Part 9

Poirot! So that was why he refused to let me accompany him to the station. The impertinence of it! I would thank him not to meddle in my concerns. Did he fancy I needed a nurse to look after me? Thanking the man, I departed, somewhat at a loss, and still much incensed with my meddlesome friend. I regretted that he was, for the moment, out of reach. I should have enjoyed telling him what I thought of his unwarranted interference. Had I not distinctly told him that I had no intention of seeing the girl? Decidedly, one’s friends can be too zealous!

But where was the lady? I set aside my wrath, and tried to puzzle it out. Evidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then another thought struck me. Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately withheld her name and given me the wrong address? The more I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that this last surmise of mine was right. For some reason or other she did not wish to let the acquaintance ripen into friendship. And though half an hour earlier this had been precisely my own view, I did not enjoy having the tables turned upon me. The whole affair was profoundly unsatisfactory, and I went up to the Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct ill humour. I did not go to the house, but went up the path to the little bench by the shed, and sat there moodily enough.

I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand. In a second or two I realized that they came, not from the garden I was in, but from the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were approaching rapidly. A girl’s voice was speaking, a voice that I recognized as that of the beautiful Marthe.

“_Chéri___,” she was saying, “is it really true? Are all our troubles over.”

“You know it, Marthe,” Jack Renauld replied. “Nothing can part us now, beloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can take you from me.”

“Nothing?” the girl murmured. “Oh, Jack, Jack—I am afraid.”

I had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally eavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in the hedge. They stood together facing me, the man’s arm round the girl, his eyes looking into hers. They were a splendid looking couple, the dark, well-knit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as they stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed their young lives.

But the girl’s face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize it, as he held her closer to him and asked:

“But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to fear—now?”

And then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as she murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words.

“I am afraid—for _you___.…”

I did not hear young Renauld’s answer, for my attention was distracted by an unusual appearance a little further down the hedge. There appeared to be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was Giraud.

Enjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of ear-shot.

“What were you doing there?” I asked.

“Exactly what you were doing—listening.”

“But I was not there on purpose!”

“Ah!” said Giraud. “I was.”

As always, I admired the man whilst disliking him. He looked me up and down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.

“You didn’t help matters by butting in. I might have heard something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?”

“M. Poirot has gone to Paris,” I replied coldly.

“And I can tell you, M. Giraud, that he is anything but an old fossil. He has solved many cases that have completely baffled the English police.”

“Bah! The English police!” Giraud snapped his fingers disdainfully. “They must be on a level with our examining magistrates. So he has gone to Paris, has he? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there, the better. But what does he think he will find there?”

I thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.

“That I am not at liberty to say,” I said quietly.

Giraud subjected me to a piercing stare.

“He has probably enough sense not to tell _you___,” he remarked rudely. “Good afternoon. I’m busy.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, and left me without ceremony. Matters seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève. Giraud evidently did not desire my company and, from what I had seen, it seemed fairly certain that Jack Renauld did not either.

I went back to the town, had an enjoyable bath and returned to the hotel. I turned in early, wondering whether the following day would bring forth anything of interest.

I was wholly unprepared for what it did bring forth. I was eating my petit déjeuner in the dining-room, when the waiter, who had been talking to some one outside, came back in obvious excitement. He hesitated for a minute, fidgeting with his napkin, and then burst out.

“Monsieur will pardon me, but he is connected, is he not, with the affair at the Villa Geneviève?’

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “Why?”

“Monsieur has not heard the news, though?”

“What news?”

“That there has been another murder there last night!”

“_What?___”

Leaving my breakfast, I caught up my hat and ran as fast as I could. Another murder—and Poirot away! What fatality. But who had been murdered?

I dashed in at the gate. A group of the servants was in the drive, talking and gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.

“What has happened?”

“Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse upon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for M. le curé to bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that roof. It might be my turn, who knows?”

She crossed herself.

“Yes,” I cried, “but who has been killed?”

“Do I know—me? A man—a stranger. They found him up there—in the shed—not a hundred yards from where they found poor Monsieur. And that is not all. He is stabbed—stabbed to the heart _with the same dagger!___”

14 The Second Body

Waiting for no more, I turned and ran up the path to the shed. The two men on guard there stood aside to let me pass and, filled with excitement, I entered.

The light was dim, the place was a mere rough wooden erection to keep old pots and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me.

Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of good-humoured contempt.

“Ah, _c’est l’Anglais!___ Enter then. Let us see what you can make of this affair.”

Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in.

“There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.

I stepped across.

The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height, swarthy of complexion, and possibly about fifty years of age. He was neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, well cut and probably made by an expensive tailor, but not new. His face was terribly convulsed, and on his left side, just over the heart, the hilt of a dagger stood up, black and shining. I recognized it. It was the same dagger I had seen reposing in the glass jar the preceding morning!

“I’m expecting the doctor any minute,” explained Giraud. “Although we hardly need him. There’s no doubt what the man died of. He was stabbed to the heart, and death must have been pretty well instantaneous.”

“When was it done? Last night?”

Giraud shook his head.

“Hardly. I don’t lay down the law on medical evidence, but the man’s been dead well over twelve hours. When do you say you last saw that dagger?”

“About ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

“Then I should be inclined to fix the crime as being done not long after that.”

“But people were passing and repassing this shed continually.”

Giraud laughed disagreeably.

“You progress to a marvel! Who told you he was killed in this shed?”

“Well—” I felt flustered. “I—I assumed it.”

“Oh, what a fine detective! Look at him, _mon petit___—does a man stabbed to the heart fall like that—neatly with his feet together, and his arms to his side? No. Again does a man lie down on his back and permit himself to be stabbed without raising a hand to defend himself? It is absurd, is it not? But see here—and here—” He flashed the torch along the ground. I saw curious irregular marks in the soft dirt. “He was dragged here after he was dead. Half dragged, half carried by two people. Their tracks do not show on the hard ground outside, and here they have been careful to obliterate them—but one of the two was a woman, my young friend.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“But if the tracks are obliterated, how do you know?”

“Because, blurred as they are, the prints of the woman’s shoe are unmistakable. Also, by _this___—” And, leaning forward, he drew something from the handle of the dagger and held it up for me to see. It was a woman’s long black hair—similar to the one Poirot had taken from the arm-chair in the library.

With a slightly ironic smile he wound it round the dagger again.

“We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he explained. “It pleases the examining magistrate. _Eh bien___, do you notice anything else?”

I was forced to shake my head.

“Look at his hands.”

I did. The nails were broken and discoloured, and the skin was hard. It hardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I looked up at Giraud.

“They are not the hands of a gentleman,” he said, answering my look. “On the contrary his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is curious, is it not?”

“Very curious,” I agreed.

“And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know—he was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.”

He looked down at the body again.

“As before there are no finger-prints on the handle of the dagger. The murderer again wore gloves.”

“You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I asked eagerly.

Giraud became inscrutable.

“Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!”

The _sergent de ville___ appeared at the doorway.

“Monsieur?”

“Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour ago?”

“She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.”

“Good. I only want one at a time, though.”

Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs. Renauld.

“Here is Madame.”

Giraud came forward with a curt bow.

“This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly aside. “Here is the man. Do you know him?”

And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to read her mind, noting every indication of her manner.

But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of agitation or recognition.

“No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?”

“No,” she seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. “No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the examining magistrate thought, but still—no.” Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this man.”

“Very well, madame. That is all, then.”

She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads in her hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man, in a completely natural manner.

Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could not tell. He merely called to Marchaud:

“You have got the other there?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Bring her in then.”

“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting with vehemence.

“I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?”

“Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.”

“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous.”

“Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced towards her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”

With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.

“It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Any one who says I do lies! Ah! _mon Dieu___, what shall I do?”

“Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.”

“Anything you wish, monsieur.”

“Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?”

Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head.

“I do not know him.”

It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud dismissed her with a nod of the head. “You are letting her go?” I asked in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her head.”

“I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud dryly. “She is under surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.”

Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.

“Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?” he asked suddenly.

I considered the face carefully.

“No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman most decidedly.”

Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.

“Same here.”

He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside, and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end, he rose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence.

But, at that moment, a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old friend, the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex, with the doctor behind him, came bustling in.

“But this is extraordinary, Mr. Giraud,” cried M. Hautet. “Another crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?”

“That is just what nobody can tell us, M. le juge. He has not been identified.”

“Where is the body?” asked the doctor.

Giraud moved aside a little.

“There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can handle the dagger freely—there are no finger-prints on it.”

The doctor knelt down by the dead man, and Giraud turned to the examining magistrate.

“A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.”

“And so no one can identify him,” mused the magistrate. “Could it possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among themselves.”

Giraud shook his head.

“The man is a Frenchman—I would take my oath of that—”

But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor who was sitting back on his heels with a perplexed expression.

“You say he was killed yesterday morning?”

“I fix it by the theft of the dagger,” explained Giraud. “He may, of course, have been killed later in the day.”

“Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least forty-eight hours, and probably longer.”

We stared at each other in blank amazement.

15 A Photograph

The doctor’s words were so surprising that we were all momentarily taken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have been stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr. Durand asserted positively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing was fantastic to the last extreme.

We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor’s announcement, when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to the Villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the train arriving at Merlinville at 12:28.

I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to the station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance that he should know at once of the new and startling developments in the case.

Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he wanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved that. Very few hours had sufficed. I wondered how he would take the exciting news I had to impart.

The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down the platform, until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a few questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening of the tragedy.

I approached the chief porter, an intelligent looking man, and had little difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to the Police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands of assassins should be allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility they might have left by the midnight train, but he negatived the idea decidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners—he was sure of it. Only about twenty people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to observe them.

I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly:

“Young M. Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?”

“Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it would not be amusing, that!”

I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me. Then I saw.…

“You mean,” I said, my heart beating a little, “that M. Jack Renauld arrived at Merlinville that evening?”

“But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the 11:40.”

My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime! But why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that he had any connection with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about so vital a matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along. Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot to know whether any one were suspected.

My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced me warmly on the platform.

“_Mon cher ami___, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!”

“Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?”

“How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even arrests perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must rearrange.”

I cut short his remonstrances.

“My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at once. _There has been another murder!___”

I have frequently been disappointed when fancying that I was giving news of importance to my friend. Either he has known it already or he has dismissed it as irrelevant to the main issue—and in the latter case events have usually proved him justified. But this time I could not complain of missing my effect. Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.

“What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, I am all wrong. I have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!”

“You did not expect it, then?”

“I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins everything—it—ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest. “It is impossible. I _cannot___ be wrong! The facts, taken methodically and in their proper order admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I _am___ right!”

“But then—”

He interrupted me.

“Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is impossible unless—unless—oh, wait, I implore you. Say no word—”

He was silent for a moment or two, then, resuming his normal manner, he said in a quiet assured voice: “The victim is a man of middle-age. His body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to M. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.”

It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably, a doubt crossed my mind.

“Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it already.”

He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.

“Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?”

“But how on earth could you know all that?”