“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.