“No matter,” said the detective.
Renauld looked at him for a moment, but the magistrate was continuing his questions.
“To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen, M. Renauld?”
“Duveen?” said Jack. “Duveen?” He leant forward, and slowly picked up the paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head, his eyes met the watching ones of Giraud. “Duveen? No, I can’t say I am.”
“Will you read this letter, M. Renauld? And tell me if you have any idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father?”
Jack Renauld took the letter, and read it through, the colour mounting in his face as he did so.
“Addressed to my father?” The emotion and indignation in his tones were evident.
“Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.”
“Does—” He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards his mother. The magistrate understood.
“As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?”
“I have no idea whatsoever.”
M. Hautet sighed.
“A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the letter altogether. What do you think, M. Giraud? It does not seem to lead us anywhere.”
“It certainly does not,” agreed the detective with emphasis.
“And yet,” sighed the magistrate, “it promised at the beginning to be such a beautiful and simple case!” He caught Mrs. Renauld’s eye, and blushed in immediate confusion. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, turning over the papers on the table. “Let me see, where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this may give you pain, M. Renauld. I understand it was a present from you to your mother. Very sad—very distressing—”
Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the perusal of the letter, was now deadly white.
“Do you mean—that it was with an aeroplane wire paper cutter that my father was—was killed? But it’s impossible! A little thing like that!”
“Alas, M. Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear. Sharp and easy to handle.”
“Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the—the body?”
“Oh, no, it had been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still—M. Bex, might I trouble you?”
“Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.”
“Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s body.”
The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate, always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied.
“But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us here.”
The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by the hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading the mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back.
Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in.
“M. le juge! M. le juge!”
“But yes. What is it?”
“The dagger! It is gone!”
“_Comment___—gone?”
“Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!”
“What?” I cried. “Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw—” The words died on my tongue.
But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.
“What is that you say?” cried the commissary. “This morning?”
“I saw it there this morning,” I said slowly. “About an hour and a half ago, to be accurate.”
“You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?”
“I asked the _sergent de ville___ for it.”
“And you went there? Why?”
I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to make a clean breast of it.
“M. le juge,” I said. “I have committed a grave fault, for which I must crave your indulgence.”
“_Eh bien!___ Proceed, monsieur.”
“The fact of the matter is,” I said, wishing myself anywhere else than where I was, “that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and I—well, in short, I took the key to show her the body.”
“Ah, _par exemple___,” cried the magistrate indignantly. “But it is a grave fault you have committed there, Captain Hastings. It is altogether most irregular. You should not have permitted yourself this folly.”
“I know,” I said meekly. “Nothing that you can say could be too severe, M. le juge.”
“You did not invite this lady to come here?”
“Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who happens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that until my unexpected meeting with her.”
“Well, well,” said the magistrate, softening. “It was most irregular, but the lady is without doubt young and beautiful, _n’est-ce pas?___ What it is to be young! _O jeunesse, jeunesse!___” And he sighed sentimentally.
But the commissary, less romantic, and more practical, took up the tale:
“But did not you reclose and lock the door when you departed.”
“That’s just it,” I said slowly. “That’s what I blame myself for so terribly. My friend was upset at the sight. She nearly fainted. I got her some brandy and water, and afterwards insisted on accompanying her back to town. In the excitement, I forgot to relock the door. I only did so when I got back to the Villa.”
“Then for twenty minutes at least—” said the commissary slowly. He stopped.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Twenty minutes,” mused the commissary.
“It is deplorable,” said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner returning. “Without precedent.”
Suddenly another voice spoke.
“You find it deplorable, M. le juge?” asked Giraud.
“Certainly I do.”
“_Eh bien!___ I find it admirable,” said the other imperturbably.
This unexpected ally quite bewildered me.
“Admirable, M. Giraud?” asked the magistrate, studying him cautiously out of the corner of his eye.
“Precisely.”
“And why?”
“Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the assassin, has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with that knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.” There was a note of menace in his voice. He continued: “He risked a good deal to gain possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that finger-prints might be discovered on it.”
Poirot turned to Bex.
“You said there were none?”
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps he could not be sure.”
Poirot looked at him.
“You are wrong, M. Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must have been sure.”
“I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice who was not aware of that fact.”
“_Ils sont mal renseignés, les accomplices!___” muttered Poirot, but he said no more.
The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M. Hautet addressed us:
“Our work here is finished. Perhaps, M. Renauld, you will listen whilst your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The case is now in the clever hands of the renowned M. Giraud. He will without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my heart-felt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish you all good day.” And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure.
Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his, and observed the time.
“Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,” he said. “And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.”
We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me:
“One little moment, my friend.” Dexterously, he whipped out his yard measure, and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr. Stonor, or Jack Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket, and followed me out into the open air.
12 Poirot Elucidates Certain Points
“Why did you measure that overcoat?” I asked, with some curiosity, as we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.
“_Parbleu!___ to see how long it was,” replied my friend imperturbably.
I was vexed. Poirot’s incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time, certain words Mrs. Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me, fraught with a new significance. “So you did not sail?” she had said, and then had added: “_After all, it does not matter—now.___”
What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical—significant. Was it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have entrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended? Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully thought out and preconceived plan?