“Perhaps you didn’t search very thoroughly.”
“Not search thoroughly—” For a moment it seemed as though the detective were going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled himself. “I see you love a joke, M. Poirot. But in any case, match or no match, the cigarette end would be sufficient. It is a South American cigarette with liquorice pectoral paper.”
Poirot bowed. The commissary spoke:
“The cigarette end and match might have belonged to M. Renauld. Remember, it is only two years since he returned from South America.”
“No,” replied the other confidently. “I have already searched among the effects of M. Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he used are quite different.”
“You do not think it odd,” asked Poirot, “that these strangers should come unprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and that they should so conveniently find all these things?”
Giraud smiled in a rather superior manner.
“Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it would be inexplicable.”
“Aha!” said M. Hautet. “An accomplice. An accomplice within the house!”
“Or outside it,” said Giraud with a peculiar smile.
“But some one must have admitted them? We cannot allow that, by an unparalleled piece of good fortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk in?”
“D’accord, M. le juge. The door was opened for them, but it could just as easily be opened from outside—by some one who possessed a key.”
“But who did possess a key?”
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
“As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if they can help it. But several people might have had one. M. Jack Renauld, the son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but he might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the gardener—he has been here many years. One
