There is a struggle, Renauld seeks to eject him, and suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead. Renauld calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed—as we know the event had occurred just outside—and they realize the marvellous opportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no resemblance to Renauld but he is middle-aged, of a usual French type. That is sufficient.’
‘I rather fancy that they sat on the bench up there, out of earshot from the house, discussing matters. Their plan was quickly made. The identification must rest solely on Madame Renauld’s evidence. Jack Renauld and the chauffeur (who had been with his master two years) must be got out of the way. It was unlikely that the French women servants would go near the body, and in any case Renauld intended to take measures to deceive anyone not likely to appreciate details. Masters was sent off, a telegram dispatched to Jack, Buenos Aires being selected to give credence to the story that Renauld had decided upon. Having heard of me as a rather obscure elderly detective, he wrote his appeal for help, knowing that when I arrived, the production of the letter would have a profound effect upon the examining magistrate—which, of course, it did.’
‘They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of Renauld’s and left his ragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to take them into the house. And then, to give credence to the tale Madame Renauld was to tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night Renauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a grave in that particular plot of ground where he knows a—how do you call it?—bunkair? is to be made. It is essential that the body should be found—Madame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a little time elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened.’
‘Then, Renauld will don the tramp’s rags, and shuffle off to the station, where he will leave, unnoticed, by the train. Since the crime will be supposed to have taken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach to him.’
‘You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl, Bella. Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create the impression that assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the looseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but leaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented before, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The night is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his underclothing, intending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the window, smoothing over the flowerbed carefully, and thereby furnishing the most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely golf links, and he digs. And then—’
‘Yes?’
‘And then,’ said Poirot gravely, ‘the justice that he has so long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. No, Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the crime that Monsieur Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to investigate, is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult—since the criminal, in his wisdoms has been content to avail himself of the devices prepared by Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and baffling mystery to solve.’
‘You’re marvellous, Poirot,’ I said, with admiration. ‘Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you would have done it!’
I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life he looked almost embarrassed.
‘That poor Giraud,’ said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. ‘Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least, it was misleading.’