The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd hp-4

by Agatha Christie

  'Yes, my friend.' 'Which one?' There was a silence for some minutes. Then Poirot tossed the stump of his cigarette into the grate and began to speak in a quiet, reflective tone.

  'I will take you the way that I have travelled myself. Step by step you shall accompany me, and see for yourself that all the facts point indisputably to one person. Now, to begin with, there were two facts and a little discrepancy in time which especially attracted my attention. The first fact was the telephone call. If Ralph Paton were indeed the murderer, the telephone call became meaningless and absurd. Therefore, I said to myself, Ralph Paton is not the murderer.

  'I satisfied myself that the call could not have been sent by anyone in the house, yet I was convinced that it was amongst those present on the fatal evening that I had to look for my criminal. Therefore I concluded that the telephone call must have been sent by an accomplice. I was not quite pleased with that deduction, but I let it stand for the minute.

  'I next examined the motive for the call. That was difficult. I could only get at it by judging its result. Which was - that the murder was discovered that night instead ofin all probability - the following morning. You agree with that?' 'Ye-es,' I admitted. 'Yes. As you say, Mr Ackroyd, having given orders that he was not to be disturbed, nobody would have been likely to go to the study that night.' 'Tres bien. The affair marches, does it not? But matters were still obscure. What was the advantage of having the crime discovered that night in preference to the following morning? The only idea I could get hold of was that the murderer, knowing the crime was to be discovered at a certain time, could make sure of being present when the door was broken in - or at any rate immediately afterwards.

  And now we come to the second fact - the chair pulled out from the wall. Inspector Raglan dismissed that as of no importance. I, on the contrary, have always regarded it as of supreme importance.

  'In your manuscript you have drawn a neat little plan of the study. If you had it with you this minute you would see that - the chair being drawn out in the position indicated by Parker - it would stand in a direct line between the door and the window.' 'The window!' I said quickly.

  'You, too, have my first idea. I imagined that the chair was drawn out so that something connected with the window should not be seen by anyone entering through the door. But I soon abandoned that supposition, for though the chair was a grandfather with a high back, it obscured very little of the window - only the part between the sash and the ground. No, mon ami - but remember that just in front of the window there stood a table with books and magazines upon it. Now that table was completely hidden by the drawn-out chair - and immediately I had my first shadowy suspicion of the truth.

  'Supposing that there had been something on that table not intended to be seen? Something placed there by the murderer? As yet I had no inkling of what that something might be. But I knew certain very interesting facts about it.

  For instance, it was something that the murderer had not been able to take away with him at the time that he committed the crime. At the same time it was vital that it should be removed as soon as possible after the crime had been discovered. And so - the telephone message, and the opportunity for the murderer to be on the spot when the body was discovered.

  'Now four people were on the scene before the police arrived. Yourself, Parker, Major Blunt, and Mr Raymond.

  Parker I eliminated at once, since at whatever time the crime was discovered, he was the one person certain to be on the spot. Also it was he who told me of the pulled-out chair. Parker, then, was cleared (of the murder, that is. I still thought it possible that he had been blackmailing Mrs Ferrars). Raymond and Blunt, however, remained under suspicion since, if the crime had been discovered in the early hours of the morning, it was quite possible that they might have arrived on the scene too late to prevent the object on the round table being discovered.

  'Now what was that object? You heard my arguments tonight in reference to the scrap of conversation overheard?

  As soon as I learned that a representative of a dictaphone company had called, the idea of a dictaphone took root in my mind. You heard what I said in this room not half an hour ago? They all agreed with my theory - but one vital fact seems to have escaped them. Granted that a dictaphone was being used by Mr Ackroyd that night - why was no dictaphone found?' 'I never thought of that,' I said.

  'We know that a dictaphone was supplied to Mr Ackroyd.

  But no dictaphone has been found amongst his effects. So, if something was taken from the table - why should not that something be the dictaphone? But there were certain difficulties in the way. The attention of everyone was, of course, focused on the murdered man. I think anyone could have gone to the table unnoticed by the other people in the room. But a dictaphone has a certain bulk - it cannot be slipped casually into a pocket. There must have been a receptacle of some kind capable of holding it.

  'You see where I am arriving? The figure of the murderer is taking shape. A person who was on the scene straightaway, but who might not have been if the crime had been discovered the following morning. A person carrying a receptacle into which the dictaphone might be fitted ' I interrupted.

  'By why remove the dictaphone? What was the point?' 'You are like Mr Raymond. You take it for granted that what was heard at nine-thirty was Mr Ackroyd's voice speaking into a dictaphone. But consider this useful invention for a little minute. You dictate into it, do you not?

  And at some later time a secretary or a typist turns it on, and the voice speaks again.' 'You mean -?' I gasped.

  Poirot nodded.

  'Yes, I meant that. At nine-thirty Mr Ackroyd was already dead. It was the dictaphone speaking - not the man.' 'And the murderer switched it on. Then he must have been in the room at that minute?' 'Possibly. But we must not exclude the likelihood of some mechanical device having been applied - something after the nature of a time lock, or even of a simple alarm clock.

  But in that case we must add two qualifications to our imaginary portrait of the murderer. It must be someone who knew of Mr Ackroyd's purchase of the dictaphone and also someone with the necessary mechanical knowledge.'

  'I had got thus far in my own mind when we came to the footprints on the window ledge. Here there were three conclusions open to me. (1) They might really have been made by Ralph Paton. He had been at Fernly that night, and might have climbed into the study and found his uncle dead there. That was one hypothesis. (2) There was the possibility that the footmarks might have been made by somebody else who happened to have the same kind of studs in his shoes. But the inmates of the house had shoes soled with crepe rubber, and I declined to believe in the coincidence of someone from outside having the same kind of shoes as Ralph Paton wore. Charles Kent, as we know from the barmaid of the Dog and Whistle, had on a pair of boots "clean dropping off him." (3) Those prints were made by someone deliberately trying to throw suspicion on Ralph Paton. To test this last conclusion, it was necessary to ascertain certain facts. One pair of Ralph's shoes had been obtained from the Three Boars by the police. Neither Ralph nor anyone else could have worn them that evening, since they were downstairs being cleaned. According to the police theory, Ralph was wearing another pair of the same kind, and I found out that it was true that he had two pairs. Now for my theory to be proved correct it was necessary for the murderer to have worn Ralph's shoes that evening - in which case Ralph must have been wearing yet a third pair of footwear of some kind. I could hardly suppose that he would bring three pairs of shoes all alike - the third pair of footwear were more likely to be boots. I got your sister to make inquiries on this point - laying some stress on the colour, in order - I admit it frankly - to obscure the real reason for my asking.

  'You know the result of her investigations. Ralph Paton had had a pair of boots with him. The first question I asked him when he came to my house yesterday morning was what he was wearing on his feet on the fatal night. He replied at once that he had worn boots - he was still wearing them, in fact - having nothing
else to put on.

  'So we get a step further in our description of the murderer - a person who had the opportunity to take these shoes of Ralph Paton's from the Three Boars that day.' He paused, and then said, with a slightly raised voice: 'There is one further point. The murderer must have been a person who had the opportunity to purloin that dagger from the silver table. You might argue that anyone in the house might have done so, but I will recall to you that Flora Ackroyd was very positive that the dagger was not there when she examined the silver table.' He paused again.

  'Let us recapitulate - now that all is clear. A person who was at the Three Boars earlier that day, a person who knew Ackroyd well enough to know that he had purchased a dictaphone, a person who was of a mechanical turn of mind, who had the opportunity to take the dagger from the silver table before Miss Flora arrived, who had with him a receptacle suitable for hiding the dictaphone - such as a black bag, and who had the study to himself for a few minutes after the crime was discovered while Parker was telephoning for the police. In fact - Dr Sheppard!'

  Chapter 23. And Nothing But The Truth

  There was a dead silence for a minute and a half.

  Then I laughed.

  'You're mad,' I said.

  'No,' said Poirot placidly. 'I am not mad. It was the little discrepancy in time that first drew my attention to you - right at the beginning.' 'Discrepancy in time?' I queried, puzzled.

  'But yes. You will remember that everyone agreed - you yourself included - that it took five minutes to walk from the lodge to the house - less if you took the short cut to the terrace. But you left the house at ten minutes to nine - both by your own statement and that of Parker, and yet it was nine o'clock when you passed through the lodge gates. It was a chilly night - not an evening a man would be inclined to dawdle; why had you taken ten minutes to do a five minutes' walk? All along I realized that we had only your statement for it that the study window was ever fastened. Ackroyd asked you if you had done so - he never looked to see. Supposing, then, that the study window was unfastened? Would there be time in that ten minutes for you to run round the outside of the house, change your shoes, climb in through the window, kill Ackroyd, and get to the gate by nine o'clock? I decided against that theory since in all probability a man as nervous as Ackroyd was that night would hear you climbing in, and then there would have been a struggle. But supposing that you killed Ackroyd before you left - as you were standing beside his chair? Then you go out of the front door, run round to the summer-house, take Ralph Paton's shoes out of the bag you brought up with you that night, slip them on, walk through the mud in them, and leave prints on the window ledge, you climb in, lock the study door on the inside, run back to the summer-house, change back into your own shoes, and race down to the gate. (I went through similar actions the other day, when you were with Mrs Ackroyd - it took ten minutes exactly.) Then home - and an alibi - since you had timed the dictaphone for half-past nine.' 'My dear Poirot,' I said in a voice that sounded strange and forced to my own ears, 'you've been brooding over this case too long. What on earth had I to gain by murdering Ackroyd?' 'Safety. It was you who blackmailed Mrs Ferrars. Who could have had a better knowledge of what killed Mr Ferrars than the doctor who was attending him? When you spoke to me that first day in the garden, you mentioned a legacy received about a year ago. I have been unable to discover any trace of a legacy. You had to invent some way of accounting for Mrs Ferrars's twenty thousand pounds. It has not done you much good. You lost most of it in speculation - then you put the screw on too hard, and Mrs Ferrars took a way out that you had not expected. If Ackroyd had learnt the truth he would have had no mercy on you - you were ruined for ever.' 'And the telephone call?' I asked, trying to rally. 'You have a plausible explanation of that also, I suppose?' 'I will confess to you that it was my greatest stumbling block when I found that a call had actually been put through to you from King's Abbot station. I at first believed that you had simply invented the story. It was a very clever touch, that. You must have some excuse for arriving at Fernly, finding the body, and so getting the chance to remove the dictaphone on which your alibi depended. I had a very vague notion of how it was worked when I came to see your sister that first day and inquired as to what patients you had seen on Friday morning. I had no thought of Miss Russell in my mind at that time. Her visit was a lucky coincidence, since it distracted your mind from the real object of my questions. I found what I was looking for. Among your patients that morning was the steward of an American liner. Who more suitable than he to be leaving for Liverpool by the train that evening? And afterwards he would be on the high seas, well out of the way. I noted that the Orion sailed on Saturday, and having obtained the name of the steward I sent him a wireless message asking a certain question. This is his reply you saw me receive just now.' He held out the message to me. It ran as follows: 'Quite correct. Dr Sheppard asked me to leave a note at a patient's house. I was to ring him up from the station with the reply. Reply was "No answer."' 'It was a clever idea,' said Poirot. 'The call was genuine. Your sister saw you take it. But there was only one man's word as to what was actually said - your own!' I yawned.

  'All this,' I said, 'is very interesting - but hardly in the sphere of practical politics.' 'You think not? Remember what I said - the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning. But, for the sake of your good sister, I am willing to give you the chance of another way out. There might be, for instance, an overdose of a sleeping draught. You comprehend me? But Captain Ralph Paton must be cleared -ça va sans dire. I should suggest that you finish that very interesting manuscript of yours - but abandoning your former reticence.' 'You seem to be very prolific of suggestions,' I remarked.

  'Are you sure you've quite finished?' 'Now that you remind me of the fact, it is true that there is one thing more. It would be most unwise on your part to attempt to silence me as you silenced M. Ackroyd. That kind of business does not succeed against Hercule Poirot, you understand.' 'My dear Poirot,' I said, smiling a little, 'whatever else I may be, I am not a fool.' I rose to my feet.

  'Well, well,' I said, with a slight yawn, 'I must be off home.

  Thank you for a most interesting and instructive evening.' Poirot also rose and bowed with his accustomed politeness as I passed out of the room.

  Chapter 24. Apologia

  Five a.m. I am very tired - but I have finished my task. My arm aches from writing.

  A strange end to my manuscript. I meant it to be published some day as the history of one of Poirot's failures!

  Odd, how things pan out.

  All along I've had a premonition of disaster, from the moment I saw Ralph Paton and Mrs Ferrars with their heads together. I thought then that she was confiding in him, as it happened I was quite wrong there, but the idea persisted even after I went into the study with Ackroyd that night, until he told me the truth.

  Poor old Ackroyd. I'm always glad that I gave him a chance. I urged him to read that letter before it was too late.

  Or let me be honest - didn't I subconsciously realize that with a pig-headed chap like him, it was my best chance of getting him not to read it? His nervousness that night was interesting psychologically. He knew danger was close at hand. And yet he never suspected me.

  The dagger was an afterthought. I'd brought up a very handy little weapon of my own, but when I saw the dagger lying in the silver table, it occurred to me at once how much better it would be to use a weapon that couldn't be traced to me.

  I suppose I must have meant to murder him all along. As soon as I heard of Mrs Ferrars's death, I felt convinced that she would have told him everything before she died. When I met him and he seemed so agitated, I thought that perhaps he knew the truth, but that he couldn't bring himself to believe it, and was going to give me the chance of refuting it.

  So I went home and took my precautions. If the trouble were after all only something to do with Ralph - well, no harm would have been done. The dictaphone he had given me two days ago to adjust. Something had
gone a little wrong with it, and I persuaded him to let me have a go at it, instead of sending it back. I did what I wanted to, and took it up with me in my bag that evening.

  I am rather pleased with myself as a writer. What could be neater, for instance, than the following: 'The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread.

  I hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone.' All true, you see. But suppose I had put a row of stars after the first sentence! Would somebody then have wondered what exactly happened in that blank ten minutes?

  When I looked round the room from the door, I was quite satisfied. Nothing had been left undone. The dictaphone was on the table by the window, timed to go off at ninethirty (the mechanism of that little device was rather clever - based on the principle of an alarm clock), and the armchair was pulled out so as to hide it from the door.

  I must admit that it gave me rather a shock to run into Parker just outside the door. I have faithfully recorded that fact.

  Then later, when the body was discovered, and I sent Parker to telephone for the police, what a judicious use of words: 'I did what little had to be done!' It was quite little just to shove the dictaphone into my bag and push back the chair against the wall in its proper place. I never dreamed that Parker would have noticed that chair. Logically, he ought to have been so agog over the body as to be blind to everything else. But I hadn't reckoned with the trained servant complex.

  I wish I could have known beforehand that Flora was going to say she'd seen her uncle alive at a quarter to ten.

  That puzzled me more than I can say. In fact, all through the case there have been things that puzzled me hopelessly.