The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Agatha Christie (e book free reading TXT) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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âThere seems no doubt that the man who was talking to Mr. Ackroyd in the library at nine-thirty could not possibly have been your son. Be of good courage, mademoiselle. All will yet be well.â
Miss Russell departed. Poirot and I were left together.
âSo thatâs that,â I said. âEvery time we come back to Ralph Paton. How did you manage to spot Miss Russell as the person Charles Kent came to meet? Did you notice the resemblance?â
âI had connected her with the unknown man long before we actually came face to face with him. As soon as we found that quill. The quill suggested dope, and I remembered your account of Miss Russellâs visit to you. Then I found the article on cocaine in that morningâs paper. It all seemed very clear. She had heard from someone that morningâ âsomeone addicted to drugs, she read the article in the paper, and she came to ask you a few tentative questions. She mentioned cocaine, since the article in question was on cocaine. Then, when you seemed too interested, she switched hurriedly to the subject of detective stories and untraceable poisons. I suspected a son or a brother, or some other undesirable male relation. Ah! but I must go. It is the time of the lunch.â
âStay and lunch with us,â I suggested.
Poirot shook his head. A faint twinkle came into his eye. âNot again today. I should not like to force Mademoiselle Caroline to adopt a vegetarian diet two days in succession.â
It occurred to me that there was not much which escaped Hercule Poirot.
XXI The Paragraph in the PaperCaroline, of course, had not failed to see Miss Russell come to the surgery door. I had anticipated this, and had ready an elaborate account of the ladyâs bad knee. But Caroline was not in a cross-questioning mood. Her point of view was that she knew what Miss Russell had really come for and that I didnât.
âPumping you, James,â said Caroline. âPumping you in the most shameless manner, Iâve no doubt. Itâs no good interrupting. I dare say you hadnât the least idea she was doing it even. Men are so simple. She knows that you are in M. Poirotâs confidence, and she wants to find out things. Do you know what I think, James?â
âI couldnât begin to imagine. You think so many extraordinary things.â
âItâs no good being sarcastic. I think Miss Russell knows more about Mr. Ackroydâs death than she is prepared to admit.â
Caroline leaned back triumphantly in her chair.
âDo you really think so?â I said absently.
âYou are very dull today, James. No animation about you. Itâs that liver of yours.â
Our conversation then dealt with purely personal matters.
The paragraph inspired by Poirot duly appeared in our daily paper the next morning. I was in the dark as to its purpose, but its effect on Caroline was immense.
She began by stating, most untruly, that she had said as much all along. I raised my eyebrows, but did not argue. Caroline, however, must have felt a prick of conscience, for she went on:
âI maynât have actually mentioned Liverpool, but I knew heâd try to get away to America. Thatâs what Crippen did.â
âWithout much success,â I reminded her.
âPoor boy, and so theyâve caught him. I consider, James, that itâs your duty to see that he isnât hung.â
âWhat do you expect me to do?â
âWhy, youâre a medical man, arenât you? Youâve known him from a boy upwards. Not mentally responsible. Thatâs the line to take, clearly. I read only the other day that theyâre very happy in Broadmoorâ âitâs quite like a high-class club.â
But Carolineâs words had reminded me of something.
âI never knew that Poirot had an imbecile nephew?â I said curiously.
âDidnât you? Oh, he told me all about it. Poor lad. Itâs a great grief to all the family. Theyâve kept him at home so far, but itâs getting to such a pitch that theyâre afraid heâll have to go into some kind of institution.â
âI suppose you know pretty well everything there is to know about Poirotâs family by this time,â I said, exasperated.
âPretty well,â said Caroline complacently. âItâs a great relief to people to be able to tell all their troubles to someone.â
âIt might be,â I said, âif they were ever allowed to do so spontaneously. Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of them by force is another matter.â
Caroline merely looked at me with an air of a Christian martyr enjoying martyrdom.
âYou are so self-contained, James,â she said. âYou hate speaking out, or parting with any information yourself, and you think everybody else must be just like you. I should hope that I never screw confidences out of anybody. For instance, if M. Poirot comes in this afternoon, as he said he might do, I shall not dream of asking him who it was arrived at his house early this morning.â
âEarly this morning?â I queried.
âVery early,â said Caroline. âBefore the milk came. I just happened to be looking out of the windowâ âthe blind was flapping. It was a man. He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldnât get a glimpse of his face. But I will tell you my idea, and youâll see that Iâm right.â
âWhatâs your idea?â
Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously.
âA Home Office expert,â she breathed.
âA Home Office expert,â I said, amazed. âMy dear Caroline!â
âMark my words, James, youâll see that Iâm right. That Russell woman was here that morning after your poisons. Roger Ackroyd might easily have been poisoned in his food that night.â
I laughed out loud.
âNonsense,â I cried. âHe was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well as I do.â
âAfter death, James,â said Caroline; âto make a false clue.â
âMy good woman,â I said, âI examined the body, and I know what Iâm talking about. That wound wasnât inflicted after deathâ âit was the cause of death, and you
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