Roger Mystery

Chapter 16 Inspector Raglan is confident (2)
"Cell?" The inspector rolled his eyes.

"Little gray cells in the brain," explained the Belgian.

"Oh, sure. Well, I think we'll all have to use them."

"The degree varies," said Poirot in a low voice, "and the quality also varies. The next step is criminal psychology, which must be studied."

"Ah!" said the Inspector, "you're really into that thing about psychology? I'm just an ordinary man—"

"Mrs. Raglan would certainly disagree with that." Poirot bowed slightly.

Inspector Raglan was taken aback, and bowed back.

"You don't understand," he smiled. "My God, everyone's understanding of the same sentence is so different. I'm showing you the tricks of handling a case. First of all, I will talk about the method. The last person who saw Mr. Ackroyd alive was Miss Flora Ackroyd, it's nine forty-five. That's the first fact, isn't it?"

"you can say it this way."

"Then it is certain. At 10:30 the doctor said Mr. Ackroyd had been dead for at least half an hour. Are you sure, doctor?"

"Of course," I said, "half an hour or more."

"Very good. From this, it can be seen that the time of committing the crime can be accurate to within 15 minutes. I made a list, including everyone in the family, and checked them one by one; put their names, they worked from 45:[-] to [-] o'clock in the evening I wrote down where and what I did during the whole time."

He handed Poirot a form.I leaned behind Poirot to watch together.The clear handwriting records are as follows:

Major Brant: In the pool room, with Mr. Raymond. (The latter proves.)
Mr. Raymond: The pool room. (See above.)
Mrs. Ackroyd: Watching pool at nine forty-five.Go to bed at 45:55. (Raymond and Brant see her go upstairs.)
Miss Ackroyd: Straight upstairs from her uncle's room. (Parker and maid Elsie Dale can testify.)
servants

Parker: Go straight to the pantry. (Miss Russell, the housekeeper, can testify that at 47:10 she came down to discuss matters with him for at least ten minutes.)
Miss Russell: See above.Spoken upstairs to maid Elsie Dale at 45:[-].

Ursula Byrne (parlourmaid): In her room until 55:[-], then in the servants' hall.

Mrs. Cooper (cook): In the servants' hall.

Gladys Jones (another maid): In the servants' hall.

Elsie Dale: In the upstairs bedroom.Both Miss Russell and Miss Flora Ackroyd had seen her.

Mary Sleep (cookmaid): In the servants' hall.

"The cook has been here for seven years, the maid in the living room has been here for eighteen months, Parker has been here for a little more than a year, and the others are all newcomers. Except for Parker who is suspicious, the other servants seem to be quite honest."

"A very exhaustive list," said Poirot, returning the form to him. "I'm sure Parker is not the murderer," he added earnestly.

"My sister feels the same way," I interjected, "and she's always right." But no one took my interruption seriously.

"That effectively ruled out the possibility of any members of the family committing the crime," continued the Inspector. "Then comes the crucial question. The woman at the porter—Mary Blake—was drawing the curtains last night and saw Ralph Peyton came in through the gate and walked towards the mansion."

"Is she sure?" I asked quickly.

"Definitely. She recognized him right away. He flashed through the gate and turned into the path on the right—the shortcut to the terrace."

"What time is it?" Poirot sat up straight.

"Nine twenty-five, to be exact," said the inspector gravely.

All three were silent.Then the Inspector spoke again: "It's very obvious that the links are tightly linked. At nine twenty-five, Captain Paton was seen passing the porter; at about nine thirty, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond heard someone Asked Mr. Ackroyd for money inside the house and was refused. Then what? Captain Paton went the way he came—out the window. He was walking up and down the terrace, angry and annoyed. He came into the drawing room Outside the open window, let's say nine forty-five. Miss Flora Ackroyd bade her uncle good night. Major Brant, Mr. Raymond and Mrs. Aykroyd were in the billiard room. The drawing room was empty, He took the opportunity to take the short sword from the silver table, went back out of the study window, took off his shoes, climbed in, and--I won't describe the details. Then he fled, not having the guts to go back to the hotel, but went straight to the station, Made a phone call there—”

"Why?" asked Poirot softly.

I was taken aback by this sudden question.The little man was leaning forward, and his eyes were shining with a strange green light.

Inspector Raglan choked on the question for a moment.

"It's hard to say why," he concluded, "but killers do ridiculous things. If you've been a cop, even the smartest killers make stupid mistakes sometimes. Come here, and I'll show you those shoe prints."

We followed him around the terrace and out the study window.At Raglan's order, a constable brought out the pair of shoes found in the village inn.

The inspector put the shoe on the shoe print.

"It's a perfect fit," he said confidently. "It's not actually the shoe that left the imprint on it. He took that pair off. This pair is exactly the same as that pair, but older—see the rubber soles on the soles." Are the nails visibly worn?"

"But surely there are quite a few people with rubber studs on their soles?" asked Poirot.

"That's true," said the Inspector, "but I wouldn't stress the shoe prints if I had no other evidence to support it."

"Captain Ralph Paton must be an astoundingly stupid young man," Poirot mused, "to leave so much evidence, lest others may not know that he has been here."

"Ah, well," said the Inspector, "you know, last night was fine and dry, and he left no marks on the terraces and gravel paths. Unfortunately, however, the spring at the end of the path the last few days Welling out, spilling over the pavement. Look here."

A few feet away, a small gravel path leads to the patio.Just a few yards from the end, the ground was wet and somewhat muddy.There are some shoe prints in this wet area, including the traces of rubber spikes.

Poirot walked a part of the path, with the inspector at his side.

"Have you noticed a woman's shoe print here?" he asked suddenly.

The inspector laughed.

"Of course. But there are a few women who have walked this way—a few men, too. It's not uncommon to take this path to get into a house. We can't possibly make out all the shoe prints, because the ones on the windowsill are the ones that really matter. "

Poirot nodded.

"There's no need to go any further," said the Inspector, as the driveway came into view. "The front section is gravel again, and it's solid."

Poirot nodded again, but his eyes were fixed on a small house in a garden—a luxurious version of a gazebo, just in front of us, not far to the left of the path, and there was also a winding gravel path passing by.

Poirot lingered for a while, and when the inspector turned back towards the mansion, he gave me another wink.

"It must have been good God who sent you in the place of my friend Hastings," his eyes sparkled. "We hit it off, Dr. Sheppard. Go see that gazebo? It excites me." interest of."

He stepped forward and opened the door.The pavilion was dimly lit, and furnished with a crude rustic chair or two, a croquet stand, and some deck-chairs.

I looked at this new friend in surprise, and saw him crawling around on the ground with his hands and feet, shaking his head from time to time, as if he was not satisfied, and finally he simply knelt down on his calf.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Well, maybe it shouldn't have been hoped for. But it could have meant something—"

He stopped suddenly and froze there.Then he reached for a chair and pulled something out of the side.

"What's that?" I cried. "What did you find?"

He smiled and let go of his hand, and let me see what was in his palm, which turned out to be a small piece of starched white silk.

"What do you think this could be, er, my friend?" His piercing eyes looked straight at me.

"Shards from a handkerchief." I shrugged.

Suddenly he stretched out his hand again and picked up a small quill—from the appearance, it seemed to be a goose quill.

"What is this?" he exclaimed triumphantly. "What do you think?"

I could only stare at him.

He put the quill into his pocket, and looked at the piece of white silk again.

"Fragments of a handkerchief?" he mused. "Perhaps you're right. But remember—good laundromats don't starch handkerchiefs."

He nodded to me proudly, and carefully put the piece of silk into the notebook.

(End of this chapter)