similar to the one Poirot had taken from the armchair in the library.
With a slightly ironic smile he wound it round the dagger again.
“We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he explained. "It pleases the examining magistrate. Eh bien, do you notice anything else?”
I was forced to shake my head.
“Look at his hands.”
I did. The nails were broken and discolored, and the skin was hard. It hardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked. I looked up at Giraud.
“They are not the hands of a gentleman,” he said, answering my look. “On the contrary, his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is curious, is it not?”
“Very curious,” I agreed.
“And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know—he was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.”
He looked down at the body again.
“As before there are no fingerprints on the handle of the dagger. The murderer again wore gloves.”
“You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I asked eagerly.
Giraud became inscrutable.
“Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!”
The sergent de ville appeared at the doorway.
“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.
113
