Agatha Christie - The A.B.C. Murders

"So far, yes."

"You think she knows more than she has told?"

"My friend, we are in the peculiar position of not knowing what questions to ask. We are like little children playing Cache Cache in the dark. We stretch out our hands and grope about. Mrs. Fowler has told us all that she thinks she knows—and has thrown in several conjectures for good measure! In the future, however, her evidence may be useful. It is for the future that I have invested that sum of five pounds."

I did not quite understand the point, but at this moment we ran into Inspector Glen.

Inspector Glen was looking rather gloomy. He had, I gathered, spent the afternoon trying to get a complete list of persons who had been noticed entering the tobacco shop.

"And nobody has seen anyone?" Poirot inquired.

"Oh, yes, they have. Three tall men with furtive expressions four short men with black moustaches—two beards—three fat men—all strangers—and all, if I'm to believe witnesses, with sinister expressions! I wonder somebody didn't see a gang of masked men with revolvers while they were about it!"

Poirot smiled sympathetically. "Does anybody claim to have seen the man Ascher?"

"No, they don't. And that's another point in his favour. I've just told the Chief Constable that I think this is a job for Scotland Yard. I don't believe it's a local crime."

Poirot said gravely: "I agree with you."

The inspector said: "You know, Monsieur Poirot, it's a nasty business—a nasty business . . . I don't like it . . . ."

We had two more interviews before returning to London.

The first was with Mr. James Partridge. Mr. Partridge was the last person known to have seen Mrs. Ascher alive. He had made a purchase from her at 5:30.

Mr. Partridge was a small, spare man, a bank clerk by profession. He wore pince-nez, was very dry and spare-looking and extremely precise in all his utterances. He lived in a small house as neat and trim as himself.

"Mr.—er—Poirot," he said, glancing at the card my friend had handed to him. "From Inspector Glen? What can I do for you, Mr. Poirot?"

"I understand, Mr. Partridge, that you were the last person to see Mrs. Ascher alive."

Mr. Partridge placed his fingertips together and looked at Poirot as though he were a doubtful cheque.

"That is a very debatable point, Mr. Poirot," he said. "Many people may have made purchases from Mrs. Ascher after I did so."

"If so, they have not come forward to say so."

Mr. Partridge coughed. "Some people, Mr. Poirot, have no sense of public duty."

He looked at us owlishly through his spectacles.

"Exceedingly true," murmured Poirot. "You, I understand, went to the police of your own accord?"

"Certainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence I perceived that my statement might be helpful and came forward accordingly.''

"A very proper spirit," said Poirot solemnly. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to repeat your story to me."

"By all means. I was returning to this house and at 5:30 precisely—"

"Pardon, how was it that you knew the time so accurately?"

Mr, Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted. "The church clock chimed. I looked at my watch and found I was a minute slow. That was just before I entered Mrs. Ascher's shop."

"Were you in the habit of making purchases there?"

"Fairly frequently. It was on my way home. About once or twice a week I was in the habit of purchasing two ounces of John Ce[unreadable] mild."

"Did you know Mrs. Ascher at all? Anything of her circumstances or her history?"

"Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional refill as to the state of the weather, I had never spoken to her."

"Did you know she had a drunken husband who was in the habit of threatening her life?"

"No, I knew nothing whatever about her."

"You knew her by sight, however. Did anything about her appearance strike you as unusual yesterday evening? Did she appear flurried or put out in any way?"

Mr. Partridge considered. "As far as I noticed, she seemed exactly as usual," he said.

Poirot rose.

"Thank you, Mr. Partridge, for answering these questions. Have you, by any chance, an A.B.C. in the house? I want to look up my return train to London."

"On the shelf just behind you," said Mr. Partridge.

On the shelf in question were an A.B.C., a Bradshaw, the Stock Exchange Year Book, Kelly's Directory, a Who's Who and a local directory.

Poirot took down the A.B.C., pretended to look up a train, then thanked Mr. Partridge and took his leave.

Our next interview was with Mr. Albert Riddell and was of a highly different character. Mr. Albert Riddell was a plate-layer and our conversation took place to the accompaniment of the clattering of plates and dishes by Mr. Riddell's obviously nervous wife, the growling of Mr. Riddell's dog and the undisguised hostility of Mr. Riddell himself.

He was a big clumsy giant of a man with a broad face and small suspicious eyes. He was in the act of eating a meat pie, washed down by exceedingly black tea. He peered at us angrily over the rim of his cup.

"Told all I've got to tell once, haven't I?" he growled. "What's it to do with me, anyway? Told it to the blasted police, I 'ave, and now I've got to spit it all out again to a couple of blasted foreigners."

Poirot gave a quick amused glance in my direction and then said: "In truth I sympathize with you, but what will you? It is a question of murder, is it not? One has to be very, very careful."

"Best tell the gentleman what he wants, Bert," said the woman nervously.

"You shut your blasted mouth," roared the giant.

"You did not, I think, go to the police of your own accord." Poirot slipped the remark in neatly.

"Why the hell should I? It were no business of mine."

"A matter of opinion," said Poirot indifferently. "There has been a murder—the police want to know who has been in the shop, I myself think it would have—what shall I say?—looked more natural if you had come forward."

"I've got my work to do. Don't say I shouldn't have come forward in my own time—"

"But as it was, the police were given your name as that of a person seen to go into Mrs. Ascher's and they had to come to you. Were they satisfied with your account?"

"Why shouldn't they be?" demanded Bert truculently.

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders.

"What are you getting at, mister? Nobody's got anything against me! Everyone knows who did the old girl in, that b—— of a husband of hers."

"But he was not in the street that evening and you were."

"Trying to fasten it on me are you? Well, you won't succeed. What reason had I got to do a thing like that? Think I wanted to pinch a tin of her bloody tobacco? Think I'm a bloody homicidal maniac as they call it? Think I—?"

He rose threateningly from his seat. His wife bleated out: "Bert, Bert—don't say such things. Bert—they'll think—"

"Calm yourself, Monsieur," said Poirot. "I demand only your account of your visit. That you refuse it seems to me—what shall we say—a little odd?"

"Who said I refused anything?" Mr. Riddell sank back again into his seat. "I don't mind."

"It was six o'clock when you entered the shop?"

"That's right—a minute or two after, as a matter of fact. Wanted a packet of Gold Hake. I pushed open the door—"

"It was closed, then?"

''That's right. I thought the shop was shut, maybe. But it wasn't. I went in, there wasn't anyone about. I hammered on the counter and waited a bit. Nobody came, so I went out again. That's all, and you can put it in your pipe and smoke it."

"You didn't see the body fallen down behind the counter?"

"No, no more would you have done—unless you was looking for it, maybe."