Poirot nodded.
“Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call him.”
I rallied myself.
“But it’s impossible.”
“How ‘impossible?’ Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did she not very effectively blackmail M. Renauld?”
“That may be true enough, but—”
“And is it not a fact that we know nothing of M. Renauld’s youth and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?”
“All that is so,” I said more firmly, “but you seem to me to be overlooking one salient point.”
“What is it, my friend?”
“Why, we have admitted Georges Conneau planned the crime. That brings us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!”
“Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot placidly, “that is just what he did do!”
