THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
I looked round the small lobby and picked up a heavy oak chair. Parker and I held it between us and advanced to the assault. Once, twice, and three times we hurled it against the lock. At the third blow it gave, and we staggered into the room.
Ackroyd was sitting as I had left him in the arm-chair before the fire. His head had fallen sideways, and clearly visible, just below the collar of his coat, was a shining piece of twisted metalwork.
Parker and I advanced till we stood over the recumbent figure. I heard the butler draw in his breath with a sharp hiss.
“Stabbed from be’ind,” he murmured. "’Orrible!”
He wiped his moist brow with his handkerchief, then stretched out a hand gingerly towards the hilt of the dagger.
“You musn’t touch that,” I said sharply. “Go at once to the telephone and ring up the police station. Inform them of what has happened. Then tell Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt.”
“Very good, sir.”
Parker hurried away, still wiping his perspiring brow.
I did what little had to be done. I was careful not to disturb the position of the body, and not to handle the dagger at all. No object was to be attained by moving it. Ackroyd had clearly been dead some little time.
Then I heard young Raymond’s voice, horror-stricken and incredulous, outside.
“What do you say? Oh! impossible! Where’s the doctor?”
[52]
