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.

Chapter 7

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 as himself.

‘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 finger-tips 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.