The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Read online

  “Blackmail!” I exclaimed, very much startled.

  “Is it an effort of Parker’s imagination? Or is there something in it?”

  “If Parker heard anything about blackmail,” I said slowly, “he must have been listening outside this door with his ear glued against the keyhole.”

  Davis nodded.

  “Nothing more likely. You see, I’ve been instituting a few inquiries as to what Parker has been doing with himself this evening. To tell the truth, I didn’t like his manner. The man knows something. When I began to question him, he got the wind up, and plumped out some garbled story of blackmail.”

  I took an instant decision.

  “I’m rather glad you’ve brought the matter up,” I said. “I’ve been trying to decide whether to make a clean breast of things or not. I’d already practically decided to tell you everything, but I was going to wait for a favourable opportunity. You might as well have it now.”

  And then and there I narrated the whole events of the evening as I have set them down here. The inspector listened keenly, occasionally interjecting a question.

  “Most extraordinary story I ever heard,” he said, when I had finished. “And you say that letter has completely disappeared? It looks bad—it looks very bad indeed. It gives us what we’ve been looking for—a motive for the murder.”

  I nodded.

  “I realize that.”

  “You say that Mr. Ackroyd hinted at a suspicion he had that some member of his household was involved? Household’s rather an elastic term.”

  “You don’t think that Parker himself might be the man we’re after?” I suggested.

  “It looks very like it. He was obviously listening at the door when you came out. Then Miss Ackroyd came across him later bent on entering the study. Say he tried again when she was safely out of the way. He stabbed Ackroyd, locked the door on the inside, opened the window, and got out that way, and went round to a side door which he had previously left open. How’s that?”

  “There’s only one thing against it,” I said slowly. “If Ackroyd went on reading that letter as soon as I left, as he intended to do, I don’t see him continuing to sit on here and turn things over in his mind for another hour. He’d have had Parker in at once, accused him then and there, and there would have been a fine old uproar. Remember, Ackroyd was a man of choleric temper.”

  “Mightn’t have had time to go on with the letter just then,” suggested the inspector. “We know someone was with him at half past nine. If that visitor turned up as soon as you left, and after he went, Miss Ackroyd came in to say goodnight—well, he wouldn’t be able to go on with the letter until close upon ten o’clock.”

  “And the telephone call?”

  “Parker sent that all right—perhaps before he thought of the locked door and open window. Then he changed his mind—or got in a panic—and decided to deny all knowledge of it. That was it, depend upon it.”

  “Ye—es,” I said rather doubtfully.

  “Anyway, we can find out the truth about the telephone call from the exchange. If it was put through from here, I don’t see how anyone else but Parker could have sent it. Depend upon it, he’s our man. But keep it dark—we don’t want to alarm him just yet, till we’ve got all the evidence. I’ll see to it he doesn’t give us the slip. To all appearances we’ll be concentrating on your mysterious stranger.”

  He rose from where he had been sitting astride the chair belonging to the desk, and crossed over to the still form in the armchair.

  “The weapon ought to give us a clue,” he remarked, looking up. “It’s something quite unique—a curio, I should think, by the look of it.”

  He bent down, surveying the handle attentively, and I heard him give a grunt of satisfaction. Then, very gingerly, he pressed his hands down below the hilt and drew the blade out from the wound. Still carrying it so as not to touch the handle, he placed it in a wide china mug which adorned the mantelpiece.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding at it. “Quite a work of art. There can’t be many of them about.”

  It was indeed a beautiful object. A narrow, tapering blade, and a hilt of elaborately intertwined metals of curious and careful workmanship. He touched the blade gingerly with his finger, testing its sharpness, and made an appreciative grimace.

  “Lord, what an edge,” he exclaimed. “A child could drive that into a man—as easy as cutting butter. A dangerous sort of toy to have about.”

  “May I examine the body properly now?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Go ahead.”

  I made a thorough examination.

  “Well?” said the inspector, when I had finished.

  “I’ll spare you the technical language,” I said. “We’ll keep that for the inquest. The blow was delivered by a right-handed man standing behind him, and death must have been instantaneous. By the expression on the dead man’s face, I should say that the blow was quite unexpected. He may have died without knowing who his assailant was.”

  “Butlers can creep about as soft-footed as cats,” said Inspector Davis. “There’s not going to be much mystery about this crime. Take a look at the hilt of that dagger.”

  I took the look.

  “I dare say they’re not apparent to you, but I can see them clearly enough.” He lowered his voice. “Fingerprints!”

  He stood off a few steps to judge of his effect.

  “Yes,” I said mildly. “I guessed that.”

  I do not see why I should be supposed to be totally devoid of intelligence. After all, I read detective stories, and the newspapers, and am a man of quite average ability. If there had been toe marks on the dagger handle, now, that would have been quite a different thing. I would then have registered any amount of surprise and awe.

  I think the inspector was annoyed with me for declining to get thrilled. He picked up the china mug and invited me to accompany him to the billiard room.

  “I want to see if Mr. Raymond can tell us anything about this dagger,” he explained.

  Locking the outer door behind us again, we made our way to the billiard room, where we found Geoffrey Raymond. The inspector held up his exhibit.

  “Ever seen this before, Mr. Raymond?”

  “Why—I believe—I’m almost sure that is a curio given to Mr. Ackroyd by Major Blunt. It comes from Morocco—no, Tunis. So the crime was committed with that? What an extraordinary thing. It seems almost impossible, and yet there could hardly be two daggers the same. May I fetch Major Blunt?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off.

  “Nice young fellow that,” said the inspector. “Something honest and ingenuous about him.”

  I agreed. In the two years that Geoffrey Raymond has been secretary to Ackroyd, I have never seen him ruffled or out of temper. And he has been, I know, a most efficient secretary.

  In a minute or two Raymond returned, accompanied by Blunt.

  “I was right,” said Raymond excitedly. “It is the Tunisian dagger.”

  “Major Blunt hasn’t looked at it yet,” objected the inspector.

  “Saw it the moment I came into the study,” said the quiet man.

  “You recognized it, then?”

  Blunt nodded.

  “You said nothing about it,” said the inspector suspiciously.

  “Wrong moment,” said Blunt. “Lot of harm done by blurting out things at the wrong time.”

  He returned the inspector’s stare placidly enough.

  The latter grunted at last and turned away. He brought the dagger over to Blunt.

  “You’re quite sure about it, sir. You identify it positively?”

  “Absolutely. No doubt whatever.”

  “Where was this—er—curio usually kept? Can you tell me that, sir?”

  It was the secretary who answered.

  “In the silver table in the drawing room.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  The others looked at me.

  “Yes, doctor?” said the inspe
ctor encouragingly.

  “It’s nothing,” said the inspector again, still encouragingly.

  “It’s so trivial,” I explained apologetically. “Only that when I arrived last night for dinner I heard the lid of the silver table being shut down in the drawing room.”

  I saw profound scepticism and a trace of suspicion on the inspector’s countenance.

  “How did you know it was the silver table lid?”

  I was forced to explain in detail—a long, tedious explanation which I would infinitely rather not have had to make.

  The inspector heard me to the end.

  “Was the dagger in its place when you were looking over the contents?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t say I remember noticing it—but, of course, it may have been there all the time.”

  “We’d better get hold of the housekeeper,” remarked the inspector, and pulled the bell.

  A few minutes later Miss Russell, summoned by Parker, entered the room.

  “I don’t think I went near the silver table,” she said, when the inspector had posed his question. “I was looking to see that all the flowers were fresh. Oh! yes, I remember now. The silver table was open—which it had no business to be, and I shut the lid down as I passed.”

  She looked at him aggressively.

  “I see,” said the inspector. “Can you tell me if this dagger was in its place then?”

  Miss Russell looked at the weapon composedly.

  “I can’t say I’m sure,” she replied. “I didn’t stop to look. I knew the family would be down any minute, and I wanted to get away.”

  “Thank you,” said the inspector.

  There was just a trace of hesitation in his manner, as though he would have liked to question her further, but Miss Russell clearly accepted the words as a dismissal, and glided from the room.

  “Rather a Tartar, I should fancy, eh?” said the inspector, looking after her. “Let me see. This silver table is in front of one of the windows, I think you said, doctor?”

  Raymond answered for me.

  “Yes, the left-hand window.”

  “And the window was open?”

  “They were both ajar.”

  “Well, I don’t think we need go into the question much further. Somebody—I’ll just say somebody—could get that dagger any time he liked, and exactly when he got it doesn’t matter in the least. I’ll be coming up in the morning with the chief constable, Mr. Raymond. Until then, I’ll keep the key of that door. I want Colonel Melrose to see everything exactly as it is. I happen to know that he’s dining out the other side of the county, and, I believe, staying the night….”

  We watched the inspector take up the jar.

  “I shall have to pack this carefully,” he observed. “It’s going to be an important piece of evidence in more ways than one.”

  A few minutes later as I came out of the billiard room with Raymond, the latter gave a low chuckle of amusement.

  I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and followed the direction of his eyes. Inspector Davis seemed to be inviting Parker’s opinion of a small pocket diary.

  “A little obvious,” murmured my companion. “So Parker is the suspect, is he? Shall we oblige Inspector Davis with a set of our fingerprints also?”

  He took two cards from the card tray, wiped them with his silk handkerchief, then handed one to me and took the other himself. Then, with a grin, he handed them to the police inspector.

  “Souvenirs,” he said. “No. 1. Dr. Sheppard; No. 2, my humble self. One from Major Blunt will be forthcoming in the morning.”

  Youth is very buoyant. Even the brutal murder of his friend and employer could not dim Geoffrey Raymond’s spirits for long. Perhaps that is as it should be. I do not know. I have lost the quality of resilience long since myself.

  It was very late when I got back, and I hoped that Caroline would have gone to bed. I might have known better.

  She had hot cocoa waiting for me, and whilst I drank it, she extracted the whole history of the evening from me. I said nothing of the blackmailing business, but contented myself with giving her the facts of the murder.

  “The police suspect Parker,” I said, as I rose to my feet and prepared to ascend to bed. “There seems a fairly clear case against him.”

  “Parker!” said my sister. “Fiddlesticks! That inspector must be a perfect fool. Parker indeed! Don’t tell me.” With which obscure pronouncement we went up to bed.

  Seven

  I LEARN MY NEIGHBOUR’S PROFESSION

  On the following morning I hurried unforgivably over my round. My excuse can be that I had no very serious cases to attend. On my return Caroline came into the hall to greet me.

  “Flora Ackroyd is here,” she announced in an excited whisper.

  “What?”

  I concealed my surprise as best as I could.

  “She’s very anxious to see you. She’s been here half an hour.”

  Caroline led the way into our small sitting room, and I followed.

  Flora was sitting on the sofa by the window. She was in black and she sat nervously twisting her hands together. I was shocked by the sight of her face. All the colour had faded away from it. But when she spoke her manner was as composed and resolute as possible.

  “Dr. Sheppard, I have come to ask you to help me?”

  “Of course he’ll help you, my dear,” said Caroline.

  I don’t think Flora really wished Caroline to be present at the interview. She would, I am sure, have infinitely preferred to speak to me privately. But she also wanted to waste no time, so she made the best of it.

  “I want you to come to The Larches with me.”

  “The Larches?” I queried, surprised.

  “To see that funny little man?” exclaimed Caroline.

  “Yes. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “We fancied,” I said, “that he might be a retired hairdresser.”

  Flora’s blue eyes opened very wide.

  “Why, he’s Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean—the private detective. They say he’s done the most wonderful things—just like detectives do in books. A year ago he retired and came to live down here. Uncle knew who he was, but he promised not to tell anyone, because M. Poirot wanted to live quietly without being bothered by people.”

  “So that’s who he is,” I said slowly.

  “You’ve heard of him, of course?”

  “I’m rather an old fogey, as Caroline tells me,” I said, “but I have just heard of him.”

  “Extraordinary!” commented Caroline.

  I don’t know what she was referring to—possibly her own failure to discover the truth.

  “You want to go and see him?” I asked slowly. “Now why?”

  “To get him to investigate this murder, of course,” said Caroline sharply. “Don’t be so stupid, James.”

  I was not really being stupid. Caroline does not always understand what I am driving at.

  “You haven’t got confidence in Inspector Davis?” I went on.

  “Of course she hasn’t,” said Caroline. “I haven’t either.”

  Anyone would have thought it was Caroline’s uncle who had been murdered.

  “And how do you know he would take up the case?” I asked. “Remember he has retired from active work.”

  “That’s just it,” said Flora simply. “I’ve got to persuade him.”

  “You are sure you are doing wisely?” I asked gravely.

  “Of course she is,” said Caroline. “I’ll go with her myself if she likes.”

  “I’d rather the doctor came with me, if you don’t mind, Miss Sheppard,” said Flora.

  She knows the value of being direct on certain occasions. Any hints would certainly have been wasted on Caroline.

  “You see,” she explained, following directness with tact, “Dr. Sheppard being the doctor, and having found the body, he would be able to give all the details to M. Poirot.”

  “Yes,” sa
id Caroline grudgingly, “I see that.”

  I took a turn or two up and down the room.

  “Flora,” I said gravely, “be guided by me. I advise you not to drag this detective into the case.”

  Flora sprang to her feet. The colour rushed into her cheeks.

  “I know why you say that,” she cried. “But it’s exactly for that reason I’m so anxious to go. You’re afraid! But I’m not. I know Ralph better than you do.”

  “Ralph!” said Caroline. “What has Ralph got to do with it?”

  Neither of us heeded her.

  “Ralph may be weak,” continued Flora. “He may have done foolish things in the past—wicked things even—but he wouldn’t murder anyone.”

  “No, no,” I exclaimed. “I never thought it of him.”

  “Then why did you go to the Three Boars last night?” demanded Flora. “On your way home—after Uncle’s body was found?”

  I was momentarily silenced. I had hoped that that visit of mine would remain unnoticed.

  “How did you know about that?” I countered.

  “I went there this morning,” said Flora. “I heard from the servants that Ralph was staying there—”

  I interrupted her.

  “You had no idea that he was in King’s Abbot?”

  “No. I was astounded. I couldn’t understand it. I went there and asked for him. They told me, what I suppose they told you last night, that he went out at about nine o’clock yesterday evening—and—and never came back.”

  Her eyes met mine defiantly, and as though answering something in my look, she burst out:

  “Well, why shouldn’t he? He might have gone—anywhere. He may even have gone back to London.”

  “Leaving his luggage behind?” I asked gently.

  Flora stamped her foot.

  “I don’t care. There must be a simple explanation.”

  “And that’s why you want to go to Hercule Poirot? Isn’t it better to leave things as they are? The police don’t suspect Ralph in the least, remember. They’re working on quite another tack.”

  “But that’s just it,” cried the girl. “They do suspect him. A man from Cranchester turned up this morning—Inspector Raglan, a horrid, weaselly little man. I found he had been to the Three Boars this morning before me. They told me all about his having been there, and the questions he had asked. He must think Ralph did it.”