But at the moment a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old friend, the examining magistrate accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex with the doctor behind them, came bustling in.
‘But this is extraordinary, Monsieur Giraud,’ cried M. Hautet. ‘Another crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?’
‘That is just what nobody can tell us, monsieur. He has not been identified.’
‘Where is the body?’ asked the doctor.
Giraud moved aside a little. ‘There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can handle the dagger freely—there are no fingerprints on it.’
The doctor knelt down by the dead man and Giraud turned to the examining magistrate.
‘A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.’
‘And so no one can identify him,’ mused the magistrate. ‘Could it possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among themselves.’
Giraud shook his head. ‘The man is a Frenchman. I would take my oath on that.’
But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor, who was sitting back on his heels with a perplexed expression.
‘You say he was killed yesterday morning?’
‘I fix it by the theft of the dagger,’ explained Giraud. ‘He may, of course, have been killed later in the day.’
‘Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least forty-eight hours, and probably longer.’
We stared at each other in blank amazement.
CHAPTER 15
A PHOTOGRAPH
The doctor’s words were so surprising that we were all momentarily taken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have been stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr. Durand asserted positively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing was fantastic to the last extreme.
We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor’s announcement when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to the villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the train arriving at Merlinville at [garbled].
I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to the station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance that he should know at once of the new and startling developments in the case.
Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he wanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved that. Very few hours had sufficed. I wondered how he would take the exciting news I had to impart.
The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down the platform until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a few questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening of the tragedy.
I approached the chief porter, an intelligent-looking man, and had little difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to the police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands or assassins should be allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility they might have left by the midnight train but he negatived the idea decidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners—he was sure of it. Only about twenty people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to observe them.
I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s eyes—but I asked suddenly: ‘Young Monsieur Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?’
‘Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it would not be amusing, that!’
I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me. Then I saw.
‘You mean,’ I said, my heart beating a little, ‘that Monsieur Jack Renauld arrived at Merlinville that evening?’