“But to do that he would have to know the way. How can I explain myself?—it would mean that he had been here before—that he knew his surroundings.”
“That is true,” replied Colonel Melrose.
“We could find out, doubtless, if Mr. Ackroyd had received any strangers during the past week?”
“Young Raymond could tell us that,” I said.
“Or Parker,” suggested Colonel Melrose.
“Ou tous les deux,” suggested Poirot, smiling.
Colonel Melrose went in search of Raymond, and I rang the bell once more for Parker.
Colonel Melrose returned almost immediately, accompanied by the young secretary, whom he introduced to Poirot. Geoffrey Raymond was fresh and debonair as ever. He seemed surprised and delighted to make Poirot’s acquaintance.
“No idea you’d been living among us incognito, M. Poirot,” he said. “It will be a great privilege to watch you at work—Hallo, what’s this?”
Poirot had been standing just to the left of the door. Now he moved aside suddenly, and I saw that while my back was turned he must have swiftly drawn out the armchair till it stood in the position Parker had indicated.
“Want me to sit in the chair whilst you take a blood test?” asked Raymond good-humouredly. “What’s the idea?”
“M. Raymond, this chair was pulled out—so—last night when Mr. Ackroyd was found killed. Someone moved it back again into place. Did you do so?”
The secretary’s reply came without a second’s hesitation. “No, indeed I didn’t. I don’t even remember that it was in that position, but it must have been if you say so. Anyway, somebody else must have moved it back to its proper place. Have they destroyed a clue in doing so? Too bad!”
“It is of no consequence,” said the detective. “Of no consequence whatever. What I really want to ask you is this, M. Raymond: Did any stranger come to see Mr. Ackroyd during this past week?”
The secretary reflected for a minute or two, knitting his brows, and during the pause Parker appeared in answer to the bell.
“No,” said Raymond at last. “I can’t remember anyone. Can you, Parker?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Any stranger coming to see Mr. Ackroyd this week?”
The butler reflected for a minute or two. “There was the young man who came on Wednesday, sir,” he said at last. “From Curtis and Troute, I understood he was.”
Raymond moved this aside with an impatient hand. “Oh! yes, I remember, but that is not the kind of stranger this gentleman means.” He turned to Poirot. “Mr. Ackroyd had some idea of purchasing a dictaphone,” he explained. “It would have enabled us to get through a lot more work in a limited time. The firm in question sent down their representative, but nothing came of it. Mr. Ackroyd did not make up his mind to purchase.”
Poirot turned to the butler. “Can you describe this young man to me, my good Parker?”
“He was fair-haired, sir, and short. Very neatly dressed in a blue serge suit. A very presentable young man, sir, for his station in life.”
Poirot turned to me. “The man you met outside the gate, doctor, was tall, was he not?”
“Yes,” I said. “Somewhere about six feet, I should say.”
“There is nothing in that, then,” declared the Belgian. “I thank you, Parker.”
The butler spoke to Raymond. “Mr. Hammond has just arrived, sir,” he said. “He is anxious to know if he can be of any service, and he would be glad to have a word with you.”
“I’ll come at once,” said the young man. He hurried out.
Poirot looked inquiringly at the chief constable.
“The family solicitor, M. Poirot,” said the latter.
“It is a busy time for this young M. Raymond,” murmured M. Poirot. “He has the air efficient, that one.”
“I believe Mr. Ackroyd considered him a most able secretary.”
“He has been here—how long?”
“Just on two years, I fancy.”
“His duties he fulfils punctiliously. Of that I am sure. In what manner does he amuse himself? Does he go in for le sport?”
“Private secretaries haven’t much time for that sort of thing,” said Colonel Melrose, smiling. “Raymond plays golf, I believe. And tennis in the summer time.”
“He does not attend the courses—I should say the running of the horses?”
“Race meetings? No, I don’t think he’s interested in racing.”
Poirot nodded and seemed to lose interest. He glanced slowly round the study.
“I have seen, I think, all that there is to be seen here.”
I, too, looked round. “If those walls could speak,” I murmured.
Poirot shook his head. “A tongue is not enough,” he said. “They would have to have also eyes and ears. But do not be too sure that these dead things”—he touched the top of the bookcase as he spoke—“are always dumb. To me they speak sometimes—chairs, tables—they have their message!”
He turned away towards the door.
“What message?” I cried. “What have they said to you today?”
He looked over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow quizzically. “An opened window,” he said. “A locked door. A chair that apparently moved itself. To all three I say, ‘Why?’ and I find no answer.”
He shook his head, puffed out his chest, and stood blinking at us. He looked ridiculously full of his own importance. It crossed my mind to wonder whether he was really any good as a detective. Had his big reputation been built up on a series of lucky chances?
I think the same thought must have occurred to Colonel Melrose, for he frowned.
“Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?” he inquired brusquely.
“You would perhaps be so kind as to show me the silver table from which the weapon was taken? After that, I will trespass on your kindness no longer.”
We went to the drawing room, but on the way the constable waylaid the colonel, and after a muttered conversation the latter excused himself and left us together. I showed Poirot the silver table, and after raising the lid once or twice and letting it fall, he pushed open the window and stepped out on the terrace. I followed him.
Inspector Raglan
