sented himself at the house. Without doubt, he saw Captain Hastings and his companion leave the shed, slipped in himself and took the dagger, stabbed his accomplice in the shed—”
“Who was already dead!”
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly he did not observe that. He may have judged him to be sleeping. Without doubt they had a rendezvous. In any case he knew this apparent second murder would greatly complicate the case. It did.”
“But it could not deceive M. Giraud,” murmured Poirot.
“You mock yourself at me. But I will give you one last irrefutable proof. Madame Renauld’s story was false—a fabrication from beginning to end. We believe Madame Renauld to have loved her husband—yet she lied to shield his murderer. For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself, usually for the man she loves, always for her children. That is the last—the irrefutable proof. You cannot get round it.”
Giraud paused, flushed and triumphant. Poirot regarded him steadily.
“That is my case,” said Giraud. “What have you to say to it?”
“Only that there is one thing you have failed to take into account.”
“What is that?”
“Jack Renauld was presumably acquainted with the planning out of the golf course. He knew that the body would be discovered almost at once, when they started to dig the bunker.”
Giraud laughed out loud.
“But it is idiotic what you say there! He wanted the body to be found! Until it was found, he could not presume death, and would have been unable to enter into his inheritance.”
I saw a quick flash of green in Poirot’s eyes as he rose to his feet.
“Then why bury it?” he asked softly. “Reflect,
