The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie
With some dismay, I perceived that this was indeed the case.
I hastily presented the strawberries to a small boy who seemed highly astonished and faintly suspicious.
Poirot added the lettuce, thus setting the seal on the child’s bewilderment.
He continued to drive the moral home.
“At a cheap greengrocer’s—not strawberries. A strawberry, unless fresh picked, is bound to exude juice. A banana—some apples—even a cabbage—but strawberries—”
“It was the first thing I thought of,” I explained by way of excuse.
“That is unworthy of your imagination,” returned Poirot sternly.
He paused on the sidewalk.
The house and shop on the right of Mrs. Ascher’s was empty. A “To Let’ sign appeared in the windows. On the other side was a house with somewhat grimy muslin curtains.
To this house Poirot betook himself and, there being no bell, executed a series of sharp flourishes with the knocker.
The door was opened after some delay by a very dirty child with a nose that needed attention.
“Good evening,” said Poirot. “Is your mother within?”
“Ay?” said the child.
It stared at us with disfavour and deep suspicion.
“Your mother,” said Poirot.
This took some twelve seconds to sink in, then the child turned and, bawling up the stairs “Mum, you’re wanted,” retreated to some fastness in the dim interior.
A sharp-faced woman looked over the balusters and began to descend.
“No good you wasting your time—” she began, but Poirot interrupted her.
He took off his hat and bowed magnificently.
“Good evening, madame. I am on the staff of the Evening Flicker. I want to persuade you to accept a fee of five pounds and let us have an article on your late neighbour, Mrs. Ascher.”
The irate words arrested on her lips, the woman came down the stairs smoothing her hair and hitching at her skirt.
“Come inside, please—on the left there. Won’t you sit down, sir.”
The tiny room was heavily over-crowded with a massive pseudo-Jacobean suite, but we managed to squeeze ourselves in and on to a hard-seated sofa.
“You must excuse me,” the woman was saying. “I am sure I’m sorry I spoke so sharp just now, but you’d hardly believe the worry one has to put up with—fellows coming along selling this, that and the other—vacuum cleaners, stockings, lavender bags and such-like foolery—and all so plausible and civil spoken. Got your name, too, pat they have. It’s Mrs. Fowler this, that and the other.”
Seizing adroitly on the name, Poirot said:
“Well, Mrs. Fowler, I hope you’re going to do what I ask.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.” The five pounds hung alluringly before Mrs. Fowler’s eyes. “I knew Mrs. Ascher, of course, but as to writing anything.”
Hastily Poirot reassured her. No labour on her part was required. He would elicit the facts from her and the interview would be written up.
Thus encouraged, Mrs. Fowler plunged willingly into reminiscence, conjecture and hearsay.
Kept herself to herself, Mrs. Ascher had. Not what you’d call really friendly, but there, she’d had a lot of trouble, poor soul, everyone knew that. And by rights Franz Ascher ought to have been locked up years ago. Not that Mrs. Ascher had been afraid of him—real tartar she could be when roused! Give as good as she got any day. But there it was—the pitcher could go to the well once too often. Again and again, she, Mrs. Fowler, had said to her: “One of these days that man will do for you. Mark my words.” And he had done, hadn’t he? And there had she, Mrs. Fowler, been right next door and never heard a sound.
In a pause Poirot managed to insert a question.
Had Mrs. Ascher ever received any peculiar letters—letters without a proper signature—just something like A B C?
Regretfully, Mrs. Fowler returned a negative answer.
“I know the kind of thing you mean—anonymous letters they call them—mostly full of words you’d blush to say out loud. Well, I don’t know, I’m sure, if Franz Ascher ever took to writing those. Mrs. Ascher never let on to me if he did. What’s that? A railway guide, an A B C? No, I never saw such a thing about—and I’m sure if Mrs. Ascher had been sent one I’d have heard about it. I declare you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard about this whole business. It was my girl Edie what came to me. ‘Mum,’ she says, ‘there’s ever so many policemen next door.’ Gave me quite a turn, it did. ‘Well,’ I said, when I heard about it, ‘it does show that she ought never to have been alone in the house—that niece of hers ought to have been with her. A man in drink can be like a ravening wolf,’ I said, ‘and in my opinion a wild beast is neither more nor less than what that old devil of a husband of hers is. I’ve warned her,’ I said, ‘many times and now my words have come true. He’ll do for you,’ I said. And he has done for her! You can’t rightly estimate what a man will do when he’s in drink and this murder’s a proof of it.”
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.
Seven
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 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 a
“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 Cotton mild.”
“Did you know Mrs. Ascher at all? Anything of her circumstances or her history?”
“Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional remark 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 platelayer 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 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 blarsted police, I ’ave, and now I’ve got to spit it all out again to a couple of blarsted 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 blarsted 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 Flake. I pushed open the door—”
“It was closed, then?”
“That’s right. I thought 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. Bonsoir, 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 7:2. Let us despatch ourselves quickly.”
Eight
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 the 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 dog-like devotion and demand of me a pronouncement à 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.
&nbs
“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 our 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….”