ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [12]
He paused and then added on a deep note of reproach:
“Is it that you have not in any degree the common sense, Hastings? I say to you: ‘Make a purchase quelconque’—and you deliberately choose the strawberries! Already they commence to creep through their bag and endanger your good suit.”
With some dismay, I perceived that this was indeed the case.
I hastily presented the strawberries to a small boy who seemed highly astonished and faintly suspicious.
Poirot added the lettuce, thus setting the seal on the child’s bewilderment.
He continued to drive the moral home.
“At a cheap greengrocer’s—not strawberries. A strawberry, unless fresh picked, is bound to exude juice. A banana—some apples—even a cabbage—but strawberries—”
“It was the first thing I thought of,” I explained by way of excuse.
“That is unworthy of your imagination,” returned Poirot sternly.
He paused on the sidewalk.
The house and shop on the right of Mrs. Ascher’s was empty. A “To Let’ sign appeared in the windows. On the other side was a house with somewhat grimy muslin curtains.
To this house Poirot betook himself and, there being no bell, executed a series of sharp flourishes with the knocker.
The door was opened after some delay by a very dirty child with a nose that needed attention.
“Good evening,” said Poirot. “Is your mother within?”
“Ay?” said the child.
It stared at us with disfavour and deep suspicion.
“Your mother,” said Poirot.
This took some twelve seconds to sink in, then the child turned and, bawling up the stairs “Mum, you’re wanted,” retreated to some fastness in the dim interior.
A sharp-faced woman looked over the balusters and began to descend.
“No good you wasting your time—” she began, but Poirot interrupted her.
He took off his hat and bowed magnificently.
“Good evening, madame. I am on the staff of the Evening Flicker. I want to persuade you to accept a fee of five pounds and let us have an article on your late neighbour, Mrs. Ascher.”
The irate words arrested on her lips, the woman came down the stairs smoothing her hair and hitching at her skirt.
“Come inside, please—on the left there. Won’t you sit down, sir.”
The tiny room was heavily over-crowded with a massive pseudo-Jacobean suite, but we managed to squeeze ourselves in and on to a hard-seated sofa.
“You must excuse me,” the woman was saying. “I am sure I’m sorry I spoke so sharp just now, but you’d hardly believe the worry one has to put up with—fellows coming along selling this, that and the other—vacuum cleaners, stockings, lavender bags and such-like foolery—and all so plausible and civil spoken. Got your name, too, pat they have. It’s Mrs. Fowler this, that and the other.”
Seizing adroitly on the name, Poirot said:
“Well, Mrs. Fowler, I hope you’re going to do what I ask.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.” The five pounds hung alluringly before Mrs. Fowler’s eyes. “I knew Mrs. Ascher, of course, but as to writing anything.”
Hastily Poirot reassured her. No labour on her part was required. He would elicit the facts from her and the interview would be written up.
Thus encouraged, Mrs. Fowler plunged willingly into reminiscence, conjecture and hearsay.
Kept herself to herself, Mrs. Ascher had. Not what you’d call really friendly, but there, she’d had a lot of trouble, poor soul, everyone knew that. And by rights Franz Ascher ought to have been locked up years ago. Not that Mrs. Ascher had been afraid of him—real tartar she could be when roused! Give as good as she got any day. But there it was—the pitcher could go to the well once too often. Again and again, she, Mrs. Fowler, had said to her: “One of these days that