“Then why bury it?” he asked softly. “Reflect, Giraud. Since it was to
Jack Renauld’s advantage that the body should be found without delay,
_why dig a grave at all?___”
Giraud did not reply. The question found him unprepared. He shrugged
his shoulders as though to intimate that it was of no importance.
Poirot moved towards the door. I followed him.
“There is one more thing that you have failed to take into account,” he
said over his shoulder.
“What is that?”
“The piece of lead piping,” said Poirot, and left the room.
Jack Renauld still stood in the hall, with a white dumb face, but as we
came out of the _salon___, he looked up sharply. At the same moment
there was the sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs. Renauld was
descending it. At the sight of her son, standing between the two
myrmidons of the law, she stopped as though petrified.
“Jack,” she faltered. “Jack, what is this?”
He looked up at her, his face set.
“They have arrested me, mother.”
“What?”
She uttered a piercing cry, and before any one could get to her swayed
and fell heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute
Poirot stood up again.
“She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there
is a slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he
will have to wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a
week.”
Denise and Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in
their charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head bent down,
frowning thoughtfully at the ground. For some time I did not speak, but
at last I ventured to put a question to him.
“Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that
Jack Renauld may not be guilty?”
Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely:
“I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course
Giraud is all wrong—wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is
guilty, it is in spite of Giraud’s arguments, not _because___ of them.
And the gravest indictment against him is known only to me.”
“What is that?” I asked, impressed.
“If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I
do, you too would perceive it, my friend.”
This was what I called one of Poirot’s irritating answers. He went on,
without waiting for me to speak.
“Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound
there, overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all
that I know, but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by
your own efforts—not by my leading you by the hand.”
We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested,
looking out to sea. From farther along the sand, the cries of the
bathers reached us faintly. The sea was of the palest blue, and the
halcyon calm reminded me of the day we had arrived at Merlinville, my
own good spirits, and Poirot’s suggestion that I was “fey.” What a long
time seemed to have elapsed since then. And in reality it was only
three days!
“Think, my friend,” said Poirot’s voice encouragingly. “Arrange your
ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.”
I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of
the case. And reluctantly it seemed to me that the only clear and
possible solution was that of Giraud—which Poirot despised. I reflected
anew. If there was daylight anywhere it was in the direction of Madame
Daubreuil. Giraud was ignorant of her connection with the Beroldy Case.
Poirot had declared the Beroldy Case to be all important. It was there
I must seek. I was on the right track now. And suddenly I started as an
idea of bewildering luminosity shot into my brain. Trembling I built up
my hypothesis.
“You have a little idea, I see, _mon ami!___ Capital. We progress.”