‘Proceed with your story,’ said the magistrate.
‘After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed down. I wrote to Marthe telling her what had happened, and her reply soothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be steadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection for each other must be trim and proved and when my parents realized that it was no light infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent towards us. Of course, to her, I had not dwelt on my father’s principal objection to the match. I soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence.’
‘To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen, Monsieur Renauld?’
‘Duveen,’ said Jack. ‘Duveen?’ He leant forward and slowly picked up the paper knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head his eyes met the watching ones of Giraud. ‘Duveen? No, I can’t say I do.’
‘Will you read this letter, Monsieur Renauld? And tell me if you have any idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father.’
Jack Renauld took the letter and read it through, the colour mounting in his face as he did so.
‘Addressed to my father?’ The emotion and indignation in his tones were evident.
‘Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.’
‘Does—’ He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards his mother.
The magistrate understood.
‘As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?’
‘I have no idea whatsoever.’
M. Hautet sighed. ‘A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the letter altogether. Let me see where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this may give you pain, Monsieur Renauld. I understand it was a present from you to your mother. Very sad—very distressing.’
Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the perusal of the letter, was now deadly white.
‘Do you mean—that it was with an aeroplane wire paper cutter that my father was—was killed? But it’s impossible! A little thing like that!’
‘Alas, Monsieur Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear. Sharp and easy to handle.’
‘Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the—the body?’
‘Oh no, it has been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still—Monsieur Bex, might I trouble you?’
‘Certainly. I will fetch it immediately.’
‘Would it not be better to take Monsieur 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. Monsieur 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.
‘Monsieur le juge! Monsieur le juge!’
‘But yes. What is it?’
‘The dagger! It is gone!’
‘What—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.’