CHAPTER XVIII

 

CHARLES KENT

 

Half an hour later saw Poirot, myself, and Inspector Raglan in the train on the

way to Liverpool. The inspector was clearly very excited.

 

“We may get a line on the blackmailing part of the business, if on nothing

else,” he declared jubilantly. “He’s a rough customer, this fellow, by what I

heard over the phone. Takes dope, too. We ought to find it easy to get what we

want out of him. If there was the shadow of a motive, nothing’s more likely than

that he killed Mr. Ackroyd. But in that case, why is young Paton keeping out of

the way? The whole thing’s a muddle—that’s what it is. By the way, M. Poirot,

you were quite right about those fingerprints. They were Mr. Ackroyd’s own. I

had rather the same idea myself, but I dismissed it as hardly feasible.”

 

I smiled to myself. Inspector Raglan was so very plainly saving his face.

 

“As regards this man,” said Poirot, “he is not yet arrested, eh?”

 

“No, detained under suspicion.”

 

“And what account does he give of himself?”

 

“Precious little,” said the inspector, with a grin. “He’s a wary bird, I gather.