The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Read online

  The inspector stared at him heavily.

  “I don’t see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr. Ackroyd was alive at a quarter to ten. You admit that, don’t you?”

  Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick smile.

  “I admit nothing that is not—proved!”

  “Well, we’ve got proof enough of that. We’ve got Miss Flora Ackroyd’s evidence.”

  “That she said goodnight to her uncle? But me—I do not always believe what a young lady tells me—no, not even when she is charming and beautiful.”

  “But hang it all, man, Parker saw her coming out of the door.”

  “No.” Poirot’s voice rang out with sudden sharpness. “That is just what he did not see. I satisfied myself of that by a little experiment the other day—you remember, doctor? Parker saw her outside the door, with her hand on the handle. He did not see her come out of the room.”

  “But—where else could she have been?”

  “Perhaps on the stairs.”

  “The stairs?”

  “That is my little idea—yes.”

  “But those stairs only lead to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom.”

  “Precisely.”

  And still the inspector stared.

  “You think she’d been up to her uncle’s bedroom? Well, why not? Why should she lie about it?”

  “Ah! that is just the question. It depends on what she was doing there, does it not?”

  “You mean—the money? Hang it all, you don’t suggest that it was Miss Ackroyd who took that forty pounds?”

  “I suggest nothing,” said Poirot. “But I will remind you of this. Life was not very easy for that mother and daughter. There were bills—there was constant trouble over small sums of money. Roger Ackroyd was a peculiar man over money matters. The girl might be at her wits’ end for a comparatively small sum. Figure to yourself then what happens. She has taken the money, she descends the little staircase. When she is halfway down she hears the chink of glass from the hall. She has not a doubt of what it is—Parker coming to the study. At all costs she must not be found on the stairs—Parker will not forget it, he will think it odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study door—with her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out, when Parker appears in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes into her head, a repetition of Roger Ackroyd’s orders earlier in the evening, and then goes upstairs to her own room.”

  “Yes, but later,” persisted the inspector, “she must have realized the vital importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on it!”

  “Afterwards,” said Poirot drily, “it was a little difficult for Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without considerable provocation. Eh bien! There it is. She is bound to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl does not like to admit that she is a thief—especially before those whose esteem she is anxious to retain.”

  Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table.

  “I’ll not believe it,” he said. “It’s—it’s not credible. And you—you’ve known this all along?”

  “The possibility has been in my mind from the first,” admitted Poirot. “I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of. Dr. Sheppard accompanied me.”

  “A test for Parker, you said it was,” I remarked bitterly.

  “Mon ami,” said Poirot apologetically, “as I told you at the time, one must say something.”

  The inspector rose.

  “There’s only one thing for it,” he declared. “We must tackle the young lady right away. You’ll come up to Fernly with me, M. Poirot?”

  “Certainly. Dr. Sheppard will drive us up in his car.”

  I acquiesced willingly.

  On inquiry for Miss Ackroyd, we were shown into the billiard room. Flora and Major Hector Blunt were sitting on the long window seat.

  “Good morning, Miss Ackroyd,” said the inspector. “Can we have a word or two alone with you?”

  Blunt got up at once and moved to the door.

  “What is it?” asked Flora nervously. “Don’t go, Major Blunt. He can stay, can’t he?” she asked, turning to the inspector.

  “That’s as you like,” said the inspector drily. “There’s a question or two it’s my duty to put to you, miss, but I’d prefer to do so privately, and I dare say you’d prefer it also.”

  Flora looked keenly at him. I saw her face grow whiter. Then she turned and spoke to Blunt.

  “I want you to stay—please—yes, I mean it. Whatever the inspector has to say to me, I’d rather you heard it.”

  Raglan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, if you will have it so, that’s all there is to it. Now, Miss Ackroyd, M. Poirot here has made a certain suggestion to me. He suggests that you weren’t in the study at all last Friday night, that you never saw Mr. Ackroyd to say goodnight to him, that instead of being in the study you were on the stairs leading down from your uncle’s bedroom when you heard Parker coming across the hall.”

  Flora’s gaze shifted to Poirot. He nodded back at her.

  “Mademoiselle, the other day, when we sat round the table, I implored you to be frank with me. What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds out. It was that, was it not? See, I will make it easy for you. You took the money, did you not?”

  “The money?” said Blunt sharply.

  There was a silence which lasted for at least a minute.

  Then Flora drew herself up and spoke.

  “M. Poirot is right. I took that money. I stole. I am a thief—yes, a common, vulgar little thief. Now you know! I am glad it has come out. It’s been a nightmare, these last few days!” She sat down suddenly and buried her face in her hands. She spoke huskily through her fingers. “You don’t know what my life has been since I came here. Wanting things, scheming for them, lying, cheating, running up bills, promising to pay—oh! I hate myself when I think of it all! That’s what brought us together, Ralph and I. We were both weak! I understood him, and I was sorry—because I’m the same underneath. We’re not strong enough to stand alone, either of us. We’re weak, miserable, despicable things.”

  She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot.

  “Why do you look at me like that—as though you couldn’t believe? I may be a thief—but at any rate I’m real now. I’m not lying any more. I’m not pretending to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and simple. I don’t care if you never want to see me again. I hate myself, despise myself—but you’ve got to believe one thing, if speaking the truth would have made things better for Ralph, I would have spoken out. But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better for Ralph—it makes the case against him blacker than ever. I was not doing him any harm by sticking to my lie.”

  “Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see—always Ralph.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”

  She turned to the inspector.

  “I admit everything; I was at my wits’ end for money. I never saw my uncle that evening after he left the dinner table. As to the money, you can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than it is now!”

  Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed from the room.

  “Well,” said the inspector in a flat tone, “so that’s that.”

  He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.

  Blunt came forward.

  “Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to me by Mr. Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd nev
er touched it. When she says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton. The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go into the witness-box and swear to it.”

  He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly he left the room.

  Poirot was after him in a flash. He caught the other up in the hall.

  “Monsieur—a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.”

  “Well, sir?”

  Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.

  “It is this,” said Poirot rapidly: “I am not deceived by your little fantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All the same it is well imagined what you say—it pleases me. It is very good what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and to act.”

  “I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,” said Blunt coldly.

  He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all offended, laid a detaining hand on his arm.

  “Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other day I spoke of concealments. Very well, all along I have seen what you are concealing. Mademoiselle Flora, you love her with all your heart. From the first moment you saw her, is it not so? Oh! let us not mind saying these things—why must one in England think it necessary to mention love as though it were some disgraceful secret? You love Mademoiselle Flora. You seek to conceal that fact from all the world. That is very good—that is as it should be. But take the advice of Hercule Poirot—do not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.”

  Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot was speaking, but the closing words seemed to rivet his attention.

  “What d’you mean by that?” he said sharply.

  “You think that she loves the Capitaine Ralph Paton—but I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that is not so. Mademoiselle Flora accepted Captain Paton to please her uncle, and because she saw in the marriage a way of escape from her life here which was becoming frankly insupportable to her. She liked him, and there was much sympathy and understanding between them. But love—no! It is not Captain Paton Mademoiselle Flora loves.”

  “What the devil do you mean?” asked Blunt.

  I saw the dark flush under his tan.

  “You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one. Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honour to stick by him.”

  I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work.

  “My sister told me the other night,” I said encouragingly, “that Flora had never cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My sister is always right about these things.”

  Blunt ignored my well-meant offers. He spoke to Poirot.

  “D’you really think—” he began, and stopped.

  He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into words.

  Poirot knows no such disability.

  “If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer care to—the affair of the money—”

  Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh.

  “Think I’d hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about money. She got in a mess and didn’t dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor lonely kid.”

  Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door.

  “Mademoiselle Flora went into the garden, I think,” he murmured.

  “I’ve been every kind of a fool,” said Blunt abruptly. “Rum conversation we’ve been having. Like one of those Danish plays. But you’re a sound fellow, M. Poirot. Thank you.”

  He took Poirot’s hand and gave it a grip which caused the other to wince in anguish. Then he strode to the side door and passed out into the garden.

  “Not every kind of a fool,” murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing the injured member. “Only one kind—the fool in love.”

  Twenty

  MISS RUSSELL

  Inspector Raglan had received a bad jolt. He was not deceived by Blunt’s valiant lie any more than we had been. Our way back to the village was punctuated by his complaints.

  “This alters everything, this does. I don’t know whether you’ve realized it, Monsieur Poirot?”

  “I think so, yes, I think so,” said Poirot. “You see, me, I have been familiar with the idea for some time.”

  Inspector Raglan, who had only had the idea presented to him a short half hour ago, looked at Poirot unhappily, and went on with his discoveries.

  “Those alibis now. Worthless! Absolutely worthless. Got to start again. Find out what everyone was doing from nine-thirty onwards. Nine-thirty—that’s the time we’ve got to hang on to. You were quite right about the man Kent—we don’t release him yet awhile. Let me see now—nine-forty-five at the Dog and Whistle. He might have got there in a quarter of an hour if he ran. It’s just possible that it was his voice Mr. Raymond heard talking to Mr. Ackroyd—asking for money which Mr. Ackroyd refused. But one thing’s clear—it wasn’t he who sent the telephone message. The station is half a mile in the other direction—over a mile and a half from the Dog and Whistle, and he was at the Dog and Whistle until about ten minutes past ten. Dang that telephone call! We always come up against it.”

  “We do indeed,” agreed Poirot. “It is curious.”

  “It’s just possible that if Captain Paton climbed into his uncle’s room and found him there murdered, he may have sent it. Got the wind up, thought he’d be accused, and cleared out. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Why should he have telephoned?”

  “May have had doubts if the old man was really dead. Thought he’d get the doctor up there as soon as possible, but didn’t want to give himself away. Yes, I say now, how’s that for a theory? Something in that, I should say.”

  The inspector swelled his chest out importantly. He was so plainly delighted with himself that any words of ours would have been quite superfluous.

  We arrived back at my house at this minute, and I hurried in to my surgery patients, who had all been waiting a considerable time, leaving Poirot to walk to the police station with the inspector.

  Having dismissed the last patient, I strolled into the little room at the back of the house which I call my workshop—I am rather proud of the home-made wireless set I turned out. Caroline hates my workroom. I have kept my tools there, and Annie is not allowed to wreak havoc with a dustpan and brush. I was just adjusting the interior of an alarm clock which had been denounced as wholly unreliable by the household, when the door opened and Caroline put her head in.

  “Oh! there you are, James,” she said, with deep disapproval. “M. Poirot wants to see you.”

  “Well,” I said, rather irritably, for her sudden entrance had startled me and I had let go of a piece of delicate mechanism. “If he wants to see me, he can come in here.”

  “In here?” said Caroline.

  “That’s what I said—in here.”

  Caroline gave a sniff of disapproval and retired. She returned in a moment or two, ushering in Poirot, and then retired again, shutting the door with a bang.

  “Aha! my friend,” said Poirot, coming forward and rubbing his hands. “You have not got rid of me so easily, you see!”

  “Finished with the inspector?” I asked.

  “For the moment, yes. And you, you have seen all the patients?”

  “Yes.”

  Poirot sat down and looked at me, tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, with the air of one who savours a very delicious joke.

  “You are in error,” he said at last. “You have still one patient to see.”

  “Not you?” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “Ah, not me, bien entendu. Me, I have the health magnificent. No, to tell you the truth, it is a little complot of mine. There is someone I wish to see, you understand—and at the same time it is not necessary that the whole village should intrigue itself about the matter—which is what would happen if the lady were seen to come to my house—for it is a lady. But to you she has already come as a patient before.”
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  “Miss Russell!” I exclaimed.

  “Précisément. I wish much to speak with her, so I send her the little note and make the appointment in your surgery. You are not annoyed with me?”

  “On the contrary,” I said. “That is, presuming I am allowed to be present at the interview?”

  “But naturally! In your own surgery!”

  “You know,” I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, “it’s extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope—the thing changes entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?”

  Poirot raised his eyebrows.

  “Surely it is obvious?” he murmured.

  “There you go again,” I grumbled. “According to you everything is obvious. But you leave me walking about in a fog.”

  Poirot shook his head genially to me.

  “You mock yourself at me. Take the matter of Mademoiselle Flora. The inspector was surprised—but you—you were not.”

  “I never dreamed of her being the thief,” I expostulated.

  “That—perhaps no. But I was watching your face and you were not—like Inspector Raglan—startled and incredulous.”

  I thought for a minute or two.

  “Perhpas you are right,” I said at last. “All along I’ve felt that Flora was keeping back something—so the truth, when it came, was subconsciously expected. It upset Inspector Raglan very much indeed, poor man.”

  “Ah! pour ça oui! The poor man must rearrange all his ideas. I profited by his state of mental chaos to induce him to grant me a little favour.”

  “What was that?”

  Poirot took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. Some words were written on it, and he read them aloud.

  “The police have, for some days, been seeking for Captain Ralph Paton, the nephew of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park, whose death occurred under such tragic circumstances last Friday. Captain Paton has been found at Liverpool, where he was on the point of embarking for America.”

  He folded up the piece of paper again.

  “That, my friend, will be in the newspapers tomorrow morning.”