The Best Detectives Murder Mysteries for Christmas Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced me warmly on the platform.

      “Mon cher ami, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!”

      “Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?”

      “How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even arrests perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must rearrange.”

      I cut short his remonstrances.

      “My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at once. There has been another murder!”

      I have frequently been disappointed when fancying that I was giving news of importance to my friend. Either he has known it already or he has dismissed it as irrelevant to the main issue—and in the latter case events have usually proved him justified. But this time I could not complain of missing my effect. Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.

      “What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, I am all wrong. I have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!”

      “You did not expect it, then?”

      “I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins everything—it—ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest. “It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts, taken methodically and in their proper order admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I am right!”

      “But then—”

      He interrupted me.

      “Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is impossible unless—unless—oh, wait, I implore you. Say no word—”

      He was silent for a moment or two, then, resuming his normal manner, he said in a quiet assured voice: “The victim is a man of middle-age. His body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to M. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.”

      It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably, a doubt crossed my mind.

      “Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it already.”

      He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.

      “Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?”

      “But how on earth could you know all that?”

      “I was right then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the Villa Geneviève much more quickly.”

      As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew. Poirot listened attentively.

      “The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it was the same one?”

      “Absolutely certain. That’s what make it so impossible.”

      “Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.”

      I raised my eyebrows.

      “Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most extraordinary coincidence.”

      “You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two identical weapons would be highly improbable. But not here. This particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he should have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for his own use.”

      “But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected.

      A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone. “My friend, in working upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are ‘mentioned.’ There is no reason to mention many things which may be important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for not mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.”

      I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought us to the famous shed. We found all our friends there and, after an interchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task.

      Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot bestowed but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose to Giraud’s lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down again.

      “Old clothes of the gardener’s?” he queried.

      “Exactly,” said Giraud.

      Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical. He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and broken finger-nails. Whilst examining the latter he threw a quick question at Giraud.

      “You saw these?”

      “Yes, I saw them,” replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.

      Suddenly Poirot stiffened.

      “Dr. Durand!”

      “Yes?” The doctor came forward.

      “There is foam on the lips. You observed it?”

      “I didn’t notice it, I must admit.”

      “But you observe it now?”

      “Oh, certainly.”

      Poirot again shot a question at Giraud.

      “You noticed it without doubt?”

      The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been withdrawn from the wound. It reposed in a glass jar by the side of the body. Poirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up, his eyes were excited, and shone with the green light I knew so well.

      “It is a strange wound, this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all. What do you think, M. le docteur?”

      “I can only say that it is most abnormal.”

      “It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed after he was dead.” And, stilling the clamour of voices that arose with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added, “M. Giraud agrees with me, do you not, monsieur?”

      Whatever Giraud’s real belief, he accepted the position without moving a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he replied:

      “Certainly I agree.”

      The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.

      “But what an idea!” cried M. Hautet. “To stab a man after he is dead! Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate, perhaps.”

      “No, M. le juge,” said Poirot. “I should fancy it was done quite cold-bloodedly—to create an impression.”

      “What impression?”

      “The impression it nearly did create,” returned Poirot oracularly.

      M.