ceeding. Poirot waded on through collars, pajamas, and socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the window. Instantly I became galvanized into life.
“Poirot!” I cried. “A car has just driven up. Giraud is in it, and Jack Renauld, and two gendarmes.”
“Sacré tonnerre!” growled Poirot. “That animal of a Giraud, could he not wait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this last drawer with the proper method. Let us be quick.”
Unceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and handkerchiefs. Suddenly with a cry of triumph Poirot pounced on something, a small square cardboard, evidently a photograph. Thrusting it into his pocket, he returned the things pell-mell to the drawer, and seizing me by the arm dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. In the hall stood Giraud, contemplating his prisoner.
“Good afternoon, M. Giraud,” said Poirot. “What have we here?”
Giraud nodded his head toward Jack.
“He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He is under arrest for the murder of his father, M. Paul Renauld.”
Poirot wheeled to confront the boy who leaned limply against the door, his face ashy pale.
“What do you say to that, jeune homme?”
Jack Renauld stared at him stonily.
“Nothing,” he said.
142
