‘Everyone’s,’ repeated the inspector fussily.
‘Including mine,’ I said drily.
‘Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about. When we get hold of those two-’
‘Much valuable time may have been lost,’ broke in Poirot.
‘I don’t quite get you, Mr Poirot.’
‘You have taken the prints of everyone in the house, you say,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M. l’Inspecteur?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Without overlooking anyone?’
‘Without overlooking anyone.’
‘The quick or the dead?’
For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.
‘You mean-?’
‘The dead, M. l’Inspecteur.’
The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.
‘I am suggesting,’ said Poirot placidly, ‘that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. his body is still available.’
‘But why? What would be the point of it? you’re surely not suggesting suicide, Mr Poirot?’
‘Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.’
‘But why?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.
‘To make a confusing case even more confusing.’
‘Well,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll look into it. What gave you the idea in the first place?’
‘When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls – see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.’
Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.
‘Well,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, but don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.’
He endeavoured to make his tone kindly and patronizing. Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.
‘Another time,’ he observed, ‘I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?’