The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

It would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still—M. Bex, might I trouble you?”

      “Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.”

      “Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s body.”

      The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate, always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied.

      “But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us here.”

      The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by the hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading the mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back.

      Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in.

      “M. le juge! M. le juge!”

      “But yes. What is it?”

      “The dagger! It is gone!”

      “Comment—gone?”

      “Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!”

      “What?” I cried. “Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw—” The words died on my tongue.

      But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.

      “What is that you say?” cried the commissary. “This morning?”

      “I saw it there this morning,” I said slowly. “About an hour and a half ago, to be accurate.”

      “You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?”

      “I asked the sergent de ville for it.”

      “And you went there? Why?”

      I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to make a clean breast of it.

      “M. le juge,” I said. “I have committed a grave fault, for which I must crave your indulgence.”

      “Eh bien! Proceed, monsieur.”

      “The fact of the matter is,” I said, wishing myself anywhere else than where I was, “that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and I—well, in short, I took the key to show her the body.”

      “Ah, par exemple,” cried the magistrate indignantly. “But it is a grave fault you have committed there, Captain Hastings. It is altogether most irregular. You should not have permitted yourself this folly.”

      “I know,” I said meekly. “Nothing that you can say could be too severe, M. le juge.”

      “You did not invite this lady to come here?”

      “Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who happens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that until my unexpected meeting with her.”

      “Well, well,” said the magistrate, softening. “It was most irregular, but the lady is without doubt young and beautiful, n’est-ce pas? What it is to be young! O jeunesse, jeunesse!” And he sighed sentimentally.

      But the commissary, less romantic, and more practical, took up the tale:

      “But did not you reclose and lock the door when you departed.”

      “That’s just it,” I said slowly. “That’s what I blame myself for so terribly. My friend was upset at the sight. She nearly fainted. I got her some brandy and water, and afterwards insisted on accompanying her back to town. In the excitement, I forgot to relock the door. I only did so when I got back to the Villa.”

      “Then for twenty minutes at least—” said the commissary slowly. He stopped.

      “Exactly,” I said.

      “Twenty minutes,” mused the commissary.

      “It is deplorable,” said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner returning. “Without precedent.”

      Suddenly another voice spoke.

      “You find it deplorable, M. le juge?” asked Giraud.

      “Certainly I do.”

      “Eh bien! I find it admirable,” said the other imperturbably.

      This unexpected ally quite bewildered me.

      “Admirable, M. Giraud?” asked the magistrate, studying him cautiously out of the corner of his eye.

      “Precisely.”

      “And why?”

      “Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the assassin, has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with that knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.” There was a note of menace in his voice. He continued: “He risked a good deal to gain possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that finger-prints might be discovered on it.”

      Poirot turned to Bex.

      “You said there were none?”

      Giraud shrugged his shoulders.

      “Perhaps he could not be sure.”

      Poirot looked at him.

      “You are wrong, M. Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must have been sure.”

      “I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice who was not aware of that fact.”

      “Ils sont mal renseignés, les accomplices!” muttered Poirot, but he said no more.

      The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M. Hautet addressed us:

      “Our work here is finished. Perhaps, M. Renauld, you will listen whilst your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The case is now in the clever hands of the renowned M. Giraud. He will without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my heart-felt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish you all good day.” And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure.

      Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his, and observed the time.

      “Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,” he said. “And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.”

      We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me:

      “One little moment, my friend.” Dexterously, he whipped out his yard measure, and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr. Stonor, or Jack Renauld.

      Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket, and followed me out into the open air.

      12. Poirot Elucidates Certain Points

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      “Why did you measure that overcoat?” I asked, with some curiosity, as we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.

      “Parbleu! to see how long it was,” replied my friend imperturbably.

      I