THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
"I want you to come to The Larches with me."
"The Larches?" I queried, surprised.
"To see that funny little man?" exclaimed Caroline.
"Yes. You know who he is, don't you?"
"We fancied," I said, "that he might be a retired hairdresser."
Flora's blue eyes opened very wide.
"Why, he's Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean—the private detective. They say he's done the most wonderful things—just like detectives do in books. A year ago he retired and came to live down here. Uncle knew who he was, but he promised not to tell any one, because M. Poirot wanted to live quietly without being bothered by people."
"So that's who he is," I said slowly.
"You've heard of him, of course?"
"I'm rather an old fogey, as Caroline tells me," I said, "but I have just heard of him."
"Extraordinary!" commented Caroline.
I don't know what she was referring to—possibly her own failure to discover the truth.
"You want to go and see him?" I asked slowly. "Now why?"
"To get him to investigate this murder, of course," said Caroline sharply. "Don't be so stupid, James."
I was not really being stupid. Caroline does not always understand what I am driving at.
"You haven't got confidence in Inspector Davis?" I went on.
[76]
