Murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie [89]
“You know it already,” said Ralph. “There’s very little for me to tell. I left the summerhouse about nine forty-five, and tramped about the lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to take. I’m bound to admit that I’ve not the shadow of an alibi, but I give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I’d like all of you to believe me.”
“No alibi,” murmured Raymond. “That’s bad. I believe you, of course, but—it’s a bad business.”
“It makes things very simple, though,” said Poirot, in a cheerful voice. “Very simple indeed.”
We all stared at him.
“You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real criminal must confess.”
He beamed round at us all.
“But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him tonight.”
He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality changed. He suddenly became dangerous.
“I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr. Ackroyd is in this room now. It is to the murderer I speak. Tomorrow the truth goes to Inspector Raglan. You understand?”
There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open.
Blunt’s voice rose abrupt and resonant.
“The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know—which?”
Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand.
“I know—now.”
He tapped the crumpled ball of paper.
“What is that?” said Raymond sharply.
“A wireless message—from a steamer now on her way to the United States.”
There was a dead silence. Poirot rose to his feet bowing.
“Messieurs et Mesdames, this reunion of mine is at an end. Remember—the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning.”
Twenty-five
THE WHOLE TRUTH
A slight gesture from Poirot enjoined me to stay behind the rest. I obeyed, going over to the fire and thoughtfully stirring the big logs on it with the toe of my boot.
I was puzzled. For the first time I was absolutely at sea as to Poirot’s meaning. For a moment I was inclined to think that the scene I had just witnessed was a gigantic piece of bombast—that he had been what he called “playing the comedy” with a view to making himself interesting and important. But, in spite of myself, I was forced to believe in an underlying reality. There had been real menace in his words—a certain indisputable sincerity. But I still believed him to be on entirely the wrong tack.
When the door shut behind the last of the party he came over to the fire.
“Well, my friend,” he said quietly, “and what do you think of it all?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said frankly. “What was the point? Why not go straight to Inspector Raglan with the truth instead of giving the guilty person this elaborate warning?”
Poirot sat down and drew out his case of tiny Russian cigarettes. He smoked for a minute or two in silence. Then:
“Use your little grey cells,” he said. “There is always a reason behind my actions.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then I said slowly:
“The first one that occurs to me is that you yourself do not know who the guilty person is, but that you are sure that he is to be found amongst the people here tonight. Therefore your words were intended to force a confession from the unknown murderer?”
Poirot nodded approvingly.
“A clever idea, but not the truth.”
“I thought, perhaps, that by making him believe you knew, you might force him out into the open—not necessarily by confession. He might try to silence you as he formerly silenced Mr. Ackroyd—before you could act tomorrow morning.”
“A trap with myself as the bait! Merci, mon ami, but I am not sufficiently heroic for that.”
“Then I fail to understand you. Surely you are running the risk of letting the murderer escape by thus putting him on his guard?”
Poirot shook his head.
“He cannot escape,” he said gravely. “There is only one way out—and that way does not