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The A B C Murders / Убийство по алфавиту. Книга для чтения на английском языке
The A B C Murders / Убийство по алфавиту. Книга для чтения на английском языке
To James Watts
One of my most sympathetic readers
The A B C Murders © 1936
Agatha Christie Limited.
All rights reserved.
AGATHA CHRISTIE© POIROT and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.
© КАРО, 2019
Foreword by Captain Arthur Hastings, О. В. E.[1]
In this narrative of mine I have departed from my usual practice of relating only those incidents and scenes at which I myself was present[2]. Certain chapters, therefore, were written in the third person.
Wish to assure my readers that I can vouch for the occurrences related in these chapters. If I have taken a certain poetic licence in describing the thoughts and feelings of various persons, it is because I believe I have set them down with a reasonable amount of accuracy. I may add that they have been “vetted” by my friend Hercule Poirot himself.
In conclusion, I will say that if I have described at too great length some of the secondary personal relationships which arose as a consequence of this strange series of crimes, it is because the human and personal element can never be ignored. Hercule Poirot once taught me in a very dramatic manner that romance can be a by-product of crime.
As to the solving of the ABC mystery, I can only say that in my opinion Poirot showed real genius in the way he tackled a problem entirely unlike any which had previously come his way.
Chapter 1
The Letter
It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch[3] in South America for a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for us out there. Like everyone else, we had suffered from world depression[4]. I had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful if a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage the ranch.
I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England was to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot.
I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats[5] in London. I accused him (and he admitted the fact) of having chosen this particular building entirely on account of its strictly geometrical appearance and proportions.
‘But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you not find it so?’
I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alluding to an old joke, I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managed to induce hens to lay square eggs.
Poirot laughed heartily.
‘Ah, you remember that? Alas! no—science has not yet induced the hens to conform to modern tastes, they still lay eggs of different sizes and colours!’
I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking wonderfully well—hardly a day older than when I had last seen him.
‘You’re looking in fine fettle[6], 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.