“A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the
letter altogether. What do you think, M. Giraud? It does not seem to
lead us anywhere.”
“It certainly does not,” agreed the detective with emphasis.
“And yet,” sighed the magistrate, “it promised at the beginning to be
such a beautiful and simple case!” He caught Mrs. Renauld’s eye, and
blushed in immediate confusion. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, turning over the
papers on the table. “Let me see, where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear
this may give you pain, M. Renauld. I understand it was a present from
you to your mother. Very sad—very distressing—”
Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the
perusal of the letter, was now deadly white.
“Do you mean—that it was with an aeroplane wire paper cutter that my
father was—was killed? But it’s impossible! A little thing like that!”
“Alas, M. Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear.
Sharp and easy to handle.”
“Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the—the body?”
“Oh, no, it had been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure?
It would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it.
Still—M. Bex, might I trouble you?”
“Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.”
“Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested
Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s
body.”
The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate,
always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied.
“But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us
here.”
The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by
the hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks
that struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was
reading the mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging
desperately to his first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back.
Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in.
“M. le juge! M. le juge!”
“But yes. What is it?”
“The dagger! It is gone!”
“_Comment___—gone?”
“Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!”
“What?” I cried. “Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw—” The words
died on my tongue.
But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.
“What is that you say?” cried the commissary. “This morning?”
“I saw it there this morning,” I said slowly. “About an hour and a half
ago, to be accurate.”
“You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?”
“I asked the _sergent de ville___ for it.”
“And you went there? Why?”
I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to
make a clean breast of it.
“M. le juge,” I said. “I have committed a grave fault, for which I must
crave your indulgence.”
“_Eh bien!___ Proceed, monsieur.”
“The fact of the matter is,” I said, wishing myself anywhere else than
where I was, “that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She
displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and
I—well, in short, I took the key to show her the body.”
“Ah, _par exemple___,” cried the magistrate indignantly. “But it is a
grave fault you have committed there, Captain Hastings. It is
altogether most irregular. You should not have permitted yourself this
folly.”
“I know,” I said meekly. “Nothing that you can say could be too severe,
M. le juge.”
“You did not invite this lady to come here?”
“Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who
happens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that
until my unexpected meeting with her.”
“Well, well,” said the magistrate, softening. “It was most irregular,
but the lady is without doubt young and beautiful, _n’est-ce pas?___
What it is to be young! _O jeunesse, jeunesse!___” And he sighed
sentimentally.
But the commissary, less romantic, and more practical, took up the
tale:
“But did not you reclose and lock the door when you departed.”
“That’s just it,” I said slowly. “That’s what I blame myself for so
terribly. My friend was upset at the sight. She nearly fainted. I got
her some brandy and water, and afterwards insisted on accompanying her
back to town. In the excitement, I forgot to relock the door. I only
did so when I got back to the Villa.”
“Then for twenty minutes at least—” said the commissary slowly. He
stopped.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Twenty minutes,” mused the commissary.
“It is deplorable,” said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner returning.
“Without precedent.”
Suddenly another voice spoke.
“You find it deplorable, M. le juge?” asked Giraud.
“Certainly I do.”
“_Eh bien!___ I find it admirable,” said the other imperturbably.
This unexpected ally quite bewildered me.
“Admirable, M. Giraud?” asked the magistrate, studying him cautiously
out of the corner of his eye.
“Precisely.”
“And why?”
“Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the
assassin, has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange
if, with that knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.” There
was a note of menace in his voice. He continued: “He risked a good deal
to gain possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that finger-prints
might be discovered on it.”
Poirot turned to Bex.
“You said there were none?”
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps he could not be sure.”
Poirot looked at him.
“You are wrong, M. Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must have
been sure.”
“I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an
accomplice who was not aware of that fact.”
“_Ils sont mal renseignés, les accomplices!___” muttered Poirot, but he
said no more.
The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M.
Hautet addressed us:
“Our work here is finished. Perhaps, M. Renauld, you will listen whilst
your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the
proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my
methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality.
The case is now in the clever hands of the renowned M. Giraud. He will
without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not
already laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure
you of my heart-felt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish you all good day.”
And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his
departure.
Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his, and observed the
time.
“Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,” he said. “And you
shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one
is observing us. We need make no adieux.”
We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just
driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice
arrested me:
“One little moment, my friend.” Dexterously, he whipped out his yard
measure, and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging
in the hall from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there
before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr. Stonor, or Jack
Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his
pocket, and followed me out into the open air.