She wound up with a deep gasp.
"Nobody saw this man Ascher go into the shop, I believe?'' said Poirot.
Mrs. Fowler sniffed scornfully. "Naturally he wasn't going to show himself," she said.
How Mr. Ascher had got there without showing himself she did not deign to explain.
She agreed that there was no back way into the house and that Ascher was quite well known by sight in the district.
"But he didn't want to swing for it and he kept himself well hid."
Poirot kept the conversational ball rolling some little time longer but when it seemed certain that Mrs. Fowler had told all that she knew not once but many times over, he terminated the interview, first paying out the promised sum.
"Rather a dear five pounds' worth, Poirot," I ventured to remark when we were once more in the street.
"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.
VII. Mr. Partridge and Mr. Riddell
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 seem
s 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."
"Was there a railway guide lying about?"
"Yes, there was—face downwards. It crossed my mind like that the old woman might have had to go off sudden by train and forgot to lock shop up."
"Perhaps you picked up the railway guide or moved it along the counter?"
"Didn't touch the b—— thing. I did just what I said."
"And you did not see anyone leaving the shop before you yourself got there?"
"Didn't see any such thing. What I say is, why pitch on me."
Poirot rose.
"Nobody is pitching upon you—yet. Bon soir, Monsieur."
He left the man with his mouth open and I followed him.
In the street he consulted his watch. "With great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the [missing]. Let us dispatch ourselves quickly."
VIII. The Second Letter
"Well?" I demanded eagerly.
We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves. The train, an express, had just drawn out of Andover.
"The crime," said Poirot, "was committed by a man of medium height with red hair and a cast in the left eye. He limps slightly on the right foot and has a mole just below the shoulder-blade."
"Poirot?" I cried.
For a moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my friend's eye undeceived me.
"Poirot!" I said again, this time in reproach.
"Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of doglike devotion and demand of me a pronouncement a la Sherlock Holmes! Now for the truth—I do not know what the murderer looks like, nor where he lives, nor how to set hands upon him."
"If only he had left some clue," I murmured.
"Yes, the clue—it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas that he did not smoke the cigarette and leave the ash, and then step in it with a shoe that has nails of a curious pattern. No—he is not so obliging. But at least, my friend, you have the railway guide. The A.B.C., that is a clue for you!"
"Do you think he left it by mistake then?"
"Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints tell us that."
"But there weren't any on it."
"That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm June night. Does a man stroll about on such an evening in gloves? Such a man would certainly have attracted attention. Therefore since there are no fingerprints on the A.B.C., it must have been carefully wiped. An innocent man would have left prints—a guilty man would not. So the murderer left it there for a purpose—but for all that it is none the less a clue. That A.B.C. was bought by someone—it was carried by someone—there is a possibility there."
"You think we may learn something that way?"
"Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this unknown X, obviously prides himself on his abilities. He is not likely to blaze a trail that can be followed straight away."
"So that really the A.B.C. isn't helpful at all."
"Not in the sense you mean."
"In any sense?"
Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly: "The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknown personage. He is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark. But in the very nature of things he cannot help throwing light upon himself. In one sense we know nothing about him—in another sense we know already a good deal. I see his figure dimly taking shape—a man who prints clearly and well—who buys good quality paper—who is at great needs to express his personality. I see him as a child possibly ignored and passed over—I see him growing up with an inward sense of inferiority—warring with a sense of injustice . . . . I see that inner urge—to assert himself—to focus attention on himself ever becoming stronger, and events, circumstances—crushing it down—heaping, perhaps, more humiliations on him. And inwardly the match is set to the powder train . . . ."
"That's all pure conjecture," I objected. "It doesn't give you any practical help."
"You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! You always have. But at least we can ask ourselves some practical questions. Why the A.B.C.? Why Mrs. Ascher? Why Andover?"
"The woman's past life seems simple enough," I mused. "The interviews with those two men were disappointing. They couldn't tell us anything more than we knew already."
''To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we could not neglect two possible candidates for the murder."
"Surely you don't think—"
"There is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near Andover. That is a possible answer to our question: 'Why Andover?' Well , here were two men known to have been in the shop at the requisite time of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there is nothing as yet to show that one or other of them is not the murderer."
"That great hulking brute, Riddell, perhaps," I admitted.
"Oh, I am inclined to acquit Riddell off-hand. He was nervous, blustering, obviously uneasy—"
"But surely that just shows—"
"A nature diametrically opposed to that which penned the A.B.C. letter. Conceit and self-confidence are the characteristics that we must look for."
"Someone who throws his weight about?"
"Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing manner, conceal a great deal of vanity and self-satisfaction."
"You don't think that little Mr. Partridge—?"
"He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as the writer of the letter would act—goes at once to the police—pushes himself to the fore—enjoys his position."
"Do you really think—?"
"No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came from outside Andover, but we must neglect no avenue of research. And although I say 'he' all the time, we must not exclude the possibility of a woman being concerned."
"Surely not!"
"The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous letters are written by women rather than by men. We must bear that in mind."
I was silent for a few minutes, then I said: "What do we do next?"
"My energetic Hastings," Poirot said and smiled at me.
"No, but what do we do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" My disappointment rang out clearly.
"Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?"
Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give answer. Nevertheless I felt convinced that something ought to be done and that we should not allow the grass to grow under our feet.
I said: "There is the A.B.C.—and the notepaper and envelope—"
"Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their disposal for that kind of inquiry. If anything is to be discovered on those lines have no fear but that they will discover it."
With that I was forced to rest content.
In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discuss the case. When I tried to reopen the subject he waved it aside with an impatient hand.
In my own mind I was afraid that I fathomed his motive. Over the murder of Mrs. Ascher, Poirot had sustained a defeat. A.B.C. had challenged him—and A.B.C. had won. My friend, accustomed to an unbroken line of successes, was sensitive to his failure—so much so that he could
not even endure discussion of the subject. It was, perhaps, a sign of pettiness in so great a man, but even the most sober of us is liable to have his head turned by success. In Poirot's case the head-turning process had been going on for years. Small wonder if its effects became noticeable at long last.
Understanding, I respected my friend's weakness and I made no further reference to the case. I read in the paper the account of the inquest.
It was very brief, no mention was made of the A.B.C. letter, and a verdict was returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. The crime attracted very little attention in the press. It had no popular or spectacular features. The murder of an old woman in a side street was soon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics.
Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think, because I disliked to think of Poirot as being in any way associated with a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived.
I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away in Yorkshire for the weekend. I arrived back on Monday afternoon and the letter came by the six o'clock post. I remember the sudden, sharp intake of breath that Poirot gave as he slit open that particular envelope.
"It has come," he said.
I stared at him—not understanding. "What has come?"
"The second chapter of the A.B.C. business."
For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really passed from my memory.
"Read," said Poirot and passed me over the letter.
As before, it was printed on good-quality paper.
DEAR MR. POIROT—Well, what about it? First game to me, I think.
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