The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда - Агата Кристи Билингва Bestseller

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knee,’ said Caroline. ‘Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.’

      ‘What?’ I asked.

      Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.

      ‘But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at – M. Poirot, I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.’

      ‘Precisely the remark Mrs Ackroyd made to me yesterday,’ I said. ‘That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.’

      ‘Ah!’ said Caroline darkly, ‘Mrs Ackroyd! There’s another!’

      ‘Another what?’

      Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolling up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.

      I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline’s words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline’s tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?

      There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell’s manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least-

      I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking – and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd…

      I heard Caroline’s voice, rather acid in tone, calling from the top of the stairs.

      ‘James, you will be late for dinner.’

      I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.

      It is well at any price to have peace in the home.

      Chapter 12

      Round the Table

      A joint inquest was held on Monday.

      I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the cause of Ackroyd’s death and the probable time. The absence of Ralph Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed.

      Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with inspector Raglan. The inspector was very grave.

      ‘It looks bad, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to judge the thing fair and square. I’m a local man, and I’ve seen captain Paton many times in Cranchester. I’m not wanting him to be the guilty one – but it’s bad whichever way you look at it. If he’s innocent, why doesn’t he come forward? We’ve got evidence against him, but it’s just possible that the evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn’t he give an explanation?’

      A lot more lay behind the inspector’s words than I knew at the time. Ralph’s description had been wired to every port and railway station in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. his rooms in town were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit of frequenting. With such a cordon it seemed impossible that Ralph should be able to evade detection. he had no luggage, and, as far as anyone knew, no money.

      ‘I can’t find anyone who saw him at the station that night,’ continued the inspector. ‘And yet he’s well known down here, and you’d think somebody would have noticed him. There’s no news from Liverpool either.’

      ‘You think he went to Liverpool?’ queried Poirot.

      ‘Well, it’s on the cards. That telephone message from the station, just three minutes before the Liverpool express left – there ought to be something in that.’

      ‘Unless it was deliberately inteded to throw you off the scent. That might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.’

      ‘That’s an idea,’ said the inspector eagerly. ‘do you really think that’s the explanation of the telephone call?’

      ‘My friend,’ said Poirot gravely, ‘I do not know. But I will tell you this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone call we shall find the explanation of the murder.’

      ‘You said something like that before, I remember,’ I observed, looking at him curiously.

      Poirot nodded.

      ‘I always come back to it,’ he said seriously.

      ‘It seems to me utterly irrelevant,’ I declared.

      ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ demurred the inspector. ‘But I must confess I think Mr Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We’ve better clues than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.’

      Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over anything.

      ‘M. l’Inspecteur,’ he said, ‘beware of the blind – the blind – comment dire? – the little street that has no end to it.’

      Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

      ‘You mean a blind alley?’ I said.

      ‘That is it – the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those fingerprints – they may lead you nowhere.’

      ‘I don’t see how that can well be,’ said the police officer. ‘I suppose you’re hinting that they’re faked? I’ve read of such things being done, though I can’t say I’ve ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true – they’re bound to lead somewhere.’

      Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.

      The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls.

      ‘Come now,’ he said at last, annoyed by Poirot’s detached manner, ‘you’ve got to admit that those prints were made by someone who was in the house that night?’

      ‘Bien entendu,’ said Poirot, nodding his head.

      ‘Well, I’ve taken the prints of every member of the household, everyone, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.’

      I don’t think Mrs Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

      ‘Everyone’s,’ repeated the inspector fussily.

      ‘Including mine,’ I said drily.

      ‘Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about. When we get hold of those two-’

      ‘Much valuable time may have been lost,’ broke in Poirot.

      ‘I don’t quite get you, Mr Poirot.’

      ‘You have taken the prints of everyone in the house, you say,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M. l’Inspecteur?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘Without overlooking anyone?’

      ‘Without overlooking anyone.’

      ‘The quick or the dead?’

      For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.

      ‘You mean-?’

      ‘The dead, M. l’Inspecteur.’

      The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.

      ‘I am suggesting,’ said Poirot placidly, ‘that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. his body is still available.’

      ‘But

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