The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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      7. The Mysterious Madame Daubreuil

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      As we retraced our steps to the house, M. Bex excused himself for leaving us, explaining that he must immediately acquaint the examining magistrate with the fact of Giraud’s arrival. Giraud himself had been obviously delighted when Poirot declared that he had seen all he wanted. The last thing we observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud, crawling about on all fours, with a thoroughness in his search that I could not but admire. Poirot guessed my thoughts, for as soon as we were alone he remarked ironically:

      “At last you have seen the detective you admire—the human foxhound! Is it not so, my friend?”

      “At any rate, he’s doing something,” I said, with asperity. “If there’s anything to find, he’ll find it. Now you—”

      “Eh bien! I also have found something! A piece of lead-piping.”

      “Nonsense, Poirot. You know very well that’s got nothing to do with it. I meant little things—traces that may lead us infallibly to the murderers.”

      “Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one measuring two millimetres! But it is the romantic idea that all important clues must be infinitesimal! As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so. No”—as I was about to interpose a question—“we will say no more. Leave Giraud to his search, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough—and yet—and yet, mon ami, I am not satisfied! And do you know why? Because of the wrist watch that is two hours fast. And then there are several curious little points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the murderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and have done with it?”

      “They wanted the ‘secret,’ ” I reminded him.

      Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.

      “Well, where is this ‘secret’? Presumably some distance away, since they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand, almost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.”

      He paused frowning, and then went on:

      “Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an accomplice and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? I wonder if—”

      He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly he turned to me.

      “My friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!”

      “Where?”

      “In that right-hand bed yonder. M. Bex says that they are the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if that is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow.”

      Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us.

      “You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the footmarks?” I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they were.

      “Exactly,” said Poirot.

      “But won’t he think it very odd?”

      “He will not think about it at all.”

      We could say no more, for the old man had joined us.

      “You want me for something, monsieur?”

      “Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven’t you?”

      “Twenty-four years, monsieur.”

      “And your name is—?”

      “Auguste, monsieur.”

      “I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb. They have been planted long?”

      “Some time, monsieur. But of course, to keep the beds looking smart, one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.”

      “You put in some new plants yesterday, didn’t you? Those in the middle there, and in the other bed also?”

      “Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to ‘pick up.’ Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As Monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot.”

      Auguste was charmed with Poirot’s interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous.

      “That is a splendid specimen there,” said Poirot, pointing. “Might I perhaps have a cutting of it?”

      “But certainly, monsieur.” The old fellow stepped into the bed, and carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.

      Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.

      “You see?” said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine the indentation of the gardener’s hobnailed boot. “It is quite simple.”

      “I did not realize—”

      “That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?”

      I examined the bed carefully.

      “All the footmarks in the bed were made by the same boot,” I said at length after a careful study.

      “You think so? Eh bien, I agree with you,” said Poirot.

      He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of something else.

      “At any rate,” I remarked, “you will have one bee less in your bonnet now.”

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