Twelve

DONALD FRASER

I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed howgreat a shock he had had.

He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing¹ close on six foot, not good-looking,but with a pleasant, freckled² face, high cheek-bones and flaming red hair.

“What’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 flask³ from his pocket, poured some of its contents into aconvenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said:

“Drink 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 upstraighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled.

“It’s true, I suppose?” he said. “Betty is—dead—killed?”

“It’s true, Don.”

He said as though mechanically:

“Have you just come down from London?”

“Yes. Dad phoned me.”

“By the 9:30, I suppose?” said Donald Fraser.

His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details.

“Yes.”

There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said:

“The police? Are they doing anything?”

“They’re upstairs now. Looking through Betty’s things, I suppose.”

“They’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 spoke⁴ in a businesslike, matter-of-factvoice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail.

“Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?”

Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically:

“She told me she was going with a girl friend to St. Leonards.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I—” Suddenly the automaton⁵ came to life. “What the devil do you mean?”

His face then, menacing, convulsed by sudden passion, made me understand that a girl mightwell be afraid of rousing his anger.

Poirot said crisply:

“Betty Barnard was killed by a homicidal murderer. Only by speaking the exact truth can youhelp us to get on his track.”

His glance for a minute turned to Megan.

“That’s right, Don,” she said. “It isn’t a time for considering one’s own feelings or anyoneelse’s. You’ve got to come clean.”

Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot.

“Who are you? You don’t belong to the police?”

“I am better than the police,” said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance⁶. It was, to him,a simple statement of fact.

“Tell him,” said Megan.

Donald Fraser capitulated.

“I—wasn’t sure,” he said. “I believed her when she said it. Never thought of doing anythingelse. Afterwards—perhaps it was something in her manner. I—I, well, I began to wonder.”

“Yes?” said Poirot.

He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed⁷ on the other man’s, seemed to beexercising a mesmeric spell.

“I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But—but I was suspicious…I thought ofgoing to the front and watching her when she left the café. I actually went there. Then I felt Icouldn’t do that. Betty would see me and she’d be angry. She’d realize at once that I was watchingher.”

“What did you do?”

“I went over to St. Leonards. Got over there by eight o’clock. Then I watched the buses—to seeif she were in them…But there was no sign of her….”

“And then?”

“I—I lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I thought it probable he hadtaken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there—looked in hotels and restaurants, hung roundcinemas—went on the pier⁸. All damn foolishness. Even if she was there I was unlikely to find her,and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might have taken her to instead of Hastings.”

He stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of that blind, bewilderingmisery and anger that had possessed⁹ him at the time he described.

“In the end I gave it up—came back.”

“At what time?”

“I don’t know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when I got home.”

“Then—”

The kitchen door opened.

“Oh, there you are,” said Inspector¹⁰ Kelsey.

Inspector Crome pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at the two strangers.

“Miss Megan Barnard and Mr. Donald Fraser,” said Poirot, introducing them.

“This is Inspector Crome from London,” he explained.

Turning to the inspector, he said:

“While you pursued your investigations¹¹ upstairs I have been conversing¹² with Miss Barnard andMr. Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find something that will throw light upon the matter.”

“Oh, yes?” said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon the two newcomers.

Poirot retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly¹³ as he passed:

“Get anything?”

But his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for a reply.

I joined Poirot in the hall.

“Did anything strike you, Poirot?” I inquired.

“Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings.”

I had not the courage to say that I had not the least idea what he meant.

 

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