gloves. So he must have been sure.”
“I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice who was not aware of that fact.”
“Ils sont mal renseignés, les accomplices!” muttered Poirot, but he said no more.
The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M. Hautet addressed us:
“Our work here is finished. Perhaps, M. Renauld, you will listen whilst your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The case is now in the clever hands of the renowned M. Giraud. He will without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my heart-felt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish you all good day.” And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure.
Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his, and observed the time.
“Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,” he said. “And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.”
We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me:
“One little moment, my friend.” Dexterously, he whipped out his yard measure, and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr. Stonor, or Jack Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket, and followed me out into the open air.
