Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked than ever.
'So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil murdered Monsieur Renauld?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.
'Why?' I stammered. 'Why? Oh, because-' I came to a stop.
Poirot nodded his head at me. 'You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness' sake) murder Monsieur Renauld? We can find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his death; considered as either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You cannot have a murder without motive. The first crime was different-there we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband's shoes.'
'Money is not the only motive for murder,' I objected.
'True,' agreed Polrot placidly. 'There are two others, the crime passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea which implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the murderer. Homicidal mania and religious fanaticism belong to that class. We can rule it out here.'
'But what about the passion? Can you rule that out? If Madame Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, if she found that his affection was cooling, or if her jealousy was aroused in any way, might she not have struck him down in a moment of anger?'
Poirot shook his head.
'If-I say if, you note-Madame Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, he had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she has been cold-blooded and calculating in her motives and actions. It was not to link her life with that of her young lover that she connived at her husband's murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective.'
'If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That was a man's work.'
'She might have had an accomplice,' I suggested, unwilling to relinquish my belief.
'I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?'
I stared at him in astonishment.
'Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked men, the 'secret' the papers!'
Poirot smiled a little. 'Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale-if it were, all would indeed be plain sailing-it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?'
'I can't believe that,' I said slowly. 'If she is, she must be the most consummate actress the world has ever known.'
'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot impatiently. 'Again you have the sentiment and not the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Mrs. Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already presented. The others are more evident. So, having discarded this possibility, we come very close to the truth, which is extremely curious and interesting, as it always happens.'
'What else do you know, Poirot?'
'You must make your own deductions, mon ami. You had access to the facts! Put your grey cells to work. Think... not like Giraud, but like Hercule Poirot.'
'But do you know?'
'My friend, I have been a fool about many things. But, at last, I see clearly.'
'Do you know everything?'
'I found out what M. Renauld called me to find out.'
'And you know who the murderer is?'
'I know who the murderer is.'
'How?'
'I think we are talking about different things. There is not only one crime, but two. The first I solved. The second — eh bien, I confess I am not sure yet!'
'But I thought you said the man in the shed died of natural causes.'
'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot. 'You still don't understand. You may have one crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential that you have two bodies.'
This observation of Poirot's seemed so strange to me, that I gazed at him with some anxiety. But he seemed perfectly normal. Suddenly he stood up and went to the window, saying:
'There he comes.'
'Who?'
'M. Jack Renauld. I sent him a note asking him to come here.'
This changed entirely the course of my thoughts. I asked Poirot if he knew that Jack Renauld had been at Merlinville on the night of the crime. I had hoped to catch my astute little friend napping, but as usual he was omniscient, he, too had inquired at the station.
'And without doubt we are not original in the idea Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made the same inquiries.'
'You don't think-' I said and then stopped. 'Ah no, it would be too horrible!'
Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me that though there were seven men, directly and indirectly connected with the case-Mrs. Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor and the three servants-there was, with the exception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man-Jack Renauld.
I had no time to develop farther the appalling idea that had occurred to me, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.
Poirot greeted him in a businesslike manner.
'Take a seat monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the villa is not too congenial to me. Monsieur Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me has not been striking, and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.'
'Exactly, Monsieur Poirot,' said the lad. 'That fellow Giraud is an unconditioned brute, and I'd be delighted to see someone score at his expense.'
'Then I may ask a little favour of you?'
'Certainly.'
'I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask at the cloakroom whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder, it is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?'
'Of course I will.' said the boy mystified though ready for the task.
'I and my friend you comprehend have business elsewhere,' explained Poirot. 'There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to return to the villa as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your errand.'
'Very well, I will go straight to the station.'
He rose to his feet. Poirot's voice stopped him: 'One moment, Monsieur Renauld there is one little matter that puzzles me. Why did you not mention to Monsieur Hautet this morning that you were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?'
Jack Renauld's face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.
'You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg as I told the examining magistrate this morning.'
Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed cat-like until they only showed a gleam of green.
'Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there-for it is shared by the station staff. They say you arrived
