‘But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the [??]4[?].’
My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. But why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that he had any connexion with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about so vital a matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along. Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot as to whether anyone was suspected.
My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced me warmly on the platform.
‘Mon crier ami, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!’
‘Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?’
‘How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some developments, eh? The brave Giraud he has made an arrest? Or even arrests perhaps? Ah, but I make him look foolish, that one! But where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must rearrange.’
I cut short his remonstrances.
‘My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the villa at once. There has been another murder!’
Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.
‘What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, but I am all wrong. I have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!’
‘You did not expect it, then?’
‘I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins everything—it— Ah, no!’ He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest. ‘It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts, taken methodically, and in their proper order, admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I am right!’
‘But then—’
He interrupted, me. ‘Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is impossible unless—unless . . . No, wait, I implore you. Say no word.’
He was silent for a moment or two, then resuming his normal manner, he said in a quiet assured voice: ‘The victim is a man of middle age. His body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to Mr. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.’
To my knowledge of Poirot he had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably a doubt crossed my mind.
‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it already.’
He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully. ‘Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?’
‘But how on earth could you know all that?’
‘I was right, then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can take a shortcut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the Villa Genevieve much more quickly.’
As we walked, taking the way he had indicated I recounted all I knew. Poirot listened attentively.
‘The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it was the same one?’
‘Absolutely certain. That’s what makes it so impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most extraordinary coincidence.’