nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale—if it were all would indeed be plain sailing—it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?”
“I can’t believe that,” I said slowly. “If it is so, she must be the most consummate actress the world has ever known.”
“Ta-ta-ta,” said Poirot impatiently. “Again you have the sentiment, and not the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Madame Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already enumerated to you. The others are self-evident. Therefore, that possibility eliminated, we draw very near to the truth which is, as always, very curious and interesting.”
“Poirot,” I cried, “what more do you know?”
“Mon ami, you must make your own deductions. You have ‘access to the facts!’ Concentrate your grey cells. Reason—not like Giraud—but like Hercule Poirot.”
“But are you sure?”
“My friend, in many ways I have been an imbecile. But at last I see clearly.”
“You know everything?”
“I have discovered what M. Renauld sent for me to discover.”
“And you know the murderer?”
“I know one murderer.”
“What do you mean?”
“We talk a little at cross-purposes. There are here not one crime, but two. The first I have solved, the second—eh bien, I will confess, I am not sure!”
“But, Poirot, I thought you said the man in the shed had died a natural death?”
“Ta-ta-ta.” Poirot made his favourite ejaculation of
