The murder of Roger Ackroyd
most suspiciously flustered. The man was shaking and twitching all over.
“H’m,” said the inspector. “I must see Miss Ackroyd at once. For the
moment we’ll leave this room exactly as it is. I can return here after
I’ve heard what Miss Ackroyd has to tell me. I shall just take the
precaution of shutting and bolting the window.”
This precaution accomplished, he led the way into the hall and we
followed him. He paused a moment, as he glanced up at the little
staircase, then spoke over his shoulder to the constable.
“Jones, you’d better stay here. Don’t let any one go into that room.”
Parker interposed deferentially.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir. If you were to lock the door into the main
hall, nobody could gain access to this part. That staircase leads only
to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom and bathroom. There is no communication with
the other part of the house. There once was a door through, but Mr.
Ackroyd had it blocked up. He liked to feel that his suite was entirely
private.”
To make things clear and explain the position, I have appended a rough
sketch of the right-hand wing of the house. The small staircase leads,
as Parker explained, to a big bedroom (made by two being knocked into
one) and an adjoining bathroom and lavatory.
The inspector took in the position at a glance. We went through into
the large hall and he locked the door behind him, slipping the key into
his pocket. Then he gave the constable some low-voiced instructions,
and the latter prepared to depart.
“We must get busy on those shoe tracks,” explained the inspector. “But
first of all, I must have a word with Miss Ackroyd. She was the last
person to see her uncle alive. Does she know yet?”
Raymond shook his head.
“Well, no need to tell her for another five minutes. She can answer my
questions better without being upset by knowing the truth about her
uncle. Tell her there’s been a burglary, and ask her if she would mind
dressing and coming down to answer a few questions.”
It was Raymond who went upstairs on this errand.
“Miss Ackroyd will be down in a minute,” he said, when he returned. “I
told her just what you suggested.”
In less than five minutes Flora descended the staircase. She was
wrapped in a pale pink silk kimono. She looked anxious and excited.
The inspector stepped forward.
“Good-evening, Miss Ackroyd,” he said civilly. “We’re afraid there’s
been an attempt at robbery, and we want you to help us. What’s this
room—the billiard room? Come in here and sit down.”
Flora sat down composedly on the wide divan which ran the length of the
wall, and looked up at the inspector.
“I don’t quite understand. What has been stolen? What do you want me to
tell you?”
“It’s just this, Miss Ackroyd. Parker here says you came out of your
uncle’s study at about a quarter to ten. Is that right?”
“Quite right. I had been to say good-night to him.”
“And the time is correct?”
“Well, it must have been about then. I can’t say exactly. It might have
been later.”
“Was your uncle alone, or was there any one with him?”
“He was alone. Dr. Sheppard had gone.”
“Did you happen to notice whether the window was open or shut?”
Flora shook her head.
“I can’t say. The curtains were drawn.”
“Exactly. And your uncle seemed quite as usual?”
“I think so.”
“Do you mind telling us exactly what passed between you?”
Flora paused a minute, as though to collect her recollections.
“I went in and said, ‘Good-night, uncle, I’m going to bed now. I’m
tired to-night.’ He gave a sort of grunt, and—I went over and kissed
him, and he said something about my looking nice in the frock I had on,
and then he told me to run away as he was busy. So I went.”
“Did he ask specially not to be disturbed?”
“Oh! yes, I forgot. He said: ‘Tell Parker I don’t want anything more
to-night, and that he’s not to disturb me.’ I met Parker just outside
the door and gave him uncle’s message.”
“Just so,” said the inspector.
“Won’t you tell me what it is that has been stolen?”
“We’re not quite—certain,” said the inspector hesitatingly.
A wide look of alarm came into the girl’s eyes. She started up.
“What is it? You’re hiding something from me?”
Moving in his usual unobtrusive manner, Hector Blunt came between her
and the inspector. She half stretched out her hand, and he took it in
both of his, patting it as though she were a very small child, and she
turned to him as though something in his stolid, rocklike demeanor
promised comfort and safety.
“It’s bad news, Flora,” he said quietly. “Bad news for all of us. Your
Uncle Roger——”
“Yes?”
“It will be a shock to you. Bound to be. Poor Roger’s dead.”
Flora drew away from him, her eyes dilating with horror.
“When?” she whispered. “When?”
“Very soon after you left him, I’m afraid,” said Blunt gravely.
Flora raised her hand to her throat, gave a little cry, and I hurried
to catch her as she fell. She had fainted, and Blunt and I carried her
upstairs and laid her on her bed. Then I got him to wake Mrs. Ackroyd
and tell her the news. Flora soon revived, and I brought her mother to
her, telling her what to do for the girl. Then I hurried downstairs
again.
CHAPTER VI
THE TUNISIAN DAGGER
I met the inspector just coming from the door which led into the
kitchen quarters.
“How’s the young lady, doctor?”
“Coming round nicely. Her mother’s with her.”
“That’s good. I’ve been questioning the servants. They all declare that
no one has been to the back door to-night. Your description of that
stranger was rather vague. Can’t you give us something more definite to
go upon?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said regretfully. “It was a dark night, you see,
and the fellow had his coat collar well pulled up and his hat squashed
down over his eyes.”
“H’m,” said the inspector. “Looked as though he wanted to conceal his
face. Sure it was no one you know?”
I replied in the negative, but not as decidedly as I might have done. I
remembered my impression that the stranger’s voice was not unfamiliar
to me. I explained this rather haltingly to the inspector.
“It was a rough, uneducated voice, you say?”
I agreed, but it occurred to me that the roughness had been of an
almost exaggerated quality. If, as the inspector thought, the man had
wished to hide his face, he might equally well have tried to disguise
his voice.
“Do you mind coming into the study with me again, doctor? There are one
or two things I want to ask you.”
I acquiesced. Inspector Davis unlocked the door of the lobby, we passed
through, and he locked the door again behind him.
“We don’t want to be disturbed,” he said grimly. “And we don’t want any
eavesdropping either. What’s all this about blackmail?”
“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 favorable 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 some one 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 good-night—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 any one
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 arm-chair.
“The weapon ought to give us a clew,” 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