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claim to have seen the man Ascher?”
    â€œNo, 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:
    â€œI agree with you.”
    The inspector said:
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œMr—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?”
    â€œI understand, Mr. Partridge, that you were the last person to see Mrs. Ascher alive.”
    Mr. Partridge placed his fingertips together and looked at Poirot as though he were a doubtful cheque.
    â€œThat is a very debatable point, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “Many people may have made purchases from Mrs. Ascher after I did so.”
    â€œIf so, they have not come forward to say so.”
    Mr. Partridge coughed.
    â€œSome people, Mr. Poirot, have no sense of public duty.”
    He looked at us owlishly through his spectacles.
    â€œExceedingly true,” murmured Poirot. “You, I understand, went to the police of your own accord?”
    â€œCertainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence I perceived that my statement might be helpful and came forward accordingly.”
    â€œA very proper spirit,” said Poirot solemnly. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to repeat your story to me.”
    â€œBy all means. I was returning to this house and at 5:30 precisely—”
    â€œPardon, how was it that you knew the time so accurately?”
    Mr. Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œWere you in the habit of making purchases there?”
    â€œFairly 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.”
    â€œDid you know Mrs. Ascher at all? Anything of her circumstances or her history?”
    â€œNothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional remark as to the state of the weather, I had never spoken to her.”
    â€œDid you know she had a drunken husband who was in the habit of threatening her life?”
    â€œNo, I knew nothing whatever about her.”
    â€œYou knew her by sight, however. Did anything about her appearance strike you as unusual yesterday evening? Did she appear flurried or put out in any way?”
    Mr. Partridge considered.
    â€œAs far as I noticed, she seemed exactly as usual,” he said.
    Poirot rose.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Partridge, for answering these questions. Have you, by any chance, an A B C in the house? I want to look up my return train to London.”
    â€œOn the shelf just behind you,” said Mr. Partridge.
    On the shelf in question were an A B C, a Bradshaw, the Stock Exchange Year Book, Kelly’s Directory, a Who’s Who and a local directory.
    Poirot took down the A B C, pretended to look up a train, then thanked Mr. Partridge and took his leave.
    Our next interview was with Mr. Albert Riddell and was of a highly different character. Mr. Albert Riddell was a platelayer and our conversation took place to the accompaniment of the clattering of plates and dishes by Mr. Riddell’s obviously nervous wife, the growling of Mr. Riddell’s dog and the