“M. l’Inspecteur,” 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 kitchen maid.”
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. l’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 dining room 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 out.”
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?”
“Co
me, 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.
“Flora!” cried her mother, aghast.
Flora had turned to the secretary.
“Will you send the announcement to the Morning Post. And The Times, please, Mr. Raymond.”
“If you are sure that it is wise, Miss Ackroyd,” he replied gravely.
She turned impulsively to Blunt.
“You understand,” she said. “What else can I do? As things are, I must stand by Ralph. Don’t you see that I must?”
She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause he nodded abruptly.
Mrs. Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remained unmoved. Then Raymond spoke.
“I appreciate your motives, Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you think you’re being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”
“Tomorrow,” said Flora in a clear voice. “It’s no good, Mother, going on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”
“M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully. “Can’t you say anything at all?”
“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the right thing. I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”
Flora held out her hand to him.
“Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulate you on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if I ask you—ask you most solemnly—to postpone the announcement you speak of for at least two days more?”
Flora hesitated.
“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours, mademoiselle. You frown. You do not see how that can be. But I assure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into my hands—you must not hamper me now.”
Flora paused a few minutes before replying.
“I do not like it,” she said at last, “but I will do what you say.”
She sat down again at the table.
“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this, I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you, I mean to know. And I shall know—in spite of you all.”
He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained good-humoured and imperturbable as usual.
“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.
“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come now, am I right?”
His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.
“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”
He gave the same short laugh again.
“C’est dommage,” he said, and went out.
Thirteen
THE GOOSE QUILL
That evening, at Poirot’s request, I went over to his house after dinner. Caroline saw me depart with visible reluctance. I think she would have liked to have accompanied me.
Poirot greeted me hospitably. He had placed a bottle of Irish whiskey (which I detest) on a small table, with a soda water siphon and a glass. He himself was engaged in brewing hot chocolate. It was a favourite beverage of his, I discovered later.
He inquired politely after my sister, whom he declared to be a most interesting woman.
“I’m afraid you’ve been giving her a swelled head,” I said drily. “What about Sunday afternoon?”
He laughed and twinkled.
“I always like to employ the expert,” he remarked obscurely, but he refused to explain the remark.
“You got all the local gossip anyway,” I remarked. “True, and untrue.”
“And a great deal of valuable information,” he added quietly.
“Such as—”
He shook his head.
“Why not have told me the truth?” he countered. “In a place like this, all Ralph Paton’s doings were bound to be known. If your sister had not happened to pass through the wood that day somebody else would have done so.”
“I suppose they would,” I said grumpily. “What about this interest of yours in my patients?”
Again he twinkled.
“Only one of them, doctor. Only one of them.”
“The last?” I hazarded.
“I find Miss Russell a study of the most interesting,” he said evasively.
“Do you agree with my sister and Mrs. Ackroyd that there is something fishy about her?” I asked.
“Eh? What do you say—fishy?”
I explained to the best of my ability.
“And they say that, do they?”
“Didn’t my sister convey as much to you yesterday afternoon?”
“C’est possible.”
“For no reason whatever,” I declared.
“Les femmes,” generalized Poirot. “They are marvellous! They invent haphazard—and by miracle they are right. Not that it is that, really. Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details, without knowing that they are doing so. Their subconscious mind adds these little things together—and they call the result intuition. Me, I am very skilled in psychology. I know these things.”
He swelled his chest out importantly, looking so ridiculous that I found it difficult not to burst out laughing. Then he took a small sip of his chocolate, and carefully wiped his moustache.
“I wish you’d tell me,” I burst out, “what you really think of it all?”
He put down his cup.
“You wish that?”
“I do.”
“You have seen what I have seen. Should not our ideas be the same?”
“I’m afraid you’re laughing at me,” I said stiffly. “Of course, I’ve no experience of matters of this kind.”
Poirot smiled at me indulgently.
“You are like the little child who wants to know the way the engine works. You wish to see the affair, not as the family doctor sees it, but with the eye of a detective who knows and cares for no one—to whom they are all strangers and all equally liable to suspicion.”
“You put it very well,” I said.
“So I give you, then, a little lecture. The first thing is to get a clear history of what happened that evening—always bearing in mind that the person who speaks may be lying.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Rather a suspicious attitude.”
“But necessary—I assure you, necessary. Now first—Dr. Sheppard leaves the house at ten minutes to nine. How do I know that?”
“Because I told you so.”
“But you might
not be speaking the truth—or the watch you went by might be wrong. But Parker also says that you left the house at ten minutes to nine. So we accept that statement and pass on. At nine o’clock you run into a man—and here we come to what we will call the Romance of the Mysterious Stranger—just outside the Park gates. How do I know that that is so?”
“I told you so,” I began again, but Poirot interrupted me with a gesture of impatience.
“Ah! but it is that you are a little stupid tonight, my friend. You know that it is so—but how am I to know? Eh bien, I am able to tell you that the Mysterious Stranger was not a hallucination on your part, because the maid of a Miss Gannett met him a few minutes before you did, and of her too he inquired the way to Fernly Park. We accept his presence, therefore, and we can be fairly sure of two things about him—that he was a stranger to the neighbourhood, and that whatever his object in going to Fernly, there was no great secrecy about it, since he twice asked the way there.”
“Yes,” I said, “I see that.”
“Now I have made it my business to find out more about this man. He had a drink at the Three Boars, I learn, and the barmaid there says that he spoke with an American accent and mentioned having just come over from the States. Did it strike you that he had an American accent?”
“Yes, I think he had,” I said, after a minute or two, during which I cast my mind back; “but a very slight one.”
“Précisément. There is also this, which, you will remember, I picked up in the summerhouse.”
He held out to me the little quill. I looked at it curiously. Then a memory of something I had read stirred in me.
Poirot, who had been watching my face, nodded.
“Yes, heroin, ‘snow’. Drug-takers carry it like this, and sniff it up the nose.”
“Diamorphine hydrochloride,” I murmured mechanically.
“This method of taking the drug is very common on the other side. Another proof, if we wanted one, that the man came from Canada or the States.”
“What first attracted your attention to that summerhouse?” I asked curiously.
“My friend the inspector took it for granted that anyone using that path did so as a short cut to the house, but as soon as I saw the summerhouse, I realized that the same path would be taken by anyone using the summerhouse as a rendezvous. Now it seems fairly certain that the stranger came neither to the front nor to the back door. Then did someone from the house go out and meet him? If so, what could be a more convenient place than that little summerhouse? I searched it with the hope that I might find some clue inside. I found two, the scrap of cambric and the quill.”
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Page 12
