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

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      24. “Save Him!”

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      We crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following morning saw us in Saint-Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot lost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any objections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.

      After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the examining magistrate’s room. He greeted us cordially.

      “I was told that you had returned to England, M. Poirot. I am glad to find that such is not the case.”

      “It is true that I went there, M. le juge, but it was only for a flying visit. A side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.”

      “And it did—eh?”

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.

      “We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one making a mistake.”

      “You think not, M. le juge?”

      It was the examining magistrate’s turn to shrug his shoulders.

      “Eh bien, speaking frankly—in confidence, c’est entendu—can you come to any other conclusion?”

      “Frankly, M. le juge, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.”

      “Such as—?”

      But Poirot was not to be drawn.

      “I have not yet tabulated them,” he remarked. “It was a general reflection that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for himself on the matter?”

      The magistrate frowned.

      “I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He contents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a most obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow; perhaps you would like to be present?”

      We accepted the invitation with empressement.

      “A distressing case,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “My sympathy for Madame Renauld is profound.”

      “How is Madame Renauld?”

      “She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger, but that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It was, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused her present state. It would be terrible if her brain became unhinged; but I should not wonder at all—no, really, not at all.”

      M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful enjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect.

      He roused himself at length, and observed with a start.

      “That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, M. Poirot. Let me see, where did I put it?”

      He proceeded to rummage amongst his papers. At last he found the missive, and handed it to Poirot.

      “It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,” he explained. “But as you left no address I could not do so.”

      Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping, foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman’s. Poirot did not open it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.

      “A demain then, M. le juge. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.”

      “But not at all. I am always at your service. These young detectives of the school of Giraud, they are all alike—rude, sneering fellows. They do not realize that an examining magistrate of my—er—experience is bound to have a certain discernment, a certain—flair. Enfin! the politeness of the old school is infinitely more to my taste. Therefore, my dear friend, command me in any way you will. We know a thing or two, you and I—eh?”

      And laughing heartily, enchanted with himself and with us, M. Hautet bade us adieu. I am sorry to have to record that Poirot’s first remark to me as we traversed the corridor was:

      “A famous old imbecile, that one! Of a stupidity to make pity!”

      We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with Giraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with himself.

      “Aha! M. Poirot,” he cried airily. “You have returned from England then?”

      “As you see,” said Poirot.

      “The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.”

      “I agree with you, M. Giraud.”

      Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crest-fallen manner seemed to delight the other.

      “Of all the milk and water criminals! Not an idea of defending himself. It is extraordinary!”

      “So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?” suggested Poirot mildly.

      But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.

      “Well, good day, M. Poirot. I am glad you’re satisfied of young Renauld’s guilt at last.”

      “Pardon! But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is innocent.”

      Giraud stared for a moment—then burst out laughing, tapping his head significantly with the brief remark: “Toqué!”

      Poirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.

      “M. Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been deliberately insulting! You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager you 500 francs that I find the murderer of M. Renauld before you do. Is it agreed?”

      Giraud stared helplessly at him, and murmured again:

      “Toqué!”

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