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“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 fingerprints 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 door.
“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 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. Anyone 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.
I considered the face carefully.
“No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman most decidedly.”
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Same here.”
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside, and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end he rose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence.
But at that moment a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old friend, the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex, with the doctor behind them, came bustling in.
“But this is extraordinary, Monsieur Giraud,” cried M. Hautet. “Another crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?”
“That is just what nobody can tell us, monsieur. He has not been identified.”
“Where is the body?” asked the doctor.
Giraud moved aside a little.
“There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can handle the dagger freely—there are no fingerprints on it.”
The doctor knelt down by the dead man, and Giraud turned to the examining magistrate.
“A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.”
“And so no one can identify him,” mused the magistrate. “Could it possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among themselves.”
Giraud shook his head.
“The man is a Frenchman—I would take my oath on that—”
But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor, who was sitting back on his heels with a perplexed expression.
“You say he was killed yesterday morning?”
“I fix it by the theft of the dagger,” explained Giraud. “He may, of course, have been killed later in the day.”
“Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least forty-eight hours, and probably longer.”
We stared at each other in blank amazement.
Fifteen
A PHOTOGRAPH
The doctor’s words were so surprising that we were all momentarily taken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have been stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr. Durand asserted positively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing was fantastic to the last extreme.
We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor’s announcement, when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to the villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the train arriving at Merlinville at 12:28.
I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to the station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance that he should know at once of the new and startling developments in the case.
Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he wanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved
that. Very few hours had sufficed. I wondered how he would take the exciting news I had to impart.
The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down the platform, until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a few questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening of the tragedy.
I approached the chief porter, an intelligent-looking man, and had little difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to the police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands or assassins should be allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility they might have left by the midnight train, but he negatived the idea decidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners—he was sure of it. Only about twenty people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to observe them.
I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly:
