THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
Inspector Raglan had just turned the corner of the house, and was coming towards us. His face looked grim and satisfied.
"So there you are, M. Poirot," he said. "Well, this isn't going to be much of a case. I'm sorry, too. A nice enough young fellow gone wrong."
Poirot's face fell, and he spoke very mildly.
"I'm afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?"
"Next time, perhaps," said the inspector soothingly. "Though we don't have murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world."
Poirot's gaze took on an admiring quality.
"You have been of a marvelous promptness," he observed. "How exactly did you go to work, if I may ask?"
"Certainly," said the inspector. "To begin with—method. That's what I always say—method!"
"Ah!" cried the other. "That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and the little gray cells."
"The cells?" said the inspector, staring.
"The little gray cells of the brain," explained the Belgian.
"Oh, of course; well, we all use them, I suppose."
"In a greater or lesser degree," murmured Poirot. "And there are, too, differences in quality. Then there is the psychology of a crime. One must study that."
"Ah!" said the inspector, "you've been bitten with all this psychoanalysis stuff? Now, I'm a plain man———"
[98]
