Half an hour later saw Poirot, myself, and Inspector¹ Raglan in the train on the way to Liverpool. The inspector was clearly very excited.

 

“We may get a line on the blackmailing² 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 motive³, 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 fingerprints⁴. 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 wary⁵ bird, I gather. A lot of abuse, but very little more.”

 

219

 

On arrival at Liverpool I was surprised to find that Poirot was welcomed with acclamation. Superintendent⁶ Hayes, who met us, had worked with Poirot over some case long ago, and had evidently an exaggerated opinion of his powers.

 

“Now we’ve got M. Poirot here we shan’t be long,” he said cheerfully. “I thought you’d retired⁷, moosior?”

 

“So I had, my good Hayes, so I had. But how tedious is

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