“Why did you measure that overcoat?” I asked, with some curiosity, as
we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.
“_Parbleu!___ to see how long it was,” replied my friend imperturbably.
I was vexed. Poirot’s incurable habit of making a mystery out of
nothing never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and
followed a train of thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them
specially at the time, certain words Mrs. Renauld had addressed to her
son now recurred to me, fraught with a new significance. “So you did
not sail?” she had said, and then had added: “_After all, it does not
matter—now.___”
What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical—significant. Was
it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all
knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have
entrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended?
Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a
carefully thought out and preconceived plan?
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I was right.
Mrs. Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at
seeing her son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced
that she knew, if not the assassins, at least the motive for the
assassination. But some very powerful considerations must keep her
silent.
“You think profoundly, my friend,” remarked Poirot, breaking in upon my
reflections. “What is it that intrigues you so?”
I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would
ridicule my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.
“You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure
that she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not
of inspiring, at least of conniving at the crime.”
“You suspected _her?___” I cried.
“But certainly! She benefits enormously—in fact, by this new will, she
is the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out
for attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of
examining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility
that she had gagged and bound herself. _Eh bien___, I saw at once that
there was no fake, the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut
into the flesh. That ruled out the possibility of her having committed
the crime single-handed. But it was still possible for her to have
connived at it, or to have been the instigator with an accomplice.
Moreover, the story, as she told it, was singularly familiar to me—the
masked men that she could not recognize, the mention of ‘the secret’—I
had heard, or read, all these things before. Another little detail
confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the truth. _The wrist
watch, Hastings, the wrist watch!___”
Again that wrist watch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.
“You see, _mon ami?___ You comprehend?”
“No,” I replied with some ill humour. “I neither see nor comprehend.
You make all these confounded mysteries, and it’s useless asking you to
explain. You always like keeping everything up your sleeve to the last
minute.”
“Do not enrage yourself, my friend,” said Poirot with a smile. “I will
explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, _c’est entendu?___ He
treats me as an old one of no importance! _We shall see!___ In common
fairness I gave him a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that
is his own look out.”