The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Read online

  “It isn’t that I doubt your story for a moment,” explained Raymond. “I’ve always been quite sure Captain Paton was innocent. But one has to think of a court of law—and the questions that would be asked. He is in a most unfortunate position, but if he were to come forward—”

  Poirot interrupted.

  “That is your advice, yes? That he should come forward?”

  “Certainly. If you know where he is—”

  “I perceive that you do not believe that I do know. And yet I have told you just now that I know everything. The truth of the telephone call, of the footprints on the windowsill, of the hiding-place of Ralph Paton—”

  “Where is he?” said Blunt sharply.

  “Not very far away,” said Poirot, smiling.

  “In Cranchester?” I asked.

  Poirot turned towards me.

  “Always you ask me that. The idea of Cranchester, it is with you an idée fixe. No, he is not in Cranchester. He is—there!”

  He pointed a dramatic forefinger. Everyone’s head turned.

  Ralph Paton was standing in the doorway.

  Twenty-four

  RALPH PATON’S STORY

  It was a very uncomfortable minute for me. I hardly took in what happened next, but there were exclamations and cries of surprise! When I was sufficiently master of myself to be able to realize what was going on, Ralph Paton was standing by his wife, her hand in his, and he was smiling across the room at me.

  Poirot, too, was smiling, and at the same time shaking an eloquent finger at me.

  “Have I not told you at least thirty-six times that it is useless to conceal things from Hercule Poirot?” he demanded. “That in such a case he finds out?”

  He turned to the others.

  “One day, you remember, we held a little séance about a table—just the six of us. I accused the other five persons present of concealing something from me. Four of them gave up their secret. Dr. Sheppard did not give up his. But all along I have had my suspicions. Dr. Sheppard went to the Three Boars that night hoping to find Ralph. He did not find him there; but supposing, I said to myself, that he met him in the street on his way home? Dr. Sheppard was a friend of Captain Paton’s, and he had come straight from the scene of the crime. He must know that things looked very black against him. Perhaps he knew more than the general public did—”

  “I did,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of things now. I went to see Ralph that afternoon. At first he refused to take me into his confidence, but later he told me about his marriage, and the hole he was in. As soon as the murder was discovered, I realized that once the facts were known, suspicion could not fail to attach to Ralph—or, if not to him, to the girl he loved. That night I put the facts plainly before him. The thought of having possibly to give evidence which might incriminate his wife made him resolve at all costs to—to—”

  I hesitated, and Ralph filled up the gap.

  “To do a bunk,” he said graphically. “You see, Ursula left me to go back to the house. I thought it possible that she might have attempted to have another interview with my stepfather. He had already been very rude to her that afternoon. It occurred to me that he might have so insulted her—in such an unforgivable manner—that without knowing what she was doing—”

  He stopped. Ursula released her hand from his, and stepped back.

  “You thought that, Ralph! You actually thought that I might have done it?”

  “Let us get back to the culpable conduct of Dr. Sheppard,” said Poirot drily. “Dr. Sheppard consented to do what he could to help him. He was successful in hiding Captain Paton from the police.”

  “Where?” asked Raymond. “In his own house?”

  “Ah, no, indeed,” said Poirot. “You should ask yourself the question that I did. If the good doctor is concealing the young man, what place would he choose? It must necessarily be somewhere near at hand. I think of Cranchester. A hotel? No. Lodgings? Even more emphatically, no. Where, then? Ah! I have it. A nursing home. A home for the mentally unfit. I test my theory. I invent a nephew with mental trouble. I consult Mademoiselle Sheppard as to suitable homes. She gives me the names of two near Cranchester to which her brother has sent patients. I make inquiries. Yes, at one of them a patient was brought there by the doctor himself early on Saturday morning. That patient, though known by another name, I had no difficulty in identifying as Captain Paton. After certain necessary formalities, I was allowed to bring him away. He arrived at my house in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

  I looked at him ruefully.

  “Caroline’s Home Office expert,” I murmured. “And to think I never guessed!”

  “You see now why I drew attention to the reticence of your manuscript,” murmured Poirot. “It was strictly truthful as far as it went—but it did not go very far, eh, my friend?”

  I was too abashed to argue.

  “Dr. Sheppard has been very loyal,” said Ralph. “He has stood by me through thick and thin. He did what he thought was best. I see now, from what M. Poirot has told me, that it was not really the best. I should have come forward and faced the music. You see, in the home, we never saw a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on.”

  “Dr. Sheppard has been a model of discretion,” said Poirot drily. “But me, I discover all the little secrets. It is my business.”

  “Now we can have your story of what happened that night,” said Raymond impatiently.

  “You know it already,” said Ralph. “There’s very little for me to tell. I left the summerhouse about nine forty-five, and tramped about the lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to take. I’m bound to admit that I’ve not the shadow of an alibi, but I give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I’d like all of you to believe me.”

  “No alibi,” murmured Raymond. “That’s bad. I believe you, of course, but—it’s a bad business.”

  “It makes things very simple, though,” said Poirot, in a cheerful voice. “Very simple indeed.”

  We all stared at him.

  “You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real criminal must confess.”

  He beamed round at us all.

  “But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him tonight.”

  He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality changed. He suddenly became dangerous.

  “I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr. Ackroyd is in this room now. It is to the murderer I speak. Tomorrow the truth goes to Inspector Raglan. You understand?”

  There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open.

  Blunt’s voice rose abrupt and resonant.

  “The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know—which?”

  Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand.

  “I know—now.”

  He tapped the crumpled ball of paper.

  “What is that?” said Raymond sharply.

  “A wireless message—from a steamer now on her way to the United States.”

  There was a dead silence. Poirot rose to his feet bowing.

  “Messieurs et Mesdames, this reunion of mine is at an end. Remember—the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning.”

  Twenty-five

  THE WHOLE TRUTH

  A slight gesture from Poirot enjoined me to stay behind the rest. I obeyed, going over to the fire and thoughtfully stirring the big logs on it with the toe of my boot.

  I was puzzled. For the first time I was absolutely at sea as to Poirot’s meaning. For a moment I was inclined to think that the scene I had just witnessed was a gigantic piece of bombast—that he had been what he called “playing the comedy” with a view to mak
ing himself interesting and important. But, in spite of myself, I was forced to believe in an underlying reality. There had been real menace in his words—a certain indisputable sincerity. But I still believed him to be on entirely the wrong tack.

  When the door shut behind the last of the party he came over to the fire.

  “Well, my friend,” he said quietly, “and what do you think of it all?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said frankly. “What was the point? Why not go straight to Inspector Raglan with the truth instead of giving the guilty person this elaborate warning?”

  Poirot sat down and drew out his case of tiny Russian cigarettes. He smoked for a minute or two in silence. Then:

  “Use your little grey cells,” he said. “There is always a reason behind my actions.”

  I hesitated for a moment, and then I said slowly:

  “The first one that occurs to me is that you yourself do not know who the guilty person is, but that you are sure that he is to be found amongst the people here tonight. Therefore your words were intended to force a confession from the unknown murderer?”

  Poirot nodded approvingly.

  “A clever idea, but not the truth.”

  “I thought, perhaps, that by making him believe you knew, you might force him out into the open—not necessarily by confession. He might try to silence you as he formerly silenced Mr. Ackroyd—before you could act tomorrow morning.”

  “A trap with myself as the bait! Merci, mon ami, but I am not sufficiently heroic for that.”

  “Then I fail to understand you. Surely you are running the risk of letting the murderer escape by thus putting him on his guard?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “He cannot escape,” he said gravely. “There is only one way out—and that way does not lead to freedom.”

  “You really believe that one of those people here tonight committed the murder?” I asked incredulously.

  “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 of—in 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.”

  “Très 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.

  “But 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 ev
en 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 crêpe 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.