make to benefit him in any way.”
“Exactly, M. Poirot,” said the lad. “That fellow Giraud is an ill-conditioned brute, and I’d be delighted to see some one score at his expense.”
“Then I may ask a little favour of you?”
“Certainly.”
“I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask there at the cloak-room whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?”
“Of course I will,” said the boy, mystified, though ready for the task.
“I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,” explained Poirot. “There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to return to the Villa, as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your errand.”
“Very well, I will go straight to the station.”
He rose to his feet. Poirot’s voice stopped him.
“One moment, M. Renauld, there is one little matter that puzzles me. Why did you not mention to M. Hautet this morning that you were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?”
Jack Renauld’s face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.
“You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg, as I told the examining magistrate this morning.”
Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed, cat-like, until they only showed a gleam of green.
“Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there—for it is shared by the station staff. They say you arrived by the 11:40 train.”
For a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.
“And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating in my father’s murder?” He asked
