The ABC Murders Read Free Page B

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.”
    â€œHad they any children?” asked Poirot.
    â€œNo. There’s a niece. She’s in service near Overton. Very superior, steady young woman.”
    â€œAnd you say this man Ascher used to threaten his wife?”
    â€œThat’s right. He was a terror when he was in drink—cursingand swearing that he’d bash her head in. She had a hard time, did Mrs. Ascher.”
    â€œWhat age of woman was she?”
    â€œClose on sixty—respectable and hard-working.”
    Poirot said gravely:
    â€œIt is your opinion, inspector, that this man Ascher committed the crime?”
    The inspector coughed cautiously.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œNothing was missing from the shop?”
    â€œNothing. Money in the till quite undisturbed. No signs of robbery.”
    â€œYou think that this man Ascher came into the shop drunk, started abusing his wife and finally struck her down?”
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œThat is possible—yes.”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œDo you know anything of Mrs. Ascher’s past?”
    â€œShe’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?”
    â€œIt’s the man Ascher, sir. We’ve brought him in.”
    â€œRight. Bring him in here. Where was he?”
    â€œHiding in