The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Agatha Christie (e book free reading TXT) 📖

“Obstinate as a mule he is. I had a chat with Hayes at Liverpool over the wire this morning.”

“Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there that night,” I observed.

“Does he?” cried the inspector eagerly.

“Yes,” I said maliciously. “He says he went there because he was born in Kent.”

I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture.

Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly. Then a grin overspread his weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead significantly.

“Bit gone here,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old chap, so that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the family, very likely. He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet.”

“Poirot has?” I said, very surprised.

“Yes. Hasn’t he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and all that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad.”

“Who told you that?”

Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan’s face. “Your sister. Miss Sheppard, she told me all about it.”

Really, Caroline is amazing. She never rests until she knows the last details of everybody’s family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been able to instil into her the decency of keeping them to herself.

“Jump in, Inspector,” I said, opening the door of the car. “We’ll go up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the latest news.”

“Might as well, I suppose. After all, even if he is a bit balmy, it was a useful tip he gave me about those fingerprints. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about the man Kent, but who knows⁠—there may be something useful behind it.”

Poirot received us with his usual smiling courtesy. He listened to the information we had brought him, nodding his head now and then.

“Seems quite OK, doesn’t it?” said the inspector rather gloomily. “A chap can’t be murdering someone in one place when he’s drinking in the bar in another place a mile away.”

“Are you going to release him?”

“Don’t see what else we can do. We can’t very well hold him for obtaining money on false pretences. Can’t prove a ruddy thing.”

The inspector tossed a match into the grate in a disgruntled fashion. Poirot retrieved it and put it neatly in a little receptacle designed for the purpose. His action was purely mechanical. I could see that his thoughts were on something very different.

“If I were you,” he said at last, “I should not release the man Charles Kent yet.”

“What do you mean?” Raglan stared at him.

“What I say. I should not release him yet.”

“You don’t think he can have had anything to do with the murder, do you?”

“I think probably not⁠—but one cannot be certain yet.”

“But haven’t I just told you⁠—?”

Poirot raised a hand protestingly. “Mais oui, mais oui. I heard. I am not deaf⁠—or stupid, thank the good God! But you see, you approach the matter from the wrong⁠—the wrong⁠—premises, is not that the word?”

The inspector stared at him heavily. “I don’t see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr. Ackroyd was alive at a quarter to ten. You admit that, don’t you?”

Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick smile. “I admit nothing that is not⁠—proved!”

“Well, we’ve got proof enough of that. We’ve got Miss Flora Ackroyd’s evidence.”

“That she said goodnight to her uncle? But me⁠—I do not always believe what a young lady tells me⁠—no, not even when she is charming and beautiful.”

“But hang it all, man, Parker saw her coming out of the door.”

“No.” Poirot’s voice rang out with sudden sharpness. “That is just what he did not see. I satisfied myself of that by a little experiment the other day⁠—you remember, doctor? Parker saw her outside the door, with her hand on the handle. He did not see her come out of the room.”

“But⁠—where else could she have been?”

“Perhaps on the stairs.”

“The stairs?”

“That is my little idea⁠—yes.”

“But those stairs only lead to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom.”

“Precisely.”

And still the inspector stared.

“You think she’d been up to her uncle’s bedroom? Well, why not? Why should she lie about it?”

“Ah! that is just the question. It depends on what she was doing there, does it not?”

“You mean⁠—the money? Hang it all, you don’t suggest that it was Miss Ackroyd who took that forty pounds?”

“I suggest nothing,” said Poirot. “But I will remind you of this. Life was not very easy for that mother and daughter. There were bills⁠—there was constant trouble over small sums of money. Roger Ackroyd was a peculiar man over money matters. The girl might be at her wits’ end for a comparatively small sum. Figure to yourself then what happens. She has taken the money, she descends the little staircase. When she is halfway down she hears the chink of glass from the hall. She has not a doubt of what it is⁠—Parker coming to the study. At all costs she must not be found on the stairs⁠—Parker will not forget it, he will think it odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study door⁠—with her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out, when Parker appears in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes into her head, a repetition of Roger Ackroyd’s orders earlier in the evening, and then goes upstairs to her own room.”

“Yes, but later,” persisted the inspector, “she must have realized the vital importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on it!”

“Afterwards,” said Poirot drily, “it was a little difficult for Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is panic-stricken. Young women do