“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.