CHAPTER XXIV

RALPH PATON’S STORY

It was a very uncomfortable minute for _me_. I hardly took in what

happened next, but there were exclamations and cries of surprise! When

I was sufficiently master of myself to be able to realize what was

going on, Ralph Paton was standing by his wife, her hand in his, and he

was smiling across the room at me.

Poirot, too, was smiling, and at the same time shaking an eloquent

finger at me.

“Have I not told you at least thirty-six times that it is useless to

conceal things from Hercule Poirot?” he demanded. “That in such a case

he finds out?”

He turned to the others.

“One day, you remember, we held a little séance about a table—just

the six of us. I accused the other five persons present of concealing

something from me. Four of them gave up their secret. Dr. Sheppard did

not give up his. But all along I have had my suspicions. Dr. Sheppard

went to the Three Boars that night hoping to find Ralph. He did not

find him there; but supposing, I said to myself, that he met him in the

street on his way home? Dr. Sheppard was a friend of Captain Paton’s,

and he had come straight from the scene of the crime. He must know that

things looked very black against him. Perhaps he knew more than the

general public did——”

“I did,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I might as well make a clean

breast of things now. I went to see Ralph that afternoon. At first he

refused to take me into his confidence, but later he told me about his

marriage, and the hole he was in. As soon as the murder was discovered,

I realized that once the facts were known, suspicion could not fail to

attach to Ralph—or, if not to him, to the girl he loved. That night I

put the facts plainly before him. The thought of having possibly to

give evidence which might incriminate his wife made him resolve at all

costs to—to——”

I hesitated, and Ralph filled up the gap.

“To do a bunk,” he said graphically. “You see, Ursula left me to go

back to the house. I thought it possible that she might have attempted

to have another interview with my stepfather. He had already been very

rude to her that afternoon. It occurred to me that he might have so

insulted her—in such an unforgivable manner—that without knowing what

she was doing——”

He stopped. Ursula released her hand from his, and stepped back.

“You thought that, Ralph! You actually thought that I might have done

it?”

“Let us get back to the culpable conduct of Dr. Sheppard,” said Poirot

dryly. “Dr. Sheppard consented to do what he could to help him. He was

successful in hiding Captain Paton from the police.”

“Where?” asked Raymond. “In his own house?”

“Ah, no, indeed,” said Poirot. “You should ask yourself the question

that I did. If the good doctor is concealing the young man, what place

would he choose? It must necessarily be somewhere near at hand. I think

of Cranchester. A hotel? No. Lodgings? Even more emphatically, no.

Where, then? Ah! I have it. A nursing home. A home for the mentally

unfit. I test my theory. I invent a nephew with mental trouble. I

consult Mademoiselle Sheppard as to suitable homes. She gives me the

names of two near Cranchester to which her brother has sent patients. I

make inquiries. Yes, at one of them a patient was brought there by the

doctor himself early on Saturday morning. That patient, though known

by another name, I had no difficulty in identifying as Captain Paton.

After certain necessary formalities, I was allowed to bring him away.

He arrived at my house in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

I looked at him ruefully.

“Caroline’s Home Office expert,” I murmured. “And to think I never

guessed!”

“You see now why I drew attention to the reticence of your manuscript,”

murmured Poirot. “It was strictly truthful as far as it went—but it did

not go very far, eh, my friend?”

I was too abashed to argue.

“Dr. Sheppard has been very loyal,” said Ralph. “He has stood by me

through thick and thin. He did what he thought was the best. I see now,

from what M. Poirot has told me, that it was not really the best. I

should have come forward and faced the music. You see, in the home, we

never saw a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on.”

“Dr. Sheppard has been a model of discretion,” said Poirot dryly. “But

me, I discover all the little secrets. It is my business.”

“Now we can have your story of what happened that night,” said Raymond

impatiently.

“You know it already,” said Ralph. “There’s very little for me to add.

I left the summer-house about nine-forty-five, and tramped about the

lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to

take. I’m bound to admit that I’ve not the shadow of an alibi, but I

give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never

saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I’d like

all of you to believe me.”

“No alibi,” murmured Raymond. “That’s bad. I believe you, of course,

but—it’s a bad business.”

“It makes things very simple, though,” said Poirot, in a cheerful

voice. “Very simple indeed.”

We all stared at him.

“You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real

criminal must confess.”

He beamed round at us all.

“But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan

to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all

that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him to-night.”

He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality

changed. He suddenly became dangerous.

“I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr. Ackroyd is in this

room now. It is to the murderer I speak. _To-morrow the truth goes to

Inspector Raglan._ You understand?”

There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton

woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open.

Blunt’s voice rose abrupt and resonant.

“The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know—which?”

Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand.

“I know—now.”

He tapped the crumpled ball of paper.

“What is that?” said Raymond sharply.

“A wireless message—from a steamer now on her way to the United States.”

There was a dead silence. Poirot rose to his feet bowing.

“Messieurs et Mesdames, this reunion of mine is at an end.

Remember—_the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning_.”