The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Agatha Christie (e book free reading TXT) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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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.
âAha! my friend,â said Poirot, coming forward and rubbing his hands. âYou have not got rid of me so easily, you see!â
âFinished with the inspector?â I asked.
âFor the moment, yes. And you, you have seen all the patients?â
âYes.â
Poirot sat down and looked at me, tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, with the air of one who savours a very delicious joke.
âYou are in error,â he said at last. âYou have still one patient to see.â
âNot you?â I exclaimed in surprise.
âAh, 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 someone I wish to see, you understandâ âand at the same time it is not necessary that the whole village should intrigue itself about the matterâ âwhich is what would happen if the lady were seen to come to my houseâ âfor it is a lady. But to you she has already come as a patient before.â
âMiss Russell!â I exclaimed.
âPrĂ©cisĂ©ment. 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?â
âOn the contrary,â I said. âThat is, presuming I am allowed to be present at the interview?â
âBut naturally! In your own surgery!â
âYou know,â I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, âitâs extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscopeâ âthe thing changes entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?â
Poirot raised his eyebrows. âSurely it is obvious?â he murmured.
âThere you go again,â I grumbled. âAccording to you everything is obvious. But you leave me walking about in a fog.â
Poirot shook his head genially to me. âYou mock yourself at me. Take the matter of Mademoiselle Flora. The inspector was surprisedâ âbut youâ âyou were not.â
âI never dreamed of her being the thief,â I expostulated.
âThatâ âperhaps no. But I was watching your face and you were notâ âlike Inspector Raglanâ âstartled and incredulous.â
I thought for a minute or two. âPerhaps you are right,â I said at last. âAll along Iâve felt that Flora was keeping back somethingâ âso the truth, when it came, was subconsciously expected. It upset Inspector Raglan very much indeed, poor man.â
âAh! 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 favour.â
âWhat was that?â
Poirot took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. Some words were written on it, and he read them aloud.
âThe 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.â
He folded up the piece of paper again.
âThat, my friend, will be in the newspapers tomorrow morning.â
I stared at him, dumbfounded. âButâ âbut it isnât true! Heâs not at Liverpool!â
Poirot beamed on me. âYou 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.â
I stared at Poirot. He smiled back at me.
âIt beats me,â I said at last, âwhat you expect to get out of that.â
âYou should employ your little grey cells,â said Poirot gravely.
He rose and came across to the bench.
âIt is that you have really the love of the machinery,â he said, after inspecting the debris of my labours.
Every man has his hobby. I immediately drew Poirotâs attention to my homemade wireless. Finding him sympathetic, I showed him one or two little inventions of my ownâ âtrifling things, but useful in the house.
âDecidedly,â said Poirot, âyou should be an inventor by trade, not a doctor. But I hear the bellâ âthat is your patient. Let us go into the surgery.â
Once before I had been struck by the remnants of beauty in the housekeeperâs 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 colour in her usually pale cheeks, I realized that as a girl she must have been startlingly handsome.
âGood morning, mademoiselle,â said Poirot. âWill 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.â
Miss Russell sat down with her usual composure. If she felt any inward agitation, it did not display itself in any outward manifestation.
âIt seems a queer way of doing things, if youâll allow me to say so,â she remarked.
âMiss Russellâ âI have news to give you.â
âIndeed!â
âCharles Kent has been arrested at Liverpool.â
Not a muscle of her face moved. She merely opened her eyes a trifle wider, and asked, with a tinge of defiance: âWell, what of it?â
But at that moment it came to meâ âthe resemblance that had haunted me all along, something familiar in the defiance of Charles Kentâs manner. The two voices, one rough and coarse, the other painfully ladylikeâ âwere strangely the same in timbre. It was of Miss Russell that I had been reminded that night outside the gates of Fernly Park.
I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an imperceptible nod.
In answer to Miss Russellâs question, he threw out his hands in a thoroughly French gesture.
âI thought you might be interested, that is all,â he said mildly.
âWell Iâm not particularly,â said Miss Russell. âWho is this Charles Kent anyway?â
âHe is a man, mademoiselle, who was
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