It is now five o’clock in the morning. I am very tired — but I have finished my manuscript.
Poor old Ackroyd! When I met him in the street that morning, he was very upset, and I thought that perhaps he knew the truth, but could not believe it, and that’s why he invited me to his house to talk to me and to make sure.
So I went home and prepared. That dictaphone — he had given it to me two days before. There was something wrong with it, and I said that perhaps I should be able to repair it. Now I did what I wanted with it and took it with me in my bag that evening. I had to kill him. Then I looked round the room from the door. I was satisfied. I had done everything that was necessary. The dictaphone was on the table by the window, and it was timed to begin playing at nine-thirty. The armchair was pulled out from the wall, so that nobody could see the dictaphone from the door.
Later, when the body was discovered, I sent Parker to telephone for the police, and when he left the room, I put the dictaphone into my bag and put the armchair back in place. It was my mistake.
I was very surprised when Flora said that she had seen her uncle alive at a quarter to ten. I could not understand it.
I am glad that Caroline will never know the truth. Poirot says, there is one way out…
I trust Poirot. He will take care that Caroline does not know the truth. I don’t want her to know. She is fond of me, and then — she is proud… My death will be a grief to her, but it is better than shame.
I shall put this manuscript into an envelope and address it to Poirot.
And then — what shall it be? Veronal? Perhaps.
But what a pity it is that Hercule Poirot retired from work and came here to grow vegetable marrows!