“It makes things very simple, though,” said Poirot, in a cheerful voice. “Very simple indeed.”
We all stared at him.
“You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real criminal must confess.”
He beamed round at us all.
“But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him tonight.”
He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality changed. He suddenly became dangerous.
“I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr. Ackroyd is in this room now. It is to the murderer I speak. Tomorrow the truth goes to Inspector Raglan. You understand?”
There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open.
Blunt’s voice rose abrupt and resonant.
“The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know—which?”
Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand.
“I know—now.”
He tapped the crumpled ball of paper.
“What is that?” said Raymond sharply.