“Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most
extraordinary coincidence.”
“You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two
identical weapons _would___ be highly improbable. But not here. This
particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s
orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it,
that he should have had only one made. Very probably he would have
another for his own use.”
“But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected.
A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone. “My friend, in working
upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are
‘mentioned.’ There is no reason to mention many things which may be
important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for _not___
mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.”
I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought
us to the famous shed. We found all our friends there and, after an
interchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task.
Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot bestowed
but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined
was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose
to Giraud’s lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle
down again.
“Old clothes of the gardener’s?” he queried.
“Exactly,” said Giraud.
Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical.
He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that
there were no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care,
also the dirty and broken finger-nails. Whilst examining the latter he
threw a quick question at Giraud.
“You saw these?”
“Yes, I saw them,” replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.
Suddenly Poirot stiffened.
“Dr. Durand!”
“Yes?” The doctor came forward.
“There is foam on the lips. You observed it?”
“I didn’t notice it, I must admit.”
“But you observe it now?”
“Oh, certainly.”
Poirot again shot a question at Giraud.
“You noticed it without doubt?”
The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been
withdrawn from the wound. It reposed in a glass jar by the side of the
body. Poirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he
looked up, his eyes were excited, and shone with the green light I knew
so well.
“It is a strange wound, this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the
clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all.
What do you think, M. le docteur?”
“I can only say that it is most abnormal.”
“It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed
_after he was dead___.” And, stilling the clamour of voices that arose
with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added, “M. Giraud
agrees with me, do you not, monsieur?”
Whatever Giraud’s real belief, he accepted the position without moving
a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he replied:
“Certainly I agree.”
The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.
“But what an idea!” cried M. Hautet. “To stab a man after he is dead!
Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate, perhaps.”
“No, M. le juge,” said Poirot. “I should fancy it was done quite
cold-bloodedly—to create an impression.”
“What impression?”
“The impression it nearly did create,” returned Poirot oracularly.