The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie
“I have indeed been foolish to take the matter so seriously,” said Poirot. “It is the nest of the horse that I put my nose into there.”
“You’re mixing up mares and wasps,” said Japp.
“Pardon?”
“Just a couple of proverbs. Well, I must be off. Got a little business in the next street to see to—receiving stolen jewellery. I thought I’d just drop in on my way and put your mind at rest. Pity to let those grey cells function unnecessarily.”
With which words and a hearty laugh, Japp departed.
“He does not change much, the good Japp, eh?” asked Poirot.
“He looks much older,” I said. “Getting as grey as a badger,” I added vindictively.
Poirot coughed and said:
“You know, Hastings, there is a little device—my hairdresser is a man of great ingenuity—one attaches it to the scalp and brushes one’s own hair over it—it is not a wig, you comprehend—but—”
“Poirot,” I roared. “Once and for all I will have nothing to do with the beastly inventions of your confounded hairdresser. What’s the matter with the top of my head?”
“Nothing—nothing at all.”
“It’s not as though I were going bald.”
“Of course not! Of course not!”
“The hot summers out there naturally cause the hair to fall out a bit. I shall take back a really good hair tonic.”
“Précisément.”
“And, anyway, what business is it of Japp’s? He always was an offensive kind of devil. And no sense of humour. The kind of man who laughs when a chair is pulled away just as a man is about to sit down.”
“A great many people would laugh at that.”
“It’s utterly senseless.”
“From the point of view of the man about to sit, certainly it is.”
“Well,” I said, slightly recovering my temper. (I admit that I am touchy about the thinness of my hair.) “I’m sorry that anonymous letter business came to nothing.”
“I have indeed been in the wrong over that. About that letter, there was, I thought, the odour of the fish. Instead a mere stupidity. Alas, I grow old and suspicious like the blind watchdog who growls when there is nothing there.”
“If I’m going to cooperate with you, we must look about for some other ‘creamy’ crime,” I said with a laugh.
“You remember your remark of the other day? If you could order a crime as one orders a dinner, what would you choose?”
I fell in with his humour.
“Let me see now. Let’s review the menu. Robbery? Forgery? No, I think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder—red-blooded murder—with trimmings, of course.”
“Naturally. The hors d’oeuvres.”
“Who shall the victim be—man or woman? Man, I think. Some bigwig. American millionaire. Prime Minister. Newspaper proprietor. Scene of the crime—well, what’s wrong with the good old library? Nothing like it for atmosphere. As for the weapon—well, it might be a curiously twisted dagger—or some blunt instrument—a carved stone idol—”
Poirot sighed.
“Or, of course,” I said, “there’s poison—but that’s always so technical. Or a revolver shot echoing in the night. Then there must be a beautiful girl or two—”
“With auburn hair,” murmured my friend.
“Your same old joke. One of the beautiful girls, of course, must be unjustly suspected—and there’s some misunderstanding between her and the young man. And then, of course, there must be some other suspects—an older woman—dark, dangerous type—and some friend or rival of the dead man’s—and a quiet secretary—dark horse—and a hearty man with a bluff manner—and a couple of discharged servants or gamekeepers or somethings—and a damn fool of a detective rather like Japp—and well—that’s about all.”
“That is your idea of the cream, eh?”
“I gather you don’t agree.”
Poirot looked at me sadly.
“You have made there a very pretty résumé of nearly all the detective stories that have ever been written.”
“Well,” I said. “What would you order?”
Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came purringly from between his lips.
“A very simple crime. A crime with no complications. A crime of quiet domestic life…very unimpassioned—very intime.”
“How can a crime be intime?”
“Supposing,” murmured Poirot, “that four people sit down to play bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and intent on the play of the hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for you! Which of the four was it?”
“Well,” I said. “I can’t see any excitement in that!”
Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.
“No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poisons. You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not one murder, but a series of murders.”
“I admit,” I said, “that a second murder in a book often cheers things up. If the murder happens in the first chapter, and you have to follow up everybody’s alibi until the last page but one—well, it does get a bit tedious.”
The telephone rang and Poirot rose to answer.
“’Allo,” he said. “’Allo. Yes, it is Hercule Poirot speaking.”
He listened for a minute or two and then I saw his face change.
His own side of the conversation was short and disjointed.
“Mais oui….”
“Yes, of course….”
“But yes, we will come….”
“Naturally….”
“It may be as you say….”
“Yes, I will bring it. A tout à l’heure then.”
He replaced the receiver and came across the room to me.
“That was Japp speaking, Hastings.”
“Yes?”
“He had just got back to the Yard. There was a message from Andover….”
“Andover?” I cried excitedly.
Poirot said slowly:
“An old woman of the name of Ascher who keeps a little tobacco and newspaper shop has been found murdered.”
I think I felt ever so slightly damped. My interest, quickened by the sound of Andover, suffered a faint check. I had expected something fantastic—out of the way! The murder of an old woman who kept a little tobacco shop seemed, somehow, sordid and uninteresting.
Poirot continued in the same slow, grave voice:
“The Andover police believe they can put their hand on the man who did it—”
I felt a second throb of disappointment.
“It seems the woman was on bad terms with her husband. He drinks and is by way of being rather a nasty customer. He’s threatened to take her life more than once.
“Nevertheless,” continued Poirot, “in view of what has happened, the police there would like to have another look at the anonymous letter I received. I have said that you and I will go down to Andover at once.”
My spirits revived a little. After all, sordid as this crime seemed to be, it was a crime, and it was a long time since I had had any association with crime and criminals.
I hardly listened to the next words Poirot said. But they were to come back to me with significance later.
“This is the beginning,” said Hercule Poirot.
Four
MRS. ASCHER
We were received at Andover by Inspector Glen, a tall fair-haired man with a pleasant smile.
For the sake of conciseness I think I had better give a brief résumé of the bare facts of the case.
The crime was discovered by Police Constable Dover at 1 am on the morning of the 22nd. When on his round he tried the door of the shop and found it unfastened, he entered and at first thought the place was empty. Directing his to
“But we’ve been able to get it down a bit nearer than that,” explained the inspector. “We’ve found a man who went in and bought some tobacco at 5:30. And a second man went in and found the shop empty, as he thought, at five minutes past six. That puts the time at between 5:30 and 6:5. So far I haven’t been able to find anyone who saw this man Ascher in the neighbourhood, but, of course, it’s early as yet. He was in the Three Crowns at nine o’clock pretty far gone in drink. When we get hold of him he’ll be detained on suspicion.”
“Not a very desirable character, inspector?” asked Poirot.
“Unpleasant bit of goods.”
“He didn’t live with his wife?”
“No, they separated some years ago. Ascher’s a German. He was a waiter at one time, but he took to drink and gradually became unemployable. His wife went into service for a bit. Her last place was as cook-housekeeper to an old lady, Miss Rose. She allowed her husband so much out of her wages to keep himself, but he was always getting drunk and coming round and making scenes at the places where she was employed. That’s why she took the post with Miss Rose at The Grange. It’s three miles out of Andover, dead in the country. He couldn’t get at her there so well. When Miss Rose died, she left Mrs. Ascher a small legacy, and the woman started this tobacco and newsagent business—quite a tiny place—just cheap cigarettes and a few newspapers—that sort of thing. She just about managed to keep going. Ascher used to come round and abuse her now and again and she used to give him a bit to get rid of him. She allowed him fifteen shillings a week regular.”
“Had they any children?” asked Poirot.
“No. There’s a niece. She’s in service near Overton. Very superior, steady young woman.”
“And you say this man Ascher used to threaten his wife?”
“That’s right. He was a terror when he was in drink—cursing and swearing that he’d bash her head in. She had a hard time, did Mrs. Ascher.”
“What age of woman was she?”
“Close on sixty—respectable and hard-working.”
Poirot said gravely:
“It is your opinion, inspector, that this man Ascher committed the crime?”
The inspector coughed cautiously.
“It’s a bit early to say that, Mr. Poirot, but I’d like to hear Franz Ascher’s own account of how he spent yesterday evening. If he can give a satisfactory account of himself, well and good—if not—”
His pause was a pregnant one.
“Nothing was missing from the shop?”
“Nothing. Money in the till quite undisturbed. No signs of robbery.”
“You think that this man Ascher came into the shop drunk, started abusing his wife and finally struck her down?”
“It seems the most likely solution. But I must confess, sir, I’d like to have another look at that very odd letter you received. I was wondering if it was just possible that it came from this man Ascher.”
Poirot handed over the letter and the inspector read it with a frown.
“It doesn’t read like Ascher,” he said at last. “I doubt if Ascher would use the term ‘our’ British police—not unless he was trying to be extra cunning—and I doubt if he’s got the wits for that. Then the man’s a wreck—all to pieces. His hand’s too shaky to print letters clearly like this. It’s good quality notepaper and ink, too. It’s odd that the letter should mention the 21st of the month. Of course it might be coincidence.”
“That is possible—yes.”
“But I don’t like this kind of coincidence, Mr. Poirot. It’s a bit too pat.”
He was silent for a minute or two—a frown creasing his forehead.
“A B C. Who the devil could A B C be? We’ll see if Mary Drower (that’s the niece) can give us any help. It’s an odd business. But for this letter I’d have put my money on Franz Ascher for a certainty.”
“Do you know anything of Mrs. Ascher’s past?”
“She’s a Hampshire woman. Went into service as a girl up in London—that’s where she met Ascher and married him. Things must have been difficult for them during the war. She actually left him for good in 1922. They were in London then. She came back here to get away from him, but he got wind of where she was and followed her down here, pestering her for money—” A constable came in. “Yes, Briggs, what is it?”
“It’s the man Ascher, sir. We’ve brought him in.”
“Right. Bring him in here. Where was he?”
“Hiding in a truck on the railway siding.”
“He was, was he? Bring him along.”
Franz Ascher was indeed a miserable and unprepossessing specimen. He was blubbering and cringing and blustering alternately. His bleary eyes moved shiftily from one face to another.
“What do you want with me? I have not done nothing. It is a shame and a scandal to bring me here! You are swine, how dare you?” His manner changed suddenly. “No, no, I do not mean that—you would not hurt a poor old man—not be hard on him. Everyone is hard on poor old Franz. Poor old Franz.”
Mr. Ascher started to weep.
“That’ll do, Ascher,” said the inspector. “Pull yourself together. I’m not charging you with anything—yet. And you’re not bound to make a statement unless you like. On the other hand, if you’re not concerned in the murder of your wife—”
Ascher interrupted him—his voice rising to a scream.
“I did not kill her! I did not kill her! It is all lies! You are god-damned English pigs—all against me. I never kill her—never.”
“You threatened to often enough, Ascher.”
“No, no. You do not understand. That was just a joke—a good joke between me and Alice. She understood.”
“Funny kind of joke! Do you care to say where you were yesterday evening, Ascher?”
“Yes, yes—I tell you everything. I did not go near Alice. I am with friends—good friends. We are at the Seven Stars—and then we are at the Red Dog—”
He hurried on, his words stumbling over each other.
“Dick Willows—he was with me—and old Curdie—and George—and Platt and lots of the boys. I tell you I do not never go near Alice. Ach Gott, it is the truth I am telling you.”
His voice rose to a scream. The inspector nodded to his underling.
“Take him away. Detained on suspicion.”
“I don’t know what to think,” he said as the unpleasant, shaking old man with the malevolent, mouthing jaw was removed. “If it wasn’t for the letter, I’d say he did it.”
“What about the men he mentions?”
“A bad crowd—not one of them would stick at perjury. I’ve no doubt he was with them the greater part of the evening. A lot depends on whether any one saw him near the shop between half past five and six.”
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.
“You are sure nothing was taken from the shop?”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders.
“That depends. A packet or two of cigarettes might have been taken—but you’d hardly commit murder for that.”
“And there was nothing—how shall I put it—introduced into the shop? Nothing that was odd there—incongruous?”
“There was a railway guide,” said the inspector.
“A railway guide?”
“Yes. It was open and turned face downward on the counter. Looked as though someone had been looking up the trains from Andover. Either the old woman or a customer.”
“Did she sell that type of thing?”
The inspector shook his head.
“She sold penny timetables. This was a big one—kind of thing only Smith’s or a big stationer would keep.”
A
A light came into the inspector’s eye also.
“A railway guide, you say. A Bradshaw—or an A B C?”
“By the lord,” he said. “It was an A B C.”
Five
MARY DROWER
I think that I can date my interest in the case from that first mention of the A B C railway guide. Up till then I had not been able to raise much enthusiasm. This sordid murder of an old woman in a back-street shop was so like the usual type of crime reported in the newspapers that it failed to strike a significant note. In my own mind I had put down the anonymous letter with its mention of the 21st as a mere coincidence. Mrs. Ascher, I felt reasonably sure, had been the victim of her drunken brute of a husband. But now the mention of the railway guide (so familiarly known by its abbreviation of A B C, listing as it did all railway stations in their alphabetical order) sent a quiver of excitement through me. Surely—surely this could not be a second coincidence?
The sordid crime took on a new aspect.
Who was the mysterious individual who had killed Mrs. Ascher and left an A B C railway guide behind him?
When we left the police station our first visit was to the mortuary to see the body of the dead woman. A strange feeling came over me as I gazed down on that wrinkled old face with the scanty grey hair drawn back tightly from the temples. It looked so peaceful, so incredibly remote from violence.
“Never knew who or what struck her,” observed the sergeant. “That’s what Dr. Kerr says. I’m glad it was that way, poor old soul. A decent woman she was.”
“She must have been beautiful once,” said Poirot.
“Really?” I murmured incredulously.
“But yes, look at the line of the jaw, the bones, the moulding of the head.”
He sighed as he replaced the sheet and we left the mortuary.
Our next move was a brief interview with the police surgeon.
Dr. Kerr was a competent-looking middle-aged man. He spoke briskly and with decision.
“The weapon wasn’t found,” he said. “Impossible to say what it may have been. A weighted stick, a club, a form of sandbag—any of those would fit the case.”