‘And the point of all this?’ sneered Giraud.
‘That, when you have two crimes precisely similar in design and execution, you find the same brain behind them both. I am looking for that brain, Monsieur Giraud, and I shall find it. Here we have a true clue—a psychological clue. You may know all about cigarettes and match ends, Monsieur Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man.’
Giraud remained singularly unimpressed.
‘For your guidance,’ continued Poirot, ‘I will also advise you of one fact which might fail to be brought to your notice. The wristwatch of Madame Renauld, on the day following the tragedy, had gained two hours.’
Giraud stared.
‘Perhaps it was in the habit of gaining?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am told it did.’
‘Very well, then.’
‘All the same, two hours is a good deal,’ said Poirot softly. ‘Then there is the matter of the footprints in the flowerbed.’
He nodded his head towards the open window. Giraud took two eager strides, and looked out.
‘But I see no footprints?’
‘No,’ said Poirot, straightening a little pile of books on a table. ‘There are none.’
For a moment an almost murderous rage obscured Giraud’s face. He took two strides towards his tormentor, but at that moment the salon door was opened, and Marchaud announced:
‘Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, has just arrived from England. May he enter?’
CHAPTER 10
GABRIEL STONOR
The man who now entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall, with a well-knit, athletic frame and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he dominated the assembly. Even Giraud seemed anaemic beside him. When I knew him better I realized that Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual personality.
English by birth, he had knocked about all over the world. He had shot big game in Africa, travelled in Korea, ranched in California, and traded in the South Sea islands.
His unerring eye picked out M. Hautet. ‘The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you, sir. This is a terrible business. How’s Mrs. Renauld? Is she bearing up fairly well? It must have been an awful shock to her.’
‘Terrible, terrible’ said M. Hautet. ‘Permit me to introduce Monsieur Bex, our commissary of police, Monsieur Giraud of the Sureté. This gentleman is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. Mr. Renauld sent for him, but he arrived too late to do anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of Monsieur Poirot’s, Captain Hastings.’
Stonor looked at Poirot with some interest. ‘Sent for you did he?’
‘You did not know, then, that Monsieur Renauld contemplated calling in a detective?’ interposed M. Bex.
‘No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the old man was rattled. I don’t know what it was all about. He didn’t confide in me. We weren’t on those terms. But rattled he was—and badly.’
‘Hm!’ said M. Hautet. ‘But you have no notion of the cause?’
‘That’s what I said, sir.’
‘You will pardon me, Monsieur Stonor, but we must begin with a few formalities. Your name?’
‘Gabriel Stonor.’
‘How long ago was it that you became secretary to Monsieur Renauld?’
‘About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met him through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering good boss he was too.’
‘Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?’
‘Yes, a good bit.’
‘Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?’
‘Several times, I believe.’
‘He never mentioned any special incident that occurred there—anything that might have provoked some vendetta against him?’
‘Never.’
‘Did he speak of any secret he had acquired while sojourning there?’
‘Not that I can remember. Bug for all that, there was a mystery about him. I’ve never heard him speak of his boyhood, for instance, or of any incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French-Canadian by birth, I believe, but I’ve never heard him speak of his life in Canada. He could shut up like a clam if he wished.’
‘So, as far as you know, he had secrets, and you can give us no clue as to any secret because of which he might have been murdered?’