Free The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie Page B

weekending kind. Nothing of that sort. But she liked being taken out and dancing and—oh, cheap flattery and compliments and all that sort of thing.”
    â€œAnd she was pretty—yes?”
    This question, the third time I had heard it, met this time with a practical response.
    Megan slipped off the table, went to her suitcase, snapped it open and extracted something which she handed to Poirot.
    In a leather frame was a head and shoulders of a fair-haired, smiling girl. Her hair had evidently recently been permed, it stood out from her head in a mass of rather frizzy curls. The smile was arch and artificial. It was certainly not a face that you could call beautiful, but it had an obvious and cheap prettiness.
    Poirot handed it back, saying:
    â€œYou and she do not resemble each other, mademoiselle.”
    â€œOh! I’m the plain one of the family. I’ve always known that.” She seemed to brush aside the fact as unimportant.
    â€œIn what way exactly do you consider your sister was behaving foolishly? Do you mean, perhaps, in relation to Mr. Donald Fraser?”
    â€œThat’s it, exactly. Don’s a very quiet sort of person—but he—well, naturally he’d resent certain things—and then—”
    â€œAnd then what, mademoiselle?”
    His eyes were on her very steadily.
    It may have been my fancy but it seemed to me that she hesitated a second before answering.
    â€œI was afraid that he might—chuck her altogether. And thatwould have been a pity. He’s a very steady and hard-working man and would have made her a good husband.”
    Poirot continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glance but returned it with one of her own equally steady and with something else in it—something that reminded me of her first defiant, disdainful manner.
    â€œSo it is like that,” he said at last. “We do not speak the truth any longer.”
    She shrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door.
    â€œWell,” she said. “I’ve done what I could to help you.”
    Poirot’s voice arrested her.
    â€œWait, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back.”
    Rather unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed.
    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.
    â€œIs this all true, M. Poirot?”
    â€œYes, it is true.”
    â€œYou really mean that my sister was killed by some horrible homicidal maniac?”
    â€œPrecisely.”
    She drew a deep breath.
    â€œOh! Betty—Betty—how—how ghastly! ”
    â€œYou see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask you can give freely without wondering whether or not it will hurt anyone.”
    â€œYes, I see that now.”
    â€œThen let us continue our conversation. I have formed the idea that this Donald Fraser has, perhaps, a violent and jealous temper, is that right?”
    Megan Barnard said quietly:
    â€œI’m trusting you now, M. Poirot. I’m going to give you the absolute truth. Don is, as I say, a very quiet person—a bottled-up person, if you know what I mean. He can’t always express what he feels in words. But underneath it all he minds things terribly. And he’s got a jealous nature. He was always jealous of Betty. He was devoted to her—and of course she was very fond of him, but it wasn’t in Betty to be fond of one person and not notice anybody else. She wasn’t made that way. She’d got a—well, an eye for any nice-looking man who’d pass the time of day with her. And of course, working in the Ginger Cat, she was always running up against men—especially in the summer holidays. She was always very pat with her tongue and if they chaffed her she’d chaff back again.