The murder of Roger Ackroyd

Blunt came forward. “Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to me by Mr. Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd never 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 have I 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 honor 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 efforts. 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.” CHAPTER XX 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 every one 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 keep 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 savors 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 some one 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.” “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 at 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. “Perhaps 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 favor.” “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 to-morrow morning.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “But—but it isn’t true! He’s not at Liverpool!” Poirot beamed on me. “You have the intelligence so quick! No, he has not been found at Liverpool. Inspector Raglan was very loath to let me send this paragraph to the press, especially as I could not take him into my confidence. But I assured him most solemnly that very interesting results would follow its appearance in print, so he gave in, after stipulating that he was, on no account, to bear the responsibility.” I stared at Poirot. He smiled back at me. “It beats me,” I said at last, “what you expect to get out of that.” “You should employ your little gray cells,” said Poirot gravely. He rose and came across to the bench. “It is that you have really the love of the machinery,” he said, after inspecting the débris of my labors. Every man has his hobby. I immediately drew Poirot’s attention to my home-made wireless. Finding him sympathetic, I showed him one or two little inventions of my own—trifling things, but useful in the house. “Decidedly,” said Poirot, “you should be an inventor by trade, not a doctor. But I hear the bell—that is your patient. Let us go into the surgery.” Once before I had been struck by the remnants of beauty in the housekeeper’s face. This morning I was struck anew. Very simply dressed in black, tall, upright and independent as ever, with her big dark eyes and an unwonted flush of color in her usually pale cheeks, I realized that as a girl she must have been startlingly handsome. “Good-morning, mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “Will you be seated? Dr. Sheppard is so kind as to permit me the use of his surgery for a little conversation I am anxious to have with you.”