Murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie [67]
He was silent for a moment. It was as though he had laid a spell upon the room. I cannot try to describe the impression his words produced. There was something in the merciless analysis, and the ruthless power of vision which struck fear into both of us.
“Afterwards,” he went on softly, “the dagger removed, he will be himself again, normal, kindly. But if the need again arises, then once more he will strike.”
Caroline roused herself at last.
“You are speaking of Ralph Paton,” she said. “You may be right, you may not, but you have no business to condemn a man unheard.”
The telephone bell rang sharply. I went out into the hall, and took off the receiver.
“What?” I said. “Yes. Dr. Sheppard speaking.”
I listened for a minute or two, then replied briefly. Replacing the receiver, I went back into the drawing room.
“Poirot,” I said, “they have detained a man at Liverpool. His name is Charles Kent, and he is believed to be the stranger who visited Fernly that night. They want me to go to Liverpool at once and identify him.”
Eighteen
CHARLES KENT
Half an hour later saw Poirot, myself, and Inspector Raglan in the train on the way to Liverpool. The inspector was clearly very excited.
“We may get a line on the blackmailing part of the business, if on nothing else,” he declared jubilantly. “He’s a rough customer, this fellow, by what I heard over the phone. Takes dope, too. We ought to find it easy to get what we want out of him. If there was the shadow of a motive, nothing’s more likely than that he killed Mr. Ackroyd. But in that case, why is young Paton keeping out of the way. The whole thing’s a muddle—that’s what it is. By the way, M. Poirot, you were quite right about those fingerprints. They were Mr. Ackroyd’s own. I had rather the same idea myself, but I dismissed it as hardly feasible.”
I smiled to myself. Inspector Raglan was so very plainly saving his face.
“As regard this man,” said Poirot, “he is not yet arrested, eh?”
“No, detained under suspicion.”
“And what account does he give of himself?”
“Precious little,” said the inspector, with a grin. “He’s a wary bird, I gather. A lot of abuse, but very little more.”
On arrival at Liverpool I was surprised to find that Poirot was welcomed with acclamation. Superintendent Hayes, who met us, had worked with Poirot over some case long ago, and had evidently an exaggerated opinion of his powers.
“Now we’ve got M. Poirot here we shan’t be long,” he said cheerfully. “I thought you’d retired, moosior?”
“So I had, my good Hayes, so I had. But how tedious is retirement! You cannot imagine to yourself the monotony with which day comes after day.”
“Very likely. So you’ve come to have a look at our own particular find? Is this Dr. Sheppard? Think you’ll be able to identify him, sir?”
“I’m not very sure,” I said doubtfully.
“How did you get hold of him?” inquired Poirot.
“Description was circulated, as you know. In the press and privately. Not much to go on, I admit. This fellow has an American accent all right, and he doesn’t deny that he was near King’s Abbot that night. Just asks what the hell it is to do with us, and that he’ll see us in—before he answers any questions.”
“Is it permitted that I, too, see him?” asked Poirot.
The superintendent closed one eye knowingly.
“Very glad to have you, sir. You’ve got permission to do