Famous Detectives On Christmas Duty - Ultimate Murder Mysteries for Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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СКАЧАТЬ shook my head, discouraged.

      “Well, well,” said the magistrate. “We do not advance very much. Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago. Has any one seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very good mind to send for him and—”

      “You will not have to send far, M. le juge.”

      The quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in through the open window.

      He leaped lightly into the room, and advanced to the table.

      “Here I am, M. le juge, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting myself sooner.”

      “Not at all. Not at all,” said the magistrate, rather confused.

      “Of course I am only a detective,” continued the other. “I know nothing of interrogatories. Were I conducting one, I should be inclined to do so without an open window. Any one standing outside can so easily hear all that passes. … But no matter.”

      M. Hautet flushed angrily. There was evidently going to be no love lost between the examining magistrate and the detective in charge of the case. They had fallen foul of each other at the start. Perhaps in any event it would have been much the same. To Giraud, all examining magistrates were fools, and to M. Hautet who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the Paris detective could not fail to give offence.

      “Eh bien, M. Giraud,” said the magistrate rather sharply. “Without doubt you have been employing your time to a marvel? You have the names of the assassins for us, have you not? And also the precise spot where they find themselves now?”

      Unmoved by this irony, Giraud replied:

      “I know at least where they have come from.”

      “Comment?”

      Giraud took two small objects from his pocket and laid them down on the table. We crowded round. The objects were very simple ones: the stub of a cigarette, and an unlighted match. The detective wheeled round on Poirot.

      “What do you see there?” he asked.

      There was something almost brutal in his tone. It made my cheeks flush. But Poirot remained unmoved. He shrugged his shoulders.

      “A cigarette end, and a match.”

      “And what does that tell you?”

      Poirot spread out his hands.

      “It tells me—nothing.”

      “Ah!” said Giraud, in a satisfied voice. “You haven’t made a study of these things. That’s not an ordinary match—not in this country at least. It’s common enough in South America. Luckily it’s unlighted. I mightn’t have recognized it otherwise. Evidently one of the men threw away his cigarette end, and lit another, spilling one match out of the box as he did so.”

      “And the other match?” asked Poirot.

      “Which match?”

      “The one he did light his cigarette with. You have found that also?”

      “No.”

      “Perhaps you didn’t search very thoroughly.”

      “Not search thoroughly—” For a moment it seemed as though the detective were going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled himself. “I see you love a joke, M. Poirot. But in any case, match or no match, the cigarette end would be sufficient. It is a South American cigarette with liquorice pectoral paper.”

      Poirot bowed. The commissary spoke:

      “The cigarette end and match might have belonged to M. Renauld. Remember, it is only two years since he returned from South America.”

      “No,” replied the other confidently. “I have already searched among the effects of M. Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he used are quite different.”

      “You do not think it odd,” asked Poirot, “that these strangers should come unprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and that they should so conveniently find all these things?”

      Giraud smiled in a rather superior manner.

      “Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it would be inexplicable.”

      “Aha!” said M. Hautet. “An accomplice. An accomplice within the house!”

      “Or outside it,” said Giraud with a peculiar smile.

      “But some one must have admitted them? We cannot allow that, by an unparalleled piece of good fortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk in?”

      “D’accord, M. le juge. The door was opened for them, but it could just as easily be opened from outside—by some one who possessed a key.”

      “But who did possess a key?”

      Giraud shrugged his shoulders.

      “As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if they can help it. But several people might have had one. M. Jack Renauld, the son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but he might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the gardener—he has been here many years. One of the younger servants may have a lover. It is easy to take an impression of a key and have one cut. There are many possibilities. Then there is another person who, I should judge, is exceedingly likely to have such a thing in her keeping.”

      “Who is that?”

      “Madame Daubreuil,” said the detective dryly.

      “Eh, eh!” said the magistrate, his face falling a little, “so you have heard about that, have you?”

      “I hear everything,” said Giraud imperturbably.

      “There is one thing I could swear you have not heard,” said M. Hautet, delighted to be able to show superior knowledge, and without more ado, he retailed the story of the mysterious visitor the night before. He also touched on the cheque made out to “Duveen,” and finally handed Giraud the letter signed “Bella.”

      Giraud listened in silence, studied the letter attentively, and then handed it back.

      “All very interesting, M. le juge. But my theory remains unaffected.”

      “And your theory is?”

      “For the moment I prefer not to say. Remember, I am only just beginning my investigations.”

      “Tell me one thing, M. Giraud,” said Poirot suddenly. “Your theory allows for the door being opened. It does not explain why it was left open. When they departed, would it not have been natural for them to close it behind them. If a sergent de ville had chanced to come up to the house, as is sometimes done to see that all is well, they might have been discovered and overtaken almost at once.”

      “Bah! They forgot it. A mistake, I grant СКАЧАТЬ