The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

entered impetuously, but on the threshold I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me.

      Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of good-humoured contempt.

      “Ah, c’est l’Anglais! Enter then. Let us see what you can make of this affair.”

      Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in.

      “There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.

      I stepped across.

      The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height, swarthy of complexion, and possibly about fifty years of age. He was neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, well cut and probably made by an expensive tailor, but not new. His face was terribly convulsed, and on his left side, just over the heart, the hilt of a dagger stood up, black and shining. I recognized it. It was the same dagger I had seen reposing in the glass jar the preceding morning!

      “I’m expecting the doctor any minute,” explained Giraud. “Although we hardly need him. There’s no doubt what the man died of. He was stabbed to the heart, and death must have been pretty well instantaneous.”

      “When was it done? Last night?”

      Giraud shook his head.

      “Hardly. I don’t lay down the law on medical evidence, but the man’s been dead well over twelve hours. When do you say you last saw that dagger?”

      “About ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

      “Then I should be inclined to fix the crime as being done not long after that.”

      “But people were passing and repassing this shed continually.”

      Giraud laughed disagreeably.

      “You progress to a marvel! Who told you he was killed in this shed?”

      “Well—” I felt flustered. “I—I assumed it.”

      “Oh, what a fine detective! Look at him, mon petit—does a man stabbed to the heart fall like that—neatly with his feet together, and his arms to his side? No. Again does a man lie down on his back and permit himself to be stabbed without raising a hand to defend himself? It is absurd, is it not? But see here—and here—” He flashed the torch along the ground. I saw curious irregular marks in the soft dirt. “He was dragged here after he was dead. Half dragged, half carried by two people. Their tracks do not show on the hard ground outside, and here they have been careful to obliterate them—but one of the two was a woman, my young friend.”

      “A woman?”

      “Yes.”

      “But if the tracks are obliterated, how do you know?”

      “Because, blurred as they are, the prints of the woman’s shoe are unmistakable. Also, by this—” And, leaning forward, he drew something from the handle of the dagger and held it up for me to see. It was a woman’s long black hair—similar to the one Poirot had taken from the arm-chair in the library.

      With a slightly ironic smile he wound it round the dagger again.

      “We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he explained. “It pleases the examining magistrate. Eh bien, do you notice anything else?”

      I was forced to shake my head.

      “Look at his hands.”

      I did. The nails were broken and discoloured, and the skin was hard. It hardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I looked up at Giraud.

      “They are not the hands of a gentleman,” he said, answering my look. “On the contrary his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is curious, is it not?”

      “Very curious,” I agreed.

      “And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know—he was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.”

      He looked down at the body again.

      “As before there are no finger-prints on the handle of the dagger. The murderer again wore gloves.”

      “You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I asked eagerly.

      Giraud became inscrutable.

      “Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!”

      The sergent de ville appeared at the doorway.

      “Monsieur?”

      “Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour ago?”

      “She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.”

      “Good. I only want one at a time, though.”

      Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs. Renauld.

      “Here is Madame.”

      Giraud came forward with a curt bow.

      “This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly aside. “Here is the man. Do you know him?”

      And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to read her mind, noting every indication of her manner.

      But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of agitation or recognition.

      “No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.”

      “You are sure?”

      “Quite sure.”

      “You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?”

      “No,” she seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. “No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the examining magistrate thought, but still—no.” Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this man.”

      “Very well, madame. That is all, then.”

      She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads in her hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man, in a completely natural manner.

      Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could not tell. He merely called to Marchaud:

      “You have got the other there?”

      “Yes, monsieur.”

      “Bring her in then.”

      “The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting with vehemence.

      “I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?”

      “Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.”

      “How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous.”

      “Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced towards her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”

      With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.

      “It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Any one who says I do lies! Ah! mon Dieu, what shall I do?”

      “Calm