to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, mon ami, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.”
But I had not followed his words. A light had burst upon me. “Poirot! Mrs. Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.”
From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could see that the idea had already occurred to him.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Shielding someone—or screening someone. One of the two.”
I saw very little difference between the two words, but I developed my theme with a good deal of earnestness.
Poirot maintained a strictly noncommittal attitude, repeating, “It may be—yes, it may be. But as yet I do not know! There is something very deep underneath all this. You will see. Something very deep.”
Then, as we entered our hotel, he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.
101
