Towards Zero

by Agatha Christie

“I like a good detective story,” he said. “But, you know, they begin in the wrong place! They begin with the murder. But the murder is the end. The story begins long before that—years before sometimes—with all the causes and events that bring certain people to a certain place at a certain time on a certain day.

“It may be just by being somewhere—not doing anything—just by being at a certain place at a certain time—oh, I can’t say what I mean, but you might just—just walk along a street some day and just by doing that accomplish something terribly important—perhaps even without knowing what it was.” The red-haired little nurse came from the west coast of Scotland and some of her family had “the sight.” Perhaps, dimly, she saw a picture of a man walking up a road on a night in September and thereby saving a human being from a terrible death….

“I don’t think I can be well, and that’s the truth,” said Hurstall. “If I can so express myself, everything that’s said and done in this house lately seems to me to mean something that’s different from what it sounds like—if you know what I mean?”

“I wish I knew what keeps putting Hercule Poirot into my head.” “You mean that old chap—the Belgian—comic little guy?” “Comic my foot,” said Superintendent Battle. “About as dangerous as a black mamba and a she-leopard—that’s what he is when he starts making a mountebank of himself! I wish he was here—this sort of thing would be right up his street.” “In what way?” “Psychology,” said Battle. “Real psychology—not the half-baked stuff people hand out who know nothing about it.” His memory dwelt resentfully on Miss Amphrey and his daughter Sylvia. “No—the real genuine article—knowing just what makes the wheels go round.

“And what do you make of her?” asked Leach. “I’ve never seen anyone so—so devoid of emotion.” “She didn’t show any,” said Battle. “But it’s there. Some very strong emotion. And I don’t know what it is….”