Megan—his confidence to her seems like an indirect tribute to her intelligent and observant nature. He knows her testimony depends on a show of trust. Her eyes “gleam” with interest, suggesting Poirot has found a captive audience. He finally explains that she need not fear her honesty will harm another suspect, because Betty was likely killed by someone she did not know well. Poirot, then, is a sharp observer of human nature, knowing that Megan, as she will prove later in this scene, has someone she wants to protect from suspicion.

“‘Oh, yes? A little unanswerable at present, perhaps.’ ‘Nevertheless, my friend,’ said Poirot, looking straight at him, ‘it is there, in those questions, that the solution lies. If we knew the exact reason—fantastic, perhaps, to us—but logical to him—of why our madman commits these crimes, we should know, perhaps, who the next victim is likely to be.’ Crome shook his head. ‘He selects them haphazard—that’s my opinion.’ ‘The magnanimous murderer,’ said Poirot. ‘What’s that you say?’ ‘I said—the magnanimous murderer! Franz Ascher would have been arrested for the murder of his wife—Donald Fraser might have been arrested for the murder of Betty Barnard—if it had not been for the warning letters of A B C. Is he, then, so soft-hearted that he cannot bear others to suffer for something they did not do?’”

Crome establishes himself as a skeptic hostile to Poirot’s concerns and methods. Poirot, significantly, does not so much as flinch at the challenge, insisting that the motive for the crimes will be key to solving them. Poirot also reintroduces an alliterative contradiction—the murderer seems to have shown the loved ones of the deceased a kind of generosity of sorts, by ensuring none of them can be suspected of the crimes. Poirot even suggests the killer does so out of sympathy. No scenario is impossible to his imagination as long as it explains the events.

“‘How odd all this is, Poirot,’ I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an idea. ‘Do you know, this is the first crime of this kind that you and I have worked on together? All our murders have been—well, private murders, so to speak.’ ‘You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen to our lot to work from the inside. It has been the history of the victim that was important. The important points have been: ‘Who benefited by the death? What opportunities had those round him to commit the crime?’ It has always been the ‘crime intime.’ Here, for the first time in our association, it is cold-blooded, impersonal murder. Murder from the outside.’ I shivered. ‘It’s rather horrible….’ ‘Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen….’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘One must not give way to the nerves…This is no worse than any ordinary crime….’”

This scene, another conversation on a train—in keeping with the railway motif—emphasizes that Hastings stands in for the reader, reflecting on crime and criminals from a nonexpert perspective. He seems to find the impersonal nature of the crimes as upsetting as the deaths themselves, as though there is greater narrative order in a world where murder happens for personal reasons. He shivers, as though the crimes have somehow penetrated his physical being. Poirot, for all that he admits it is strange to consider a crime where motive and opportunity seem less relevant, insists on reason and not giving into fear. Though his intuition born of experience does tell him the letters are disconcerting—a puzzle that will take him more time, and more train trips, to solve.

“A lot depends on la chance. So far our inconnu has been lucky. This time the luck may turn against him. But in any case, after another crime, we shall know infinitely more. Crime is terribly revealing. Try and vary your methods as you will, your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind, and your soul is revealed by your actions. There are confusing indications—sometimes it is as though there were two intelligences at work—but soon the outline will clear itself, I shall know.”

Christie takes pains to establish that Poirot gropes toward the solution to the crime at various junctures before he solves it. At this point, he senses that the letters reveal a man divided—Franklin Clarke pretending to be a homicidal maniac so that his personal investment is not clear. At the same time, Poirot insists that while crime is revealing of personality, personality alone is not decisive. Chance and human error matter, and these, too, will prove revelatory.

“‘Might induce him to try and have a shot at me.’ ‘I think it’s very dangerous and silly,’ said Thora Grey sharply. ‘What about it, M. Poirot?’ ‘It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A B C will be too cunning to reply.’ Poirot smiled a little. ‘I see, Mr. Clarke, that you are—if I may say so without being offensive—still a boy at heart.’ Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed.”

Franklin Clarke establishes his daring and impetuosity by suggesting he set a trap for the killer in the classifieds. Of course, he knows that this will come to nothing substantive, but he must provide another ruse and remain close to the investigation. Looking back, this establishes his cunning and desperation to appear invested in the investigation’s success. It is also telling that Thora Grey objects to his participation—she may or may not care for him, but the thought of him risking his life is distasteful. Poirot, significantly, calls Franklin a “boy” emphasizing that his decisions are not mature—contrasting the two of them, as Poirot is well past middle age at this point in his life.

“‘By the way, you must have been quite near where the murder was—the A B C murder. It happened while you were down there, didn’t it?’ ‘Er—yes. But Churston’s six or seven miles away.’ ‘All the same, it must have been exciting! Why, you may have passed the murderer in the street! You may have been quite near to him!’ ‘Yes, I may, of course,’ said Mr. Cust with such a ghastly and contorted smile that Lily Marbury noticed it.’”

By this point, serving as Franklin Clarke’s unwitting pawn has put quite the mental strain on Cust. He denies close proximity to one of the crime scenes. Far from sharing Lily’s youthful excitement at the drama, his smile becomes “contorted” showing that he is increasingly concerned he may be somehow implicated, as he has also lied about his upcoming journey to Doncaster. Christie takes great pains to make Cust appear either a suffering patsy or a killer about to crack under the strain of pretending to live a typical life.

“‘He takes to himself all the credit for a successful performance—but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned, no crime can be successful without luck!’ ‘Isn’t that going rather far?’ demurred Franklin Clarke. Poirot waved his hands excitedly. ‘No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour. Consider! It might have happened that someone enters Mrs. Ascher’s shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman—and either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would have been arrested forthwith.’”

For all his attention to evidence and a consistent internal motive, Poirot here insists on the importance of luck in committing murder. Significantly, Franklin Clarke, who has every desire to believe his schemes will succeed, argues the point. Poirot insists it is an “even chance” at most, and that the absence of witnesses is often a matter beyond a killer’s control. It is not clear at this point if Poirot suspects Franklin—the insistence that chance will go his way functioning as a kind of dare that may result in the suspect making a mistake. This is ultimately what transpires, as Franklin is seen at the movie theater and this adds to the evidence against him. Either way, the exchange adds to Poirot’s view of crime in general and causation in particular—there are forces even he cannot predict entirely, though he insists he has some sense of their general direction. Poirot is frequently frustrated but rarely truly despairing, and a perpetual optimist about his own skills.

“Still no one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way now? He made up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering with cars and discussing winners and losers. Mr. Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street. Round the first corner to the right—then to the left—right again….Dare he risk the station? Yes—there would be crowds there—special trains—if luck were on his side he would do it all right….If only luck were with him….”

Cust relies on luck as he seeks to escape Doncaster. His furtiveness hints at guilt, or panic, depending on the reader’s point of view. The chauffeurs in the car are discussing “winners and losers” just at a time when Cust, clearly a man regarded as unsuccessful, is desperate for a small victory. In keeping with his identity as a possible killer, Christie stresses that Cust is seeking trains, and even has him specifically think of luck, as if he had eavesdropped on Poirot’s conversation with Franklin Clarke.

“‘I might make a suggestion. Your name!’ ‘My name?’ ‘Yes. Cust is saddled—apparently by the whim of his mother (Oedipus complex there, I shouldn’t wonder!)—with two extremely bombastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander—the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte—the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary—an adversary, one might say, in his class. Well—there you are—Hercules the strong.’ ‘Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas….’”

Thompson introduces symbolism into the debate about motive, suggesting that Cust’s name has given him delusions of grandeur. He reinforces the detective novel’s preoccupation with the antagonism between the killer and the master sleuth, offering an interpretation that respects Poirot’s skills where Poirot denigrates them. The scene here reflects Christie’s very gradual revelation of the real killer, and Cust’s status as a mere red herring. It is difficult to imagine Cust as a man in search of a battle, but Thompson does not hesitate to advance his theory. Notably, Poirot does not say what Thompson has made him think about—later in the scene, this conversation, together with Hastings’s previous remark, may explain Poirot’s eventual epiphany. Significantly, the content of Cust’s name matters not at all—only his initials do. Christie thus suggests that deep symbolic readings are of little interest to her, and not necessary to detective fiction.

“‘How have I inspired you this time?’ I asked. ‘While I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark of yours—a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Did I not say to you once that you had a genius for stating the obvious. It is the obvious that I have neglected.’ ‘What is this brilliant remark of mine?’ I asked. ‘It makes everything as clear as crystal. I see the answers to all my questions. The reason for Mrs. Ascher (that, it is true, I glimpsed long ago), the reason for Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for the Doncaster murder, and finally and supremely important, the reason for Hercule Poirot.’ ‘Could you kindly explain?’ ‘Not at the moment. I require first a little more information.’”

Poirot’s epiphany showcases his excitable and voluble nature. Where in moments of calmness he gently ridicules Hastings, here he praises his friend’s “genius” as the obvious has suddenly become revelatory. His remark is not merely useful, it is “shimmering.” Poirot is so ecstatic that he is engaging in hyperbole. It is Hastings’s remark, not psychoanalysis, that finally resolves Poirot’s great intellectual torture: how the victims were selected, and why the letters were written to him. Christie, however, remains faithful to her genre, as Hastings, and the reader, are forced to wait longer to learn what exactly Poirot has discovered.

“‘I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side—then they sound the tally-ho, do they not?—and the run begins—across the country—over the hedges and ditches—and the fox he runs—and sometimes he doubles back—but the dogs—’ ‘Hounds!’ ‘—hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies—quickly and horribly.’ ‘I suppose it does sound cruel, but really—’ ‘The fox enjoys it? Do not say les bêtises [lies], my friend. Tout de même it is better that—the quick, cruel death—than what those children were singing….’”

In this exchange, we see that Poirot is deeply disturbed by cruelty. He notes that foxhunting is a common pastime of the British upper classes, clearly preoccupied with the imagery of the fox running for its life after the horn sounds. Notably, Poirot stays in the fox’s perspective, imagining the flight followed by the cruel demise. Hastings tries to defend his class, but Poirot calls the idea of a merciful death a “lie”—though the cruelest outcome is perpetually being caged. Though Poirot does not say so, he is clearly thinking of the imprisoned Cust—and determined to free him from the trap Franklin Clarke has set.

“What would be the object of writing such letters? To focus attention on the writer, to call attention to the murders! En vérité, it did not seem to make sense at first sight. And then I saw light. It was to focus attention on several murders—on a group of murders…Is it not your great Shakespeare who has said ‘You cannot see the trees for the wood.’ I did not correct Poirot’s literary reminiscences. I was trying to see his point. A glimmer came to me.’”

Poirot turns back to a central question—why a murderer would seek publicity and throw suspicion off likelier suspects. Throughout the series, Christie frequently has Poirot slightly misstate English idioms, in another reminder of his foreignness, signifying eccentricity to an Anglophone audience. Poirot also misattributes the quotation, most sources trace it to John Heywood, who died a few decades before Shakespeare. Hastings, for his part, lets the misstatement go, unconcerned with the chance to be a pedant and correct his friend. He remains a stand in for the reader, finally seeing through a “glimmer” what Poirot sees clearly.

“‘No, Mr. Clarke,’ said Poirot. ‘You may have noticed I had a new manservant today—a friend of mine—an expert sneak thief. He removed your pistol from your pocket, unloaded it, and returned it, all without you being aware of the fact.’ ‘You unutterable little jackanapes of a foreigner!’ cried Clarke, purple with rage. ‘Yes, yes, Mr. Clarke, that is how you feel. No, Mr. Clarke, no easy death for you. You told Mr. Cust you had had two near escapes from drowning. You know what that means—that you were born for another fate.’”

Poirot engages in exposition, describing events which the reader had not previously seen, as in this anecdote about a manservant. He has thwarted Clarke’s ability to end his life rather than face prison—he has won the contest of wills. He shows it further by not responding to Clarke’s xenophobic insult, merely acknowledging it as Clarke’s true opinion. He denies Clarke an “easy death” reminding him of his prophesy to Cust: Franklin tried to condemn and trap another, and Poirot has determined to see him hang for this cruelty and his other crimes, reminding him of his living victim and would-be scapegoat.

“‘You hardly spared my feelings,’ said Thora Grey. ‘I do not fancy you returned me a truthful answer, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘And now your second expectation is disappointed. Franklin Clarke will not inherit his brother’s money.’ She flung up her head. ‘Is there any need for me to stay here and be insulted?’ ‘None whatever,’ said Poirot and held the door open politely for her. ‘That fingerprint clinched things, Poirot,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘He went all to pieces when you mentioned that.’ ‘Yes, they are useful—fingerprints.’ He added thoughtfully: ‘I put that in to please you, my friend.’ ‘But, Poirot,” I cried, ‘wasn’t it true?’ ‘Not in the least, mon ami,’ said Hercule Poirot.”

Poirot retains his skepticism of Thora Grey’s integrity, not apologizing for accusing her of mercenary intent regarding both Franklin and his brother. Thora remains defiant, and Poirot merely ushers her out, content to let his assessment stand. Poirot, unlike Hastings, does not regard beautiful women as inherently worthy of protection or care. He may retain some elitist sympathies, as he seems satisfied Thora will not be able to ascend the social ladder by marrying into money. Here we see the depth of Poirot’s regard for Hastings: he added a narrative flourish to his exposition of Franklin, knowing it would cheer his friend and accomplish his goal of proving his theories. Poirot, for all that he is concerned with justice, is not above deception, cunning, or insult.

“Fraser’s eyes went towards Megan. ‘Do not be afraid to forget,’ said Poirot gently. She was not so well worth remembering. In Mademoiselle Megan you have one in a hundred—un coeur magnifique!’ Donald Fraser’s eyes lit up. ‘I believe you are right.’”

This scene with Megan and Donald contrasts sharply with his dismissal of Thora Grey. He assures Donald that he need feel no guilt for his love of Megan. He celebrates her as “one in a hundred”—returning to the theme of luck and odds, this time, to celebrate good fortune. He puts Betty aside, without grief for her—perhaps implying that her flirtatious ways make her unworthy of mourning. Donald accepts his premise, newly light in heart: the last few pages of the narrative turn suddenly celebratory.