The murder of Roger Ackroyd
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 probably 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 inspector encouragingly.
“It’s nothing.”
“Yes, doctor?” said the inspector again, still more 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 skepticism 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.
CHAPTER VII
I LEARN MY NEIGHBOR’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 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 color 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 any one, 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.”
Any one 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,” said 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 color rushed into her cheeks.
“I know why you say that,” she cried. “But it’s exactly for that reason