‘I can see the tracks where the three of them came through the hedge—but they were cunning. You can just recognize the centre footmarks as those of Monsieur Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully obliterated. Not that there would really be much to see anyway on this hard ground, but they weren’t taking any chances.’
‘The external sign,’ said Poirot. ‘That is what you seek, eh?’
The other detective stared.
‘Of course.’
A very faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He seemed about to speak, but checked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying.
‘That’s what the grave was dug with, right enough,’ said Giraud. ‘But you’ll get nothing from it. It was Renauld’s own spade, and the man who used it wore gloves. Here they are.’ He gesticulated with his foot to where two soil-stained gloves were lying. ‘And they’re Renauld’s too—or at least his gardener’s. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking no chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have been buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces! But I’ll beat them. There’s always something! And I mean to find it.’
But Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short, discoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade. He touched it delicately with his finger.
‘And does this, too, belong to the murdered man?’ he asked, and I thought I detected a subtle flavour of irony in the question.
Giraud shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he neither knew nor cared.
‘May have been lying around here for weeks. Anyway, it doesn’t interest me.’
‘I, on the contrary, find it very interesting,’ said Poirot sweetly.
I guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and, if so, he succeeded. The other turned away rudely, remarking that he had no time to waste, and bending down he resumed his minute search of the ground.
Meanwhile, Poirot, as though struck by a sudden idea, stepped back over the boundary, and tried the door of the little shed.
‘That’s locked,’ said Giraud over his shoulder. ‘But it’s only a place where the gardener keeps his rubbish. The spade didn’t come from there, but from the tool-shed up by the house.’
‘Marvellous,’ murmured M. Bex ecstatically to me. ‘He has been here but half an hour, and he already knows everything! What a man! Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today.’
Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help feeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it vexed me. He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly puerile points that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he suddenly asked:
‘Monsieur Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this white-washed line that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?’
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