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

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СКАЧАТЬ The word came faintly between her parted lips.

      “M. Jack Renauld.”

      “What?” It was a cry. “Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?”

      “Giraud.”

      “Giraud!” The girl’s face was ashy. “I am afraid of that man. He is cruel. He will—he will—” She broke off. There was courage gathering in her face, and determination. I realized in that moment that she was a fighter. Poirot, too, watched her intently.

      “You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?” he asked.

      “Yes,” she replied mechanically. “He told me.”

      “It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,” ventured Poirot.

      “Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently. “But we cannot waste time on regrets. We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course, but that will not help him with a man like Giraud who has his reputation to think of. He must arrest some one, and that some one will be Jack.”

      “The facts will tell against him,” said Poirot. “You realize that?”

      She faced him squarely, and used the words I had heard her say in her mother’s drawing-room.

      “I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face. He is innocent, and we must save him.”

      She spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as she thought.

      “Mademoiselle,” said Poirot observing her keenly, “is there not something that you are keeping back that you could tell us?”

      She nodded perplexedly.

      “Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe it—it seems so absurd.”

      “At any rate, tell us, mademoiselle.”

      “It is this. M. Giraud sent for me, as an afterthought, to see if I could identify the man in there.” She signed with her head towards the shed. “I could not. At least I could not at the moment. But since I have been thinking—”

      “Well?”

      “It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the morning of the day M. Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the garden here, when I heard a sound of men’s voices quarrelling. I pushed aside the bushes and looked through. One of the men was M. Renauld and the other was a tramp, a dreadful looking creature in filthy rags. He was alternately whining and threatening. I gathered he was asking for money, but at that moment maman called me from the house, and I had to go. That is all, only—I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead man in the shed are one and the same.”

      Poirot uttered an exclamation.

      “But why did you not say so at the time, mademoiselle?”

      “Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar in some way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged to a superior station in life. But tell me, Monsieur Poirot, is it not possible that this tramp might have attacked and killed M. Renauld, and taken his clothes and money?”

      “It is an idea, mademoiselle,” said Poirot slowly. “It leaves a lot unexplained, but it is certainly an idea. I will think of it.”

      A voice called from the house.

      “Maman,” whispered Marthe, “I must go.” And she slipped away through the trees.

      “Come,” said Poirot, and taking my arm, turned in the direction of the Villa.

      “What do you really think?” I asked, in some curiosity. “Was that story true, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from her lover?”

      “It is a curious tale,” said Poirot, “but I believe it to be the absolute truth. Unwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on another point—and incidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you notice his hesitation when I asked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on the night of the crime? He paused and then said ‘Yes.’ I suspected that he was lying. It was necessary for me to see Mademoiselle Marthe before he could put her on her guard. Three little words gave me the information I wanted. When I asked her if she knew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered ‘He told me.’ Now, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening, and if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?”

      “Surely, Poirot,” I cried, aghast, “you cannot believe that a boy like that would murder his own father.”

      “Mon ami,” said Poirot, “you continue to be of a sentimentality unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.”

      “And the motive?”

      “Money of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would come in to half his father’s fortune at the latter’s death.”

      “But the tramp. Where does he come in?”

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

      “Giraud would say that he was an accomplice—an apache who helped young Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of the way afterwards.”

      “But the hair round the dagger? The woman’s hair?”

      “Ah,” said Poirot, smiling broadly. “That is the cream of Giraud’s little jest. According to him, it is not a woman’s hair at all. Remember that the youths of today wear their hair brushed straight back from the forehead with pomade or hairwash to make it lie flat. Consequently some of the hairs are of considerable length.”

      “And you believe that too?”

      “No,” said Poirot with a curious smile. “For I know it to be the hair of a woman—and more, which woman!”

      “Madame Daubreuil,” I announced positively.

      “Perhaps,” said Poirot, regarding me quizzically.

      But I refused to allow myself to get annoyed.

      “What are we going to do now?” I asked, as we entered the hall of the Villa Geneviève.

      “I wish to make a search amongst the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That is why I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.”

      “But will not Giraud have searched already?” I asked doubtfully.

      “Of course. He builds a case, as a beaver builds a dam, with a fatiguing industry. But he will not have looked for the things that I am seeking—in all probability he would not have seen their importance if they stared him in the face. Let us begin.”

      Neatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined the contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a singularly dull and uninteresting proceeding. Poirot waded on through collars, pajamas and socks. A purring noise outside drew СКАЧАТЬ