The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie [accelerated reader books TXT] 📗

at twelve o’clock. He should await us there at this very minute.”

“What do you think?” I ventured, glancing sideways at his face.

“I know this⁠—that I am not satisfied.”

“You think that it was he who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars?”

“Either that, or⁠—”

“Well?” I said, after waiting a minute or two.

“My friend, I will say this to you⁠—I hope it was he.”

The gravity of his manner, and something indefinable that tinged it, reduced me to silence.

On arrival at The Larches, we were informed that Parker was already there awaiting our return. As we entered the room, the butler rose respectfully.

“Good morning, Parker,” said Poirot pleasantly. “One instant, I pray of you.”

He removed his overcoat and gloves.

“Allow me, sir,” said Parker, and sprang forward to assist him. He deposited the articles neatly on a chair by the door.

Poirot watched him with approval.

“Thank you, my good Parker,” he said. “Take a seat, will you not? What I have to say may take some time.”

Parker seated himself with an apologetic bend of the head.

“Now what do you think I asked you to come here for this morning⁠—eh?”

Parker coughed. “I understood, sir, that you wished to ask me a few questions about my late master⁠—private like.”

“Précisément,” said Poirot, beaming. “Have you made many experiments in blackmail?”

“Sir!” The butler sprang to his feet.

“Do not excite yourself,” said Poirot placidly. “Do not play the farce of the honest, injured man. You know all there is to know about the blackmail, is it not so?”

“Sir, I⁠—I’ve never⁠—never been⁠—”

“Insulted,” suggested Poirot, “in such a way before. Then why, my excellent Parker, were you so anxious to overhear the conversation in Mr. Ackroyd’s study the other evening, after you had caught the word blackmail?”

“I wasn’t⁠—I⁠—”

“Who was your last master?” rapped out Poirot suddenly.

“My last master?”

“Yes, the master you were with before you came to Mr. Ackroyd.”

“A Major Ellerby, sir⁠—”

Poirot took the words out of his mouth. “Just so. Major Ellerby. Major Ellerby was addicted to drugs, was he not? You travelled about with him. When he was in Bermuda there was some trouble⁠—a man was killed. Major Ellerby was partly responsible. It was hushed up. But you knew about it. How much did Major Ellerby pay you to keep your mouth shut?”

Parker was staring at him open-mouthed. The man had gone to pieces, his cheeks shook flabbily.

“You see, me, I have made inquiries,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It is as I say. You got a good sum then as blackmail, and Major Ellerby went on paying you until he died. Now I want to hear about your latest experiment.”

Parker still stared.

“It is useless to deny. Hercule Poirot knows. It is so, what I have said about Major Ellerby, is it not?”

As though against his will, Parker nodded reluctantly once. His face was ashen pale. “But I never hurt a hair of Mr. Ackroyd’s head,” he moaned. “Honest to God, sir, I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of this coming all the time. And I tell you I didn’t⁠—I didn’t kill him.”

His voice rose almost to a scream.

“I am inclined to believe you, my friend,” said Poirot. “You have not the nerve⁠—the courage. But I must have the truth.”

“I’ll tell you anything, sir, anything you want to know. It’s true that I tried to listen that night. A word or two I heard made me curious. And Mr. Ackroyd’s wanting not to be disturbed, and shutting himself up with the doctor the way he did. It’s God’s own truth what I told the police. I heard the word blackmail, sir, and well⁠—”

He paused.

“You thought there might be something in it for you?” suggested Poirot smoothly.

“Well⁠—well, yes, I did, sir. I thought that if Mr. Ackroyd was being blackmailed, why shouldn’t I have a share of the pickings?”

A very curious expression passed over Poirot’s face. He leaned forward.

“Had you any reason to suppose before that night that Mr. Ackroyd was being blackmailed?”

“No, indeed, sir. It was a great surprise to me. Such a regular gentleman in all his habits.”

“How much did you overhear?”

“Not very much, sir. There seemed what I might call a spite against me. Of course I had to attend to my duties in the pantry. And when I did creep along once or twice to the study it was no use. The first time Dr. Sheppard came out and almost caught me in the act, and another time Mr. Raymond passed me in the big hall and went that way, so I knew it was no use; and when I went with the tray, Miss Flora headed me off.”

Poirot stared for a long time at the man, as if to test his sincerity. Parker returned his gaze earnestly.

“I hope you believe me, sir. I’ve been afraid all along the police would rake up that old business with Major Ellerby and be suspicious of me in consequence.”

“Eh bien,” said Poirot at last. “I am disposed to believe you. But there is one thing I must request of you⁠—to show me your bankbook. You have a bankbook, I presume?”

“Yes, sir, as a matter of fact, I have it with me now.”

With no sign of confusion, he produced it from his pocket. Poirot took the slim, green-covered book and perused the entries.

“Ah! I perceive you have purchased £500 worth of National Savings Certificates this year?”

“Yes, sir. I have already over a thousand pounds saved⁠—the result of my connection with⁠—er⁠—my late master, Major Ellerby. And I have had quite a little flutter on some horses this year⁠—very successful. If you remember, sir, a rank outsider won the Jubilee. I was fortunate enough to back it⁠—£20.”

Poirot handed him back the book.

“I will wish you good morning. I believe that you have told me the truth. If you have not⁠—so much the worse for you, my friend.”

When Parker had departed, Poirot picked up his overcoat once more.

“Going out again?” I asked.

“Yes, we will pay a little visit to the good M. Hammond.”

“You believe Parker’s story?”

“It is credible enough on the face of it. It seems clear that unless he is a very good actor indeed⁠—he