“You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl Bella. Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create the impression that the assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the looseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but leaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented before, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The night is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his underclothing, intending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the window, smoothing over the flower bed carefully, and thereby furnishing the most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely golf links, and he digs—and then—”
“Yes?”
“And then,” said Poirot gravely, “the justice that he has so long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. … Now, Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the crime that M. Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to investigate (ah, but he made a famous mistake there! He misjudged Hercule Poirot!) is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult—since the criminal in his wisdom, has been content to avail himself of the devices prepared by M. Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and baffling mystery to solve. A young hand, like Giraud, who does not place any reliance on the psychology, is almost certain to fail.”
“You’re marvellous, Poirot,” I said, with admiration. “Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you could have done it!”
I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life, he looked almost embarrassed.
“Ah, then you no longer despise poor old Papa Poirot? You shift your allegiance back from the human foxhound?”
His term for Giraud never failed to make me smile.
“Rather. You’ve scored over him handsomely.”
“That poor Giraud,” said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. “Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least, it was misleading.”
“To tell you the truth, Poirot,” I said slowly, “even now I don’t quite see—whose hair was it?”