Towards Zero

by Agatha Christie

“Human beings, you know,” said Mr. Treves thoughtfully. “Human beings. All kinds and sorts and sizes and shapes of ’em.

“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.

“All converging towards a given spot…And then, when the time comes—over the top! Zero Hour. Yes, all of them converging towards zero….” He repeated: “Towards zero….”

“Even now,” thought Mr. Treves to himself, “some drama—some murder to be—is in course of preparation. If I were writing one of these amusing stories of blood and crime, I should begin now with an elderly gentleman sitting in front of the fire opening his letters—going, unbeknownst to himself—towards zero….”

“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.”

“Don’t you worry. These things are sent to try us. Yes, these things are sent to try us. At least, I suppose so. I don’t see what else they can be sent for….”

The new Mrs. Strange is very handsome—very handsome indeed—but Miss Audrey is the kind you remember when she isn’t there.”

His manner, as always, was incurious—almost lazy. He asked the question, it seemed, more from politeness than because he had any desire for the information. It was a manner particularly soothing to Mary Aldin. She wanted badly to talk to someone—but she much preferred to talk to someone who was not too much interested.

She is blundering about like a daddy longlegs in lamplight.

“One is sometimes placed in a position of responsibility. The right course of action is not always easy to determine.”

“I wish I knew what keeps putting Hercule Poirot into my head.” “You mean that old chap—the Belgian—comic little guy?”