AN EVENING AT MAH JONG

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. AN EVENING AT MAH JONG

CHAPTER XVI. AN EVENING AT MAH JONG

That night we had a little Mah Jong party. This kind of simple entertainment is very popular in King’s Abbot. The guests arrive in goloshes and waterproofs after dinner. They partake of coffee and later of cake, sandwiches, and tea.

On this particular night our guests were Miss Ganett and Colonel Carter, who lives near the church. A good deal of gossip is handed round at these evenings, sometimes seriously interfering with the game in progress. We used to play bridge—chatty bridge of the worst description. We find Mah Jong much more peaceful. The irritated demand as to why on earth your partner did not lead a certain card is entirely done away with, and though we still express criticisms frankly, there is not the same acrimonious spirit.

“Very cold evening, eh, Sheppard?” said Colonel Carter, standing with his back to the fire. Caroline had taken Miss Ganett to her own room, and was there assisting her to disentangle herself from her many wraps. “Reminds me of the Afghan passes.”

“Indeed?” I said politely.

“Very mysterious business this about poor Ackroyd,” continued the colonel, accepting a cup of coffee. “A deuce of a lot behind it—that’s what I say. Between you and me, Sheppard, I’ve heard the word blackmail mentioned!”

The colonel gave me the look which might be tabulated “one man of the world to another.”

“A woman in it, no doubt,” he said. “Depend upon it, a woman in it.”

Caroline and Miss Ganett joined us at this minute. Miss Ganett drank coffee whilst Caroline got out the Mah Jong box and poured out the tiles upon the table.

“Washing the tiles,” said the colonel facetiously. “That’s right—washing the tiles, as we used to say in the Shanghai Club.”

It is the private opinion of both Caroline and myself that Colonel Carter has never been in the Shanghai Club in his life. More, that he has never been farther east than India, where he juggled with tins of bully beef and plum and apple jam during the Great War. But the colonel is determinedly military, and in King’s Abbot we permit people to indulge their little idiosyncrasies freely.

“Shall we begin?” said Caroline.

We sat round the table. For some five minutes there was complete silence, owing to the fact that there is tremendous secret competition amongst us as to who can build their wall quickest.

“Go on, James,” said Caroline at last. “You’re East Wind.”

I discarded a tile. A round or two proceeded, broken by the monotonous remarks of “Three Bamboos,” “Two Circles,” “Pung,” and frequently from Miss Ganett “Unpung,” owing to that lady’s habit of too hastily claiming tiles to which she had no right.

“I saw Flora Ackroyd this morning,” said Miss Ganett. “Pung—no—Unpung. I made a mistake.”

“Four Circles,” said Caroline. “Where did you see her?”

“She didn’t see me,” said Miss Ganett, with that tremendous significance only to be met with in small villages.

“Ah!” said Caroline interestedly. “Chow.”

“I believe,” said Miss Ganett, temporarily diverted, “that it’s the right thing nowadays to say ‘Chee’ not ‘Chow.’”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I have always said ‘Chow.’”

“In the Shanghai Club,” said Colonel Carter, “they say ‘Chow.’”

Miss Ganett retired, crushed.

“What were you saying about Flora Ackroyd?” asked Caroline, after a moment or two devoted to the game. “Was she with any one?”

“Very much so,” said Miss Ganett.

The eyes of the two ladies met, and seemed to exchange information.

“Really,” said Caroline interestedly. “Is that it? Well, it doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“We’re waiting for you to discard, Miss Caroline,” said the colonel. He sometimes affects the pose of the bluff male, intent on the game and indifferent to gossip. But nobody is deceived.

“If you ask me,” said Miss Ganett. (“Was that a Bamboo you discarded, dear? Oh! no, I see now—it was a Circle.) As I was saying, if you ask me, Flora’s been exceedingly lucky. Exceedingly lucky she’s been.”

“How’s that, Miss Ganett?” asked the colonel. “I’ll Pung that Green Dragon. How do you make out that Miss Flora’s been lucky? Very charming girl and all that, I know.”

“I mayn’t know very much about crime,” said Miss Ganett, with the air of one who knows everything there is to know, “but I can tell you one thing. The first question that’s always asked is ‘Who last saw the deceased alive?’ And the person who did is regarded with suspicion. Now, Flora Ackroyd last saw her uncle alive. It might have looked very nasty for her—very nasty indeed. It’s my opinion—and I give it for what it’s worth, that Ralph Paton is staying away on her account, to draw suspicion away from her.”

“Come, now,” I protested mildly, “you surely can’t suggest that a young girl like Flora Ackroyd is capable of stabbing her uncle in cold blood?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Ganett. “I’ve just been reading a book from the library about the underworld of Paris, and it says that some of the worst women criminals are young girls with the faces of angels.”

“That’s in France,” said Caroline instantly.

“Just so,” said the colonel. “Now, I’ll tell you a very curious thing—a story that was going round the Bazaars in India....”

The colonel’s story was one of interminable length, and of curiously little interest. A thing that happened in India many years ago cannot compare for a moment with an event that took place in King’s Abbot the day before yesterday.

It was Caroline who brought the colonel’s story to a close by fortunately going Mah Jong. After the slight unpleasantness always occasioned by my corrections of Caroline’s somewhat faulty arithmetic, we started a new hand.

“East Wind passes,” said Caroline. “I’ve got an idea of my own about Ralph Paton. Three Characters. But I’m keeping it to myself for the present.”

“Are you, dear?” said Miss Ganett. “Chow—I mean Pung.”

“Yes,” said Caroline firmly.

“Was it all right about the boots?” asked Miss Ganett. “Their being black, I mean?”

“Quite all right,” said Caroline.

“What was the point, do you think?” asked Miss Ganett.

Caroline pursed up her lips, and shook her head with an air of knowing all about it.

“Pung,” said Miss Ganett. “No—Unpung. I suppose that now the doctor’s in with M. Poirot he knows all the secrets?”

“Far from it,” I said.

“James is so modest,” said Caroline. “Ah! a concealed Kong.”

The colonel gave vent to a whistle. For the moment gossip was forgotten.

“Your own wind, too,” he said. “And you’ve got two Pungs of Dragons. We must be careful. Miss Caroline’s out for a big hand.”

We played for some minutes with no irrelevant conversation.

“This M. Poirot now,” said Colonel Carter, “is he really such a great detective?”

“The greatest the world has ever known,” said Caroline solemnly. “He had to come here incognito to avoid publicity.”

“Chow,” said Miss Ganett. “Quite wonderful for our little village, I’m sure. By the way, Clara—my maid, you know—is great friends with Elsie, the housemaid at Fernly, and what do you think Elsie told her? That there’s been a lot of money stolen, and it’s her opinion—Elsie’s—I mean, that the parlormaid had something to do with it. She’s leaving at the month, and she’s crying a good deal at night. If you ask me, the girl is very likely in league with a gang. She’s always been a queer girl—she’s not friends with any of the girls round here. She goes off by herself on her days out—very unnatural, I call it, and most suspicious. I asked her once to come to our Girls’ Friendly Evenings, but she refused, and then I asked her a few questions about her home and her family—all that sort of thing, and I’m bound to say I considered her manner most impertinent. Outwardly very respectful—but she shut me up in the most barefaced way.”

Miss Ganett stopped for breath, and the colonel, who was totally uninterested in the servant question, remarked that in the Shanghai Club brisk play was the invariable rule.

We had a round of brisk play.

“That Miss Russell,” said Caroline. “She came here pretending to consult James on Friday morning. It’s my opinion she wanted to see where the poisons were kept. Five Characters.”

“Chow,” said Miss Ganett. “What an extraordinary idea? I wonder if you can be right.”

“Talking of poisons,” said the colonel. “Eh—what? Haven’t I discarded? Oh! Eight Bamboos.”

“Mah Jong!” said Miss Ganett.

Caroline was very much annoyed.

“One Red Dragon,” she said regretfully, “and I should have had a hand of three doubles.”

“I’ve had two Red Dragons all the time,” I mentioned.

“So exactly like you, James,” said Caroline reproachfully. “You’ve no conception of the spirit of the game.”

I myself thought I had played rather cleverly. I should have had to pay Caroline an enormous amount if she had gone Mah Jong. Miss Ganett’s Mah Jong was of the poorest variety possible, as Caroline did not fail to point out to her.

East Wind passed, and we started a new hand in silence.

“What I was going to tell you just now was this,” said Caroline.

“Yes?” said Miss Ganett encouragingly.

“My idea about Ralph Paton, I mean.”

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Ganett, still more encouragingly. “Chow!”

“It’s a sign of weakness to Chow so early,” said Caroline severely. “You should go for a big hand.”

“I know,” said Miss Ganett. “You were saying—about Ralph Paton, you know?”

“Yes. Well, I’ve a pretty shrewd idea where he is.”

We all stopped to stare at her.

“This is very interesting, Miss Caroline,” said Colonel Carter. “All your own idea, eh?”

“Well, not exactly. I’ll tell you about it. You know that big map of the county we have in the hall?”

We all said Yes.

“As M. Poirot was going out the other day, he stopped and looked at it, and he made some remark—I can’t remember exactly what it was. Something about Cranchester being the only big town anywhere near us—which is true, of course. But after he had gone—it came to me suddenly.”

“What came to you?”

“His meaning. Of course Ralph is in Cranchester.”

It was at that moment that I knocked down the rack that held my pieces. My sister immediately reproved me for clumsiness, but half-heartedly. She was intent on her theory.

“Cranchester, Miss Caroline?” said Colonel Carter. “Surely not Cranchester! It’s so near.”

“That’s exactly it,” cried Caroline triumphantly. “It seems quite clear by now that he didn’t get away from here by train. He must simply have walked into Cranchester. And I believe he’s there still. No one would dream of his being so near at hand.”

I pointed out several objections to the theory, but when once Caroline has got something firmly into her head, nothing dislodges it.

“And you think M. Poirot has the same idea,” said Miss Ganett thoughtfully. “It’s a curious coincidence, but I was out for a walk this afternoon on the Cranchester road, and he passed me in a car coming from that direction.”

We all looked at each other.

“Why, dear me,” said Miss Ganett suddenly, “I’m Mah Jong all the time, and I never noticed it.”

Caroline’s attention was distracted from her own inventive exercises. She pointed out to Miss Ganett that a hand consisting of mixed suits and too many Chows was hardly worth going Mah Jong on. Miss Ganett listened imperturbably and collected her counters.

“Yes, dear, I know what you mean,” she said. “But it rather depends on what kind of a hand you have to start with, doesn’t it?”

“You’ll never get the big hands if you don’t go for them,” urged Caroline.

“Well, we must all play our own way, mustn’t we?” said Miss Ganett. She looked down at her counters. “After all, I’m up, so far.”

Caroline, who was considerably down, said nothing.

East Wind passed, and we set to once more. Annie brought in the tea things. Caroline and Miss Ganett were both slightly ruffled as is often the case during one of these festive evenings.

“If you would only play a leetle quicker, dear,” said Caroline, as Miss Ganett hesitated over her discard. “The Chinese put down the tiles so quickly it sounds like little birds pattering.”

For some few minutes we played like the Chinese.

“You haven’t contributed much to the sum of information, Sheppard,” said Colonel Carter genially. “You’re a sly dog. Hand in glove with the great detective, and not a hint as to the way things are going.”

“James is an extraordinary creature,” said Caroline. “He can not bring himself to part with information.”

She looked at me with some disfavor.

“I assure you,” I said, “that I don’t know anything. Poirot keeps his own counsel.”

“Wise man,” said the colonel with a chuckle. “He doesn’t give himself away. But they’re wonderful fellows, these foreign detectives. Up to all sorts of dodges, I believe.”

“Pung,” said Miss Ganett, in a tone of quiet triumph. “And Mah Jong.”

The situation became more strained. It was annoyance at Miss Ganett’s going Mah Jong for the third time running which prompted Caroline to say to me as we built a fresh wall:—

“You are too tiresome, James. You sit there like a dead head, and say nothing at all!”

“But, my dear,” I protested, “I have really nothing to say—that is, of the kind you mean.”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline, as she sorted her hand. “You must know something interesting.”

I did not answer for a moment. I was overwhelmed and intoxicated. I had read of there being such a thing as the Perfect Winning—going Mah Jong on one’s original hand. I had never hoped to hold the hand myself.

With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on the table.

“As they say in the Shanghai Club,” I remarked, “Tin-ho—the Perfect Winning!”

The colonel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Upon my soul,” he said. “What an extraordinary thing. I never saw that happen before!”

It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline’s gibes, and rendered reckless by my triumph.

“And as to anything interesting,” I said. “What about a gold wedding ring with a date and ‘From R.’ inside.”

I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactly where this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date.

“March 13th,” said Caroline. “Just six months ago. Ah!”

Out of the babel of excited suggestions and suppositions three theories were evolved:—

1. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly married to Flora. The first or most simple solution.

2. That of Miss Ganett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretly married to Mrs. Ferrars.

3. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married his housekeeper, Miss Russell.

A fourth or super-theory was propounded by Caroline later as we went up to bed.

“Mark my words,” she said suddenly, “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Geoffrey Raymond and Flora weren’t married.”

“Surely it would be ‘From G,’ not ‘From R’ then,” I suggested.

“You never know. Some girls call men by their surnames. And you heard what Miss Ganett said this evening—about Flora’s carryings on.”

Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Ganett say anything of the kind, but I respected Caroline’s knowledge of innuendoes.

“How about Hector Blunt,” I hinted. “If it’s anybody——”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I dare say he admires her—may even be in love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn’t going to fall in love with a man old enough to be her father when there’s a good-looking young secretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind. Girls are very artful. But there’s one thing I do tell you, James Sheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never has. You can take it from me.”

I took it from her meekly.

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This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (2006). The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/69087/pg69087-images.html

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