Four

MRS. ASCHER

We were received at Andover by Inspector¹ Glen, a tall fair-haired man with a pleasant smile.

For the sake of conciseness² I think I had better give a brief résumé of the bare facts of the case.

The crime was discovered by Police Constable³ 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 firstthought the place was empty. Directing his torch over the counter, however, he caught sight of thehuddled-up body of the old woman. When the police surgeon arrived on the spot it was elicitedthat the woman had been struck down by a heavy blow on the back of the head, probably whileshe was reaching down a packet of cigarettes from the shelf behind the counter. Death must haveoccurred about nine to seven hours previously⁴.

“But we’ve been able to get it down a bit nearer than that,” explained the inspector. “We’vefound a man who went in and bought some tobacco at 5:30. And a second man went in and foundthe 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, ofcourse, 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 hetook to drink and gradually became unemployable. His wife went into service for a bit. Her lastplace was as cook-housekeeper to an old lady, Miss Rose. She allowed her husband so much outof her wages to keep himself, but he was always getting drunk and coming round and makingscenes at the places where she was employed. That’s why she took the post with Miss Rose at TheGrange. 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 legacy⁵, and the woman started this tobaccoand newsagent business—quite a tiny place—just cheap cigarettes and a few newspapers—thatsort of thing. She just about managed to keep going. Ascher used to come round and abuse hernow and again and she used to give him a bit to get rid of him. She allowed him fifteen shillings aweek 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 herhead 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 howhe 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 finallystruck her down?”

“It seems the most likely solution. But I must confess, sir, I’d like to have another look at thatvery odd letter you received. I was wondering if it was just possible that it came from this manAscher.”

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’ Britishpolice—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’sgood 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 creasing⁶ 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 usany help. It’s an odd business. But for this letter I’d have put my money on Franz Ascher for acertainty.”

“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 metAscher and married him. Things must have been difficult for them during the war. She actually lefthim for good in 1922. They were in London then. She came back here to get away from him, buthe got wind of where she was and followed her down here, pestering⁷ her for money —” Aconstable 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 miserable⁸ and unprepossessing specimen⁹. He was blubbering andcringing and blustering¹⁰ 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 mehere! 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 withanything—yet. And you’re not bound to make a statement unless you like. On the other hand, ifyou’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 againstme. 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. Sheunderstood.”

“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. Weare 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 theboys. 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 jaw¹¹ 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 perjury¹². I’ve no doubt he was with them thegreater part of the evening. A lot depends on whether any one saw him near the shop between halfpast five and six.”

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

“You are sure nothing was taken from the shop?”

The inspector shrugged¹³ his shoulders.

“That depends. A packet or two of cigarettes might have been taken—but you’d hardly commitmurder for that.”

“And there was nothing—how shall I put it—introduced into the shop? Nothing that was oddthere—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 hadbeen 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 stationerwould keep.”

A light came into Poirot’s eyes. He leant forward.

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.”

 

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