“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.”