“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
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.”