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nydus/The Murder of Roger AckroydPublic

A legendary Belgian detective comes out of retirement to investigate a friend’s murder.

Page 25 of 306
Table of Contents

III

“Yes?” I said encouragingly. For the moment the spirit of Caroline was strong within me.

“The study of human nature, monsieur!”

“Just so,” I said kindly.

Clearly a retired hairdresser. Who knows the secrets of human nature better than a hairdresser?

“Also, I had a friend⁠—a friend who for many years never left my side. Occasionally of an imbecility to make one afraid, nevertheless he was very dear to me. Figure to yourself that I miss even his stupidity. His naivete, his honest outlook, the pleasure of delighting and surprising him by my superior gifts⁠—all these I miss more than I can tell you.”

“He died?” I asked sympathetically.

“Not so. He lives and flourishes⁠—but on the other side of the world. He is now in the Argentine.”

“In the Argentine,” I said enviously. I have always wanted to go to South America. I sighed, and then looked up to find Mr. Porrott eyeing me sympathetically. He seemed an understanding little man.

“Will you go there, yes?” he asked.

I shook my head with a sigh. “I could have gone,” I said. “A year ago. But I was foolish and worse than foolish⁠—greedy. I risked the substance for the shadow.”

“I comprehend,” said Mr. Porrott. “You speculated?”

I nodded mournfully, but in spite of myself I felt secretly entertained. This ridiculous little man was so portentously solemn.

“Not the Porcupine Oilfields?” he asked suddenly.

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