THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
“Roger hadn’t an enemy in the world,” said Blunt quietly. “Must have been burglars. But what was the thief after? Nothing seems to be disarranged?”
He looked round the room. Raymond was still sorting the papers on the desk.
“There seems nothing missing, and none of the drawers show signs of having been tampered with,” the secretary observed at last. “It’s very mysterious.”
Blunt made a slight motion with his head.
“There are some letters on the floor here,” he said.
I looked down. Three or four letters still lay where Ackroyd had dropped them earlier in the evening.
But the blue envelope containing Mrs. Ferrars’s letter had disappeared. I half opened my mouth to speak, but at that moment the sound of a bell pealed through the house. There was a confused murmur of voices in the hall, and then Parker appeared with our local inspector and a police constable.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the inspector. “I'm terribly sorry for this! A good kind gentleman like Mr. Ackroyd. The butler says it is murder. No possibility of accident or suicide, doctor?”
“None whatever,” I said.
“Ah! A bad business.”
He came and stood over the body.
“Been moved at all?’’ he asked sharply.
“Beyond making certain that life was extinct—an easy matter—I have not disturbed the body in any way.”
“Ah! And everything points to the murderer having
[54]
