As we retraced our steps to the house, M. Bex excused himself for
leaving us, explaining that he must immediately acquaint the examining
magistrate with the fact of Giraud’s arrival. Giraud himself had been
obviously delighted when Poirot declared that he had seen all he
wanted. The last thing we observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud,
crawling about on all fours, with a thoroughness in his search that I
could not but admire. Poirot guessed my thoughts, for as soon as we
were alone he remarked ironically:
“At last you have seen the detective you admire—the human foxhound! Is
it not so, my friend?”
“At any rate, he’s _doing___ something,” I said, with asperity. “If
there’s anything to find, he’ll find it. Now you—”
“_Eh bien!___ I also have found something! A piece of lead-piping.”
“Nonsense, Poirot. You know very well that’s got nothing to do with it.
I meant _little___ things—traces that may lead us infallibly to the
murderers.”
“_Mon ami___, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one
measuring two millimetres! But it is the romantic idea that all
important clues must be infinitesimal! As to the piece of lead-piping
having nothing to do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told
you so. No”—as I was about to interpose a question—“we will say no
more. Leave Giraud to his search, and me to my ideas. The case seems
straightforward enough—and yet—and yet, _mon ami___, I am not
satisfied! And do you know why? Because of the wrist watch that is two
hours fast. And then there are several curious little points that do
not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the murderers was
revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and have done with
it?”
“They wanted the ‘secret,’” I reminded him.
Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.
“Well, where is this ‘secret’? Presumably some distance away, since
they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand,
almost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that
a weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to
hand.”
He paused frowning, and then went on:
“Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an
accomplice and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should
remain open? I wonder if—”
He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house.
Suddenly he turned to me.
“My friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken your
reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!”
“Where?”
“In that right-hand bed yonder. M. Bex says that they are the footmarks
of the gardener. Let us see if that is so. See, he approaches with his
wheelbarrow.”
Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of
seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came
hobbling towards us.
“You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the
footmarks?” I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little.
Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important,
presumably they _were___.
“Exactly,” said Poirot.
“But won’t he think it very odd?”
“He will not think about it at all.”
We could say no more, for the old man had joined us.
“You want me for something, monsieur?”
“Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven’t you?”
“Twenty-four years, monsieur.”
“And your name is—?”
“Auguste, monsieur.”
“I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb.
They have been planted long?”
“Some time, monsieur. But of course, to keep the beds looking smart,
one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are
over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.”
“You put in some new plants yesterday, didn’t you? Those in the middle
there, and in the other bed also?”
“Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to
‘pick up.’ Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As
Monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is
hot.”
Auguste was charmed with Poirot’s interest, and was quite inclined to
be garrulous.
“That is a splendid specimen there,” said Poirot, pointing. “Might I
perhaps have a cutting of it?”
“But certainly, monsieur.” The old fellow stepped into the bed, and
carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.
Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.
“You see?” said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine
the indentation of the gardener’s hobnailed boot. “It is quite simple.”
“I did not realize—”
“That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent
mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?”