“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 kitchen maid.”
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 why? What would be the point of it? You’re surely not suggesting suicide, Mr. Poirot?”
“Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.”
“But why?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.
“To make a confusing case even more confusing.”
“Well,” said the inspector. “I’ll look into it. What gave you the idea in the first place?”
“When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls—see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.”
Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.
“Well,” said the inspector. “It’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, but don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”
He endeavoured to make his tone kindly and patronising. Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.
“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?”
The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later. We sat round the table in the dining room at Fernly—Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs. Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.
When everyone was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.
“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.” He paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.”
“To me?” said Flora.
“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If anyone is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. One little minute”—as Flora raised her head to speak—“say nothing till you have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence—this flight—what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt. Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to come forward before it is too late.”
Flora’s face had gone very white.
“Too late!” she repeated, very low.
Poirot leant forward, looking at her.
“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirot who asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not trust me—and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?”
The girl rose and stood facing him.
“M. Poirot,” she said in a clear voice, “I swear to you—swear solemnly—that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of—of the murder, or since.”
She sat down again. Poirot gazed at
