‘That’s all pure conjecture,’ I objected. ‘It doesn’t give you any practical help.’

‘You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! You always have. But at least we can ask ourselves some practical questions. Why the A B C? Why Mrs Ascher? Why Andover?’

‘The woman’s past life seems simple enough,’ I mused. ‘The interviews with those two men were disappointing. They couldn’t tell us anything more than we knew already.’

‘To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we could not neglect two possible candidates for the murder.’

‘Surely you don’t think—’

‘There is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near Andover. That is a possible answer to our question: “Why Andover?” Well, here were two men known to have been in the shop at the requisite time of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there is nothing as yet to show that one or other of them is not the murderer.’

‘That great hulking brute, Riddell, perhaps,’ I admitted.

‘Oh, I am inclined to acquit Riddell off-hand. He was nervous, blustering, obviously uneasy—’

‘But surely that just shows—’

‘A nature dI ametrically opposed to that which penned the A B C letter. Conceit and self-confidence are the characteristics that we must look for.’

‘Someone who throws his weight about?’

‘Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing manner, conceal a great deal of vanity and self-satisfaction.’

‘You don’t think that little Mr Partridge—’

‘He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as the writer of the letter would act—goes at once to the police—pushes himself to the fore—enjoys his position.’

‘Do you really think—?’

‘No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came from outside Andover, but we must neglect no avenue of research. And although I say “he” all the time, we must not exclude the possibility of a woman being concerned.’

‘Surely not!’

‘The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous letters are written by women rather than by men. We must bear that in mind.’

I was silent for a few minutes, then I said:

‘What do we do next?’

‘My energetic Hastings,’ Poirot said and smiled at me.

‘No, but what do we do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ My disappointment rang out clearly.

‘Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?’

Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give an answer. Nevertheless I felt convinced that something ought to be done and that we should not allow the grass to grow under our feet.

I said:

‘There is the A B C—and the notepaper and envelope—’

‘Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their disposal for that kind of inquiry. If anything is to be discovered on those lines have no fear but that they will discover it.’

With that I was forced to rest content.