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

genuinely believes it was Ackroyd himself who was the victim of blackmail. If so, he knows nothing at all about the Mrs. Ferrars business.”

“Then in that case⁠—who⁠—”

“Précisément! Who? But our visit to M. Hammond will accomplish one purpose. It will either clear Parker completely or else⁠—”

“Well?”

“I fall into the bad habit of leaving my sentences unfinished this morning,” said Poirot apologetically. “You must bear with me.”

“By the way,” I said, rather sheepishly, “I’ve got a confession to make. I’m afraid I have inadvertently let out something about that ring.”

“What ring?”

“The ring you found in the goldfish pond.”

“Ah! yes,” said Poirot, smiling broadly.

“I hope you’re not annoyed? It was very careless of me.”

“But not at all, my good friend, not at all. I laid no commands upon you. You were at liberty to speak of it if you so wished. She was interested, your sister?”

“She was indeed. It created a sensation. All sorts of theories are flying about.”

“Ah! And yet it is so simple. The true explanation leapt to the eye, did it not?”

“Did it?” I said drily.

Poirot laughed. “The wise man does not commit himself,” he observed. “Is not that so? But here we are at Mr. Hammond’s.”

The lawyer was in his office, and we were ushered in without any delay. He rose and greeted us in his dry, precise manner.

Poirot came at once to the point. “Monsieur, I desire from you certain information, that is, if you will be so good as to give it to me. You acted, I understand, for the late Mrs. Ferrars of King’s Paddock?”

I noticed the swift gleam of surprise which showed in the lawyer’s eyes, before his professional reserve came down once more like a mask over his face.

“Certainly. All her affairs passed through our hands.”

“Very good. Now, before I ask you to tell me anything, I should like you to listen to the story Dr. Sheppard will relate to you. You have no objection, have you, my friend, to repeating the conversation you had with Mr. Ackroyd last Friday night?”

“Not in the least,” I said, and straightway began the recital of that strange evening.

Hammond listened with close attention.

“That is all,” I said, when I had finished.

“Blackmail,” said the lawyer thoughtfully.

“You are surprised?” asked Poirot.

The lawyer took off his pince-nez and polished them with his handkerchief.

“No,” he replied, “I can hardly say that I am surprised. I have suspected something of the kind for some time.”

“That brings us,” said Poirot, “to the information for which I am asking. If anyone can give us an idea of the actual sums paid, you are the man, monsieur.”

“I see no object in withholding the information,” said Hammond, after a moment or two. “During the past year, Mrs. Ferrars has sold out certain securities, and the money for them was paid into her account and not reinvested. As her income was a large one, and she lived very quietly after her husband’s death, it seems certain that these sums of money were paid away for some special purpose. I once sounded her on the subject, and she said that she was obliged to support several of her husband’s poor relations. I let the matter drop, of course. Until now, I have always imagined that the money was paid to some woman who had had a claim on Ashley Ferrars. I never dreamed that Mrs. Ferrars herself was involved.”

“And the amount?” asked Poirot.

“In all, I should say the various sums totalled at least twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” I exclaimed. “In one year!”

“Mrs. Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,” said Poirot drily. “And the penalty for murder is not a pleasant one.”

“Is there anything else that I can tell you?” inquired Mr. Hammond.

“I thank you, no,” said Poirot, rising. “All my excuses for having deranged you.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

“The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “is applicable to mental disorder only.”

“Ah!” cried Poirot, “never will my English be quite perfect. A curious language. I should then have said disarranged, n’est-ce pas?”

“Disturbed is the word you had in mind.”

“I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. Eh bien, what about our friend Parker now? With twenty thousand pounds in hand, would he have continued being a butler? Je ne pense pas. It is, of course, possible that he banked the money under another name, but I am disposed to believe he spoke the truth to us. If he is a scoundrel, he is a scoundrel on a mean scale. He has not the big ideas. That leaves us as a possibility, Raymond, or⁠—well⁠—Major Blunt.”

“Surely not Raymond,” I objected. “Since we know that he was desperately hard up for a matter of five hundred pounds.”

“That is what he says, yes.”

“And as to Hector Blunt⁠—”

“I will tell you something as to the good Major Blunt,” interrupted Poirot. “It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. Eh bien⁠—that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount of it was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think of that?”

I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak.

“It’s impossible,” I said at last. “A well-known man like Hector Blunt.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that I hardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility that you have not even considered.”

“What is that?”

“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter, blue envelope and all, after you left him.”

“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet⁠—of course, it may be so. He might have changed his mind.”

We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.

I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one’s womenfolk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch⁠—the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are productive