South America which might throw light on his murder?”
Mrs. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head.
“I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people he had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one distinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident—only that I am not aware of it.”
The examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately.
“And you can fix the time of this outrage?”
“Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike two.” She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case which stood in the centre of the chimney-piece.
Poirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded, satisfied.
“And here too,” exclaimed M. Bex, “is a wrist watch, knocked off the dressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms. Little did they know it would testify against them.”
Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction.
“Mon Dieu!” he ejaculated.
“What is it?”
“The hands of the watch point to seven o’clock!”
“What?” cried the examining magistrate, astonished.
But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.
“The glass is broken, yes, but the watch itself is still going.”
The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the magistrate bethought him of another point.
“But surely it is not seven o’clock now?”
“No,” said Poirot gently, “it is a few minutes after
