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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.

The A B C Murders

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 any one?” 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, spare 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.
    “Exceedingly true,” murmured Poirot. “You, I understand, went to the police of your own
     accord?”
    “Certainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence I perceived that my
     statement might be helpful and came forward accordingly.”
    “A very proper spirit,” said Poirot solemnly. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to repeat
     your story to me.”
    “By all means. I was returning to this house and at 5:30 precisely -”
    “Pardon, how was it that you knew the time so accurately?”
    Mr. Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted.
    “The church clock chimed. I looked at my watch and found I was a minute slow. That was
     just before I entered Mrs. Ascher's shop.”
    “Were you in the habit of making purchases there?”
    “Fairly frequently. It was on my way home. About once or twice a week I was in the habit
     of purchasing two ounces of John Cotton mild.”
    “Did you know Mrs. Ascher at all? Anything of her circumstances or her history?”
    “Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional reference as to the state of the