“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?”
“I was right then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the
little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there
have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left
here, we can take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us
to the back of the Villa Geneviève much more quickly.”
As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew.
Poirot listened attentively.
“The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it
was the same one?”
“Absolutely certain. That’s what make it so impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.”