The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

He was rearranging a few objects on the table, setting them straight with precise fingers. His eyes were shining.

‘That’ll do,’ said the inspector.

Ursula Bourne disappeared. The inspector turned to Miss Russell.

‘How long has she been here? have you got a copy of the reference you had with her?’

Without answering the first question, Miss Russell moved to an adjacent bureau, opened one of the drawers, and took out a handful of letters clipped together with a patent fastener. She selected one and handed it to the inspector.

‘H’m,’ said he. ‘reads all right. Mrs Richard Folliott, Marby grange, Marby. Who’s this woman?’

‘Quite good country people,’ said Miss Russell.

‘Well,’ said the inspector, handing it back, ‘let’s have a look at the other one, Elsie Dale.’

Elsie Dale was a big fair girl, with a pleasant but slightly stupid face. She answered our questions readily enough, and showed much distress and concern at the loss of the money.

‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her,’ observed the inspector, after he had dismissed her.

‘What about Parker?’

Miss Russell pursed her lips together and made no reply.

‘I’ve a feeling there’s something wrong about that man,’ the inspector continued thoughtfully. ‘The trouble is that I don’t quite see when he got his opportunity. he’d be busy with his duties immediately after dinner, and he’d got a pretty good alibi all through the evening. I know, for I’ve been devoting particular attention to it.

Well, thank you very much, Miss russell. We’ll leave things as they are for the present. It’s highly probable Mr Ackroyd paid that money away himself.’

The housekeeper bade us a dry good afternoon, and we took our leave.

I left the house with Poirot.

‘I wonder,’ I said, breaking the silence, ‘what the papers the girl disarranged could have been for Ackroyd to have got into such a state about them? I wonder if there is any clue there to the mystery.

’

‘The secretary said there were no papers of particular importance on the desk,’ said Poirot quietly.

‘Yes, but-’ I paused.

‘It strikes you as odd that Ackroyd should have flown into a rage about so trivial a matter?’

‘Yes, it does rather.’

‘But was it a trivial matter?’

‘Of course,’ I admitted, ‘we don’t know what those papers may have been. But Raymond certainly said-’

‘Leave M. Raymond out of it for a minute.