The murder of Roger Ackroyd
not make up his mind to purchase.”
Poirot turned to the butler.
“Can you describe this young man to me, my good Parker?”
“He was fair-haired, sir, and short. Very neatly dressed in a blue
serge suit. A very presentable young man, sir, for his station in life.”
Poirot turned to me.
“The man you met outside the gate, doctor, was tall, was he not?”
“Yes,” I said. “Somewhere about six feet, I should say.”
“There is nothing in that, then,” declared the Belgian. “I thank you,
Parker.”
The butler spoke to Raymond.
“Mr. Hammond has just arrived, sir,” he said. “He is anxious to know if
he can be of any service, and he would be glad to have a word with you.”
“I’ll come at once,” said the young man. He hurried out. Poirot looked
inquiringly at the chief constable.
“The family solicitor, M. Poirot,” said the latter.
“It is a busy time for this young M. Raymond,” murmured M. Poirot. “He
has the air efficient, that one.”
“I believe Mr. Ackroyd considered him a most able secretary.”
“He has been here—how long?”
“Just on two years, I fancy.”
“His duties he fulfills punctiliously. Of that I am sure. In what
manner does he amuse himself? Does he go in for _le sport_?”
“Private secretaries haven’t much time for that sort of thing,” said
Colonel Melrose, smiling. “Raymond plays golf, I believe. And tennis in
the summer time.”
“He does not attend the courses—I should say the running of the horses?”
“Race meetings? No, I don’t think he’s interested in racing.”
Poirot nodded and seemed to lose interest. He glanced slowly round the
study.
“I have seen, I think, all that there is to be seen here.”
I, too, looked round.
“If those walls could speak,” I murmured.
Poirot shook his head.
“A tongue is not enough,” he said. “They would have to have also eyes
and ears. But do not be too sure that these dead things”—he touched
the top of the bookcase as he spoke—“are always dumb. To me they speak
sometimes—chairs, tables—they have their message!”
He turned away towards the door.
“What message?” I cried. “What have they said to you to-day?”
He looked over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow quizzically.
“An opened window,” he said. “A locked door. A chair that apparently
moved itself. To all three I say, ‘Why?’ and I find no answer.”
He shook his head, puffed out his chest, and stood blinking at us. He
looked ridiculously full of his own importance. It crossed my mind
to wonder whether he was really any good as a detective. Had his big
reputation been built up on a series of lucky chances?
I think the same thought must have occurred to Colonel Melrose, for he
frowned.
“Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?” he inquired brusquely.
“You would perhaps be so kind as to show me the silver table from which
the weapon was taken? After that, I will trespass on your kindness no
longer.”
We went to the drawing-room, but on the way the constable waylaid the
colonel, and after a muttered conversation the latter excused himself
and left us together. I showed Poirot the silver table, and after
raising the lid once or twice and letting it fall, he pushed open the
window and stepped out on the terrace. I followed him.
Inspector Raglan had just turned the corner of the house, and was
coming towards us. His face looked grim and satisfied.
“So there you are, M. Poirot,” he said. “Well, this isn’t going to be
much of a case. I’m sorry, too. A nice enough young fellow gone wrong.”
Poirot’s face fell, and he spoke very mildly.
“I’m afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?”
“Next time, perhaps,” said the inspector soothingly. “Though we don’t
have murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world.”
Poirot’s gaze took on an admiring quality.
“You have been of a marvelous promptness,” he observed. “How exactly
did you go to work, if I may ask?”
“Certainly,” said the inspector. “To begin with—method. That’s what I
always say—method!”
“Ah!” cried the other. “That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and
the little gray cells.”
“The cells?” said the inspector, staring.
“The little gray cells of the brain,” explained the Belgian.
“Oh, of course; well, we all use them, I suppose.”
“In a greater or lesser degree,” murmured Poirot. “And there are, too,
differences in quality. Then there is the psychology of a crime. One
must study that.”
“Ah!” said the inspector, “you’ve been bitten with all this
psychoanalysis stuff? Now, I’m a plain man——”
“Mrs. Raglan would not agree, I am sure, to that,” said Poirot, making
him a little bow.
Inspector Raglan, a little taken aback, bowed.
“You don’t understand,” he said, grinning broadly. “Lord, what a lot of
difference language makes. I’m telling you how I set to work. First of
all, method. Mr. Ackroyd was last seen alive at a quarter to ten by his
niece, Miss Flora Ackroyd. That’s fact number one, isn’t it?”
“If you say so.”
“Well, it is. At half-past ten, the doctor here says that Mr. Ackroyd
has been dead at least half an hour. You stick to that, doctor?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Half an hour or longer.”
“Very good. That gives us exactly a quarter of an hour in which the
crime must have been committed. I make a list of every one in the
house, and work through it, setting down opposite their names where
they were and what they were doing between the hour of 9.45 and 10 p.m.”
He handed a sheet of paper to Poirot. I read it over his shoulder. It
ran as follows, written in a neat script:—
_Major Blunt.—In billiard room with Mr. Raymond. (Latter confirms.)_
_Mr. Raymond.—Billiard room. (See above.)_
_Mrs. Ackroyd.—9.45 watching billiard match. Went up to bed 9.55.
(Raymond and Blunt watched her up staircase.)_
_Miss Ackroyd.—Went straight from her uncle’s room upstairs.
(Confirmed by Parker, also housemaid, Elsie Dale.)_
_Servants_:—
_Parker.—Went straight to butler’s pantry. (Confirmed by
housekeeper, Miss Russell, who came down to speak to him about
something at 9.47, and remained at least ten minutes.)_
_Miss Russell.—As above. Spoke to housemaid, Elsie Dale, upstairs
at 9.45._
_Ursula Bourne (parlormaid).—In her own room until 9.55. Then in
Servants’ Hall._
_Mrs. Cooper (cook).—In Servants’ Hall._
_Gladys Jones (second housemaid).—In Servants’ Hall._
_Elsie Dale.—Upstairs in bedroom. Seen there by Miss Russell and
Miss Flora Ackroyd._
_Mary Thripp (kitchenmaid).—Servants’ Hall._
“The cook has been here seven years, the parlormaid eighteen months,
and Parker just over a year. The others are new. Except for something
fishy about Parker, they all seem quite all right.”
“A very complete list,” said Poirot, handing it back to him. “I am
quite sure that Parker did not do the murder,” he added gravely.
“So is my sister,” I struck in. “And she’s usually right.” Nobody paid
any attention to my interpolation.
“That disposes pretty effectually of the household,” continued the
inspector. “Now we come to a very grave point. The woman at the
lodge—Mary Black—was pulling the curtains last night when she saw
Ralph Paton turn in at the gate and go up towards the house.”
“She is sure of that?” I asked sharply.
“Quite sure. She knows him well by sight. He went past very quickly
and turned off by the path to the right, which is a short cut to the
terrace.”
“And what time was that?” asked Poirot, who had sat with an immovable
face.
“Exactly twenty-five minutes past nine,” said the inspector gravely.
There was a silence. Then the inspector spoke again.
“It’s all clear enough. It fits in without a flaw. At twenty-five
minutes past nine, Captain Paton is seen passing the lodge; at
nine-thirty or thereabouts, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond hears some one in here
asking for money and Mr. Ackroyd refusing. What happens next? Captain
Paton leaves the same way—through the window. He walks along the
terrace, angry and baffled. He comes to the open drawing-room window.
Say it’s now a quarter to ten. Miss Flora Ackroyd is saying good-night
to her uncle. Major Blunt, Mr. Raymond, and Mrs. Ackroyd are in the
billiard room. The drawing-room is empty. He steals in, takes the
dagger from the silver table, and returns to the study window. He slips
off his shoes, climbs in, and—well, I don’t need to go into details.
Then he slips out again and goes off. Hadn’t the nerve to go back to
the inn. He makes for the station, rings up from there——”
“Why?” said Poirot softly.
I jumped at the interruption. The little man was leaning forward. His
eyes shone with a queer green light.
For a moment Inspector Raglan was taken aback by the question.
“It’s difficult to say exactly why he did that,” he said at last. “But
murderers do funny things. You’d know that if you were in the police
force. The cleverest of them make stupid mistakes sometimes. But come
along and I’ll show you those footprints.”
We followed him round the corner of the terrace to the study window. At
a word from Raglan a police constable produced the shoes which had been
obtained from the local inn.
The inspector laid them over the marks.
“They’re the same,” he said confidently. “That is to say, they’re not
the same pair that actually made these prints. He went away in those.
This is a pair just like them, but older—see how the studs are worn
down.”
“Surely a great many people wear shoes with rubber studs in them?”
asked Poirot.
“That’s so, of course,” said the inspector. “I shouldn’t put so much
stress on the footmarks if it wasn’t for everything else.”
“A very foolish young man, Captain Ralph Paton,” said Poirot
thoughtfully. “To leave so much evidence of his presence.”
“Ah! well,” said the inspector, “it was a dry, fine night, you know. He
left no prints on the terrace or on the graveled path. But, unluckily
for him, a spring must have welled up just lately at the end of the
path from the drive. See here.”
A small graveled path joined the terrace a few feet away. In one
spot, a few yards from its termination, the ground was wet and boggy.
Crossing this wet place there were again the marks of footsteps, and
amongst them the shoes with rubber studs.
Poirot followed the path on a little way, the inspector by his side.
“You noticed the women’s footprints?” he said suddenly.
The inspector laughed.
“Naturally. But several different women have walked this way—and men
as well. It’s a regular short cut to the house, you see. It would be
impossible to sort out all the footsteps. After all, it’s the ones on
the window-sill that are really important.”
Poirot nodded.
“It’s no good going farther,” said the inspector, as we came in view of
the drive. “It’s all graveled again here, and hard as it can be.”
Again Poirot nodded, but his eyes were fixed on a small garden house—a
kind of superior summer-house. It was a little to the left of the path
ahead of us, and a graveled walk ran up to it.
Poirot lingered about until the inspector had gone back towards the
house. Then he looked at me.
“You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my
friend Hastings,” he said, with a twinkle. “I observe that you do not
quit my side. How say you, Dr. Sheppard, shall we investigate that
summer-house? It interests me.”
He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost
dark. There were one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some
folded deck-chairs.
I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands
and knees and was crawling about the floor. Every now and then he shook
his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels.
“Nothing,” he murmured. “Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But
it would have meant so much——”