made by the workmen who discovered the body.”
The other grunted disgustedly.
“I can see the tracks where the three of them came through the hedge—but they were cunning. You can just recognize the centre footmarks as those of M. Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully obliterated. Not that there would really be much to see anyway on this hard ground, but they weren’t taking any chances.”
“The external sign,” said Poirot. “That is what you seek, eh?”
The other detective stared.
“Of course.”
A very faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He seemed about to speak, but checked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying.
“That’s what the grave was dug with, right enough,” said Giraud. “But you’ll get nothing from it. It was Renauld’s own spade, and the man who used it wore gloves. Here they are.” He gesticulated with his foot to where two soiled earth-stained gloves were lying. “And they’re Renauld’s too—or at least his gardener’s. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking no chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have been buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces! But I’ll beat them. There’s always something! And I mean to find it.”
But Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short discoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade. He touched it delicately with his finger.
“And does this, too, belong to the murdered man?” he asked, and I thought I detected a subtle flavour of irony in the question.
Giraud shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he neither knew nor cared.
“May have been lying around here for weeks. Anyway, it doesn’t interest me.”
