The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd hp-4

by Agatha Christie

  'Have you?' I said. 'Miss Gannett drop in to tea?' Miss Gannett is one of the chief of our newsmongers.

  'Guess again,' said Caroline, with intense complacency.

  I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of Caroline's Intelligence Corps. My sister received each guess with a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the information herself.

  'M. Poirot!' she said. 'Now, what do you think of that?' I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them to Caroline.

  'Why did he come?' I asked.

  'To see me, of course. He said that, knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister - your charming sister, I've got mixed up - but you know what I mean.' 'What did he talk about?' I asked.

  'He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania - the one who's just married a dancer?' 'Yes?' 'I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess - one of the Czar's daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.' 'Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover's egg?' I inquired sarcastically.

  'He didn't mention it. Why?' 'Nothing,' I said. 'I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super-detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.' 'It's very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,' said my sister complacently.

  It would be - to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly lady living in a small village.

  'Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?' I inquired.

  'He was not at liberty to speak,' said Caroline importantly.

  I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline - probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.

  'And after all this,' I remarked, 'I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand?' 'Don't be coarse, James. I don't know where you get these vulgar expressions from.' 'Probably from my only link with the outside world - my patients. Unfortunately, my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian emigres.' Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.

  'You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, tonight.' To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.

  'Damn my liver,' I said irritably. 'Did you talk about the murder at all?' 'Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot straight upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me - and a wonderful Psychological insight into human nature.' Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.

  'He talked a lot about the little grey cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.' 'He would say so,' I remarked bitterly. 'Modesty is certainly not his middle name.' 'I wish you wouldn't be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.' 'And what did you say to that?' 'I agreed with him,' said Caroline importantly. 'And I was able to tell him the way people were talking already about it.' 'Caroline,' I said sharply, 'did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the wood that day?' 'I did,' said Caroline complacently.

  I got up and began to walk about.

  'You realize what you're doing, I hope,' I jerked out.

  'You're putting a halter round Ralph Paton's neck as surely as you're sitting in that chair.' 'Not at all,' said Caroline, quite unruffled. 'I was surprised you hadn't told him.' 'I took very good care not to,' I said. 'I'm fond of that boy.' 'So am I. That's why I say you're talking nonsense. I don't believe Ralph did it, and so the truth can't hurt him, and we ought to give M. Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he's got a perfect alibi.' 'If he's got a perfect alibi,' I retorted, 'why doesn't he come forward and say so?' 'Might get the girl into trouble,' said Caroline sapiently.

  'But if M. Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she'll come forward of her own accord and clear Ralph.' 'You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your own,' I said. 'You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I've always told you so.' I dropped into my chair again.

  'Did Poirot ask you any more questions?' I inquired.

  'Only about the patients you had that morning.' 'The patients?' I demanded, unbelievingly.

  'Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were.' 'Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?' I demanded.

  Caroline is really amazing.

  'Why not?' asked my sister triumphantly. 'I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I've got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.' 'I'm sure you have,' I murmured mechanically.

  My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.

  'There was old Mrs Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger. Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see - that's four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And lastly ' She paused significantly.

  'Well?' Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed it in the most approved style - aided by the fortunate number of s's at her disposal.

  'Miss Russell!' She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.

  'I don't know what you mean,' I said, quite untruthfully. 'Why shouldn't Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?' 'Bad knee,' said Caroline. "Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.' 'What?' I asked.

  Caroline had to admit that she didn't know.

  'But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at - M. Poirot, I mean. There's something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.' 'Precisely the remark Mrs Ackroyd made to me yesterday,' I said. 'That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.' 'Ah!' said Caroline darkly, 'Mrs Ackroyd! There's another!' 'Another what?' Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolling up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.

  I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline's words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline's tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?

  There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell's manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking - and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that.

  Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd…

  I heard Caroline's voice, rather acid in tone, calling from the top of the stairs.

  'James, you will be late for dinner.' I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.

  It is well at any price to have peace in the home.

  Chapter 11. Round the Table

  A joint inquest was held on Monday.

  I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the cause of Ackroyd's death and the probable time. The a
bsence of Ralph Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed.

  Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with Inspector Raglan. The inspector was very grave.

  'It looks bad, M. Poirot,' he said. 'I'm trying to judge the thing fair and square. I'm a local man, and I've seen Captain Paton many times in Cranchester. I'm not wanting him to be the guilty one - but it's bad whichever way you look at it.

  If he's innocent, why doesn't he come forward? We've got evidence against him, but it's just possible that the evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn't he give an explanation?' A lot more lay behind the inspector's words than I knew at the time. Ralph's description had been wired to every port and railway station in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. His rooms in town were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit of frequenting.

  With such a cordon it seemed impossible that Ralph should be able to evade detection. He had no luggage, and, as far as anyone knew, no money.

  'I can't find anyone who saw him at the station that right,' continued the inspector. 'And yet he's well known down here, and you'd think somebody would have noticed him. There's no news from Liverpool either.' 'You think he went to Liverpool?' queried Poirot. 'Well, it's on the cards. That telephone message from the station, just three minutes before the Liverpool express left there ought to be something in that.' 'Unless it was deliberately intended to throw you off the scent. That might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.' 'That's an idea,' said the inspector eagerly. 'Do you really think that's the explanation of the telephone call?' 'My friend,' said Poirot gravely, 'I do not know. But I will tell you this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone call we shall find the explanation of the murder.' 'You said something like that before, I remember,' I observed, looking at him curiously.

  Poirot nodded.

  'I always come back to it,' he said seriously.

  'It seems to me utterly irrelevant,' I declared.

  'I wouldn't say that,' demurred the inspector. 'But I must confess I think Mr Poirot here harps on it a little too much.

  We've better clues than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.' Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over anything.

  'M. rinspecteur,' he said, 'beware of the blind - the blind comment dire? - the little street that has no end to it.' Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

  'You mean a blind alley?' I said.

  'That is it - the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those fingerprints - they may lead you nowhere.' 'I don't see how that can well be,' said the police officer. 'I suppose you're hinting that they're faked? I've read of such things being done, though I can't say I've ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true - they're bound to lead somewhere.' Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.

  The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls.

  'Come now,' he said at last, annoyed by Poirot's detached manner, 'you've got to admit that those prints were made by someone who was in the house that night?' 'Bien entendu,' said Poirot, nodding his head.

  'Well, I've taken the prints of every member of the household, everyone, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.' I don't think Mrs Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

  'Everyone's,' repeated the inspector fussily.

  'Including mine,' I said drily.

  'Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about. When we get hold of those two ' 'Much valuable time may have been lost,' broke in Poirot.

  'I don't quite get you, Mr Poirot.' 'You have taken the prints of everyone in the house, you say,' murmured Poirot. 'Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M. l'Inspecteur?' 'Certainly.' 'Without overlooking anyone?' 'Without overlooking anyone.' 'The quick or the dead?' For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.

  'You mean -?' 'The dead, M. 1'Inspecteur.' The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.

  'I am suggesting,' said Poirot placidly, 'that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. His body is still available.' 'But why? What would be the point of it? You're surely not suggesting suicide, Mr Poirot?' Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the victim's hand and closed it round the dagger handle.' 'But why?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.

  'To make a confusing case even more confusing.' 'Well,' said the inspector. 'I'll look into it. What gave you the idea in the first place?' 'When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls - see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.' Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.

  'Well,' said the inspector. 'It's an idea. I'll look into it all right, but don't you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.' He endeavoured to make his tone kindly and patronising.

  Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.

  'Another time,' he observed, 'I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?' The 'little reunion,' as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later. We sat round the table in the diningroom at Fernly. Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.

  When everyone was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.

  'Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.' He paused. 'To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.' 'To me?' said Flora.

  'Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If anyone is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. One little minute' - as Flora raised her head to speak - 'say nothing till you have well reflected.

  Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away.

  But this silence - this flight - what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt. Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to come forward before it is too late.' Flora's face had gone very white.

  'Too late!' she repeated, very low.

  Poirot leant forward, looking at her.

  'See now, mademoiselle,' he said very gently, 'it is Papa Poirot who asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not trust me - and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?' The girl rose and stood facing him.

  'M. Poirot,' she said in a clear voice, 'I swear to you swear solemnly - that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of- of the murder, or since.' She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute or two, then he brought his hand down on the table with a sharp rap.

  'Bien! That is that,' he said. His face hardened. 'Now I appeal to these others who sit round this table, Mrs Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Dr Sheppard, Mr Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of the missing man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak ou
t.' There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn.

  'I beg of you,' he said in a low voice, 'speak out.' But still there was silence, broken at last by Mrs Ackroyd.

  'I must say,' she observed in a plaintive voice, 'that Ralph's absence is most peculiar - most peculiar indeed. Not to come forward at such a time. It looks, you know, as though there were something behind it. I can't help thinking. Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing your engagement was never formally announced.' 'Mother!' cried Flora angrily.

  'Providence,' declared Mrs Ackroyd. 'I have a devout belief in Providence - a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare's beautiful line runs.' 'Surely you don't make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs Ackroyd, do you?' asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out.

  His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs Ackroyd threw him a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.

  'Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and unpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything to do with poor Roger's death. I don't think so. But then I have a trusting heart - I always have had, ever since a child. I am loath to believe the worst of anyone. But, of course, one must remember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible for their actions in the least.

  They lose control, you know, without being able to help it.' 'Mother,' cried Flora, 'you don't think Ralph did it?' 'Come, Mrs Ackroyd,' said Blunt.

  'I don't know what to think,' said Mrs Ackroyd tearfully.

  'It's all very upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralph were found guilty?' Raymond pushed his chair away from the table violently.

  Major Blunt remained very quiet, looking thoughtfully at her.

  'Like shell-shock, you know,' said Mrs Ackroyd obstinately, 'and I dare say Roger kept him very short of money - with the best intentions, of course. I can see you are all against me, but I do think it is very odd that Ralph has not come forward, and I must say I am thankful Flora's engagement was never announced formally.' 'It will be tomorrow,' said Flora in a clear voice.