‘Monsieur?’
‘Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour ago.’
‘She is coming up the path now monsieur, and her son with her.’
‘Good. I only want one at a time, though.’
Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs. Renauld.
‘Here is Madame.’
Giraud came forward with a curt bow.
‘This way, madame.’ He led her across, and then, standing suddenly aside: ‘Here is the man. Do you know him?’
And as he spoke his eyes, gimlet-like bored into her face seeking to read her mind, noting every indication of her [garbled]
But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of agitation or recognition.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?’
‘No.’ She seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. ‘No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the magistrate thought—but still . . .’ Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely, ‘I am sure neither of the two was this man.’
[garbled]
Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was [unreadable] or chagrined I could not tell. He called Marchaud. ‘You have got the other there?’
‘The other’ was Madame Daubreuil. She [unclear] indignantly, sprang with vehemence ‘I, oh! Monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?’
‘Madame,’ said Giraud brutally, ‘I am investigating not one murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.’
‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous!’
‘Infamous, is it? What about this?’ Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. ‘Do you see this, madame?’
He advanced towards her. ‘You permit that I see whether it matches?’
With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.
‘It is false, I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Anyone who says I do lies! Ah, mon Dieu, what shall I do?’
‘Calm yourself, madame,’ said Giraud coldly. ‘No one has accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.’
‘Anything you wish, monsieur.’
‘Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?’
Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head.
‘I do not know him.’
It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud dismissed her with a nod of the head.
‘You are letting her go?’ I asked in a low voice. ‘Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her head.’
‘I do not need teaching my business,’ said Giraud dryly. ‘She is under surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.’
Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.
‘Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?’ he asked suddenly.
I considered the face carefully. ‘No,’ I said at last. ‘I should put him down as a Frenchman most decidedly.’
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. ‘Same here.’
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside and once more, on hands and knees he continued his search of the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end he rose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed harried and perplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence.