Poirot took the words out of his mouth.

 

“Just so, Major Ellerby. Major Ellerby was addicted to drugs, was he not? You

traveled 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