He opened the door and we passed in. The murdered man lay on the ground, with a sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the covering. Renauld was a man of medium height, slender, and lithe in figure. He looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey. He was clean-shaven with a long, thin nose, and eyes set rather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who had spent most of his life beneath tropical skies. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was stamped on the livid features.
‘One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the back,’ remarked Poirot.
Very gently, he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder-blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the middle of it there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.
‘Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?’
‘It was left in the wound.’ The commissary reached down a large glass jar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper-knife than anything else. It had a black handle and a narrow shining blade. The whole thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured point gingerly with his finger-tip.
‘Ma foi! but it is sharp! A nice easy little tool for murder!’
‘Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,’ remarked Bex regretfully. ‘The murderer must have worn gloves.’
‘Of course he did,’ said Poirot contemptuously. ‘Even in Santiago they know enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English Mees knows it—thanks to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no fingerprints. It is so amazingly simple to leave the fingerprints of someone else! And then the police are happy.’ He shook his head. ‘I very much fear our criminal is not a man of method—either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.’
He let the body fall back into its original position.
‘He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious point.’
At this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after him. He strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She endeavoured to peep in with ghoulish curiosity.
‘Well, what is it?’ demanded Bex impatiently.
‘Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered and is quite ready to receive the examining magistrate.’
‘Good,’ said M. Bex briskly. ‘Tell Monsieur Hautet and say that we will come at once.’
Poirot lingered a moment, looking back towards the body. I thought for a moment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his determination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But when he spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.
‘He wore his overcoat very long,’ he said constrainedly.
We found M. Hautet awaiting us in the hall, and we all proceeded upstairs together, Françoise marching ahead to show us the way. Poirot went up in a zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a grimace:
‘No wonder the servants heard M. Renauld mounting the stairs, not a board of them but creaks fit to awake the dead!’
At the head of the staircase, a small passage branched off.
‘The servants’ quarters,’ explained Bex.
We continued along a corridor, and Françoise tapped on the last door to the right of it.
A faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large, sunny apartment looking out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a quarter of a mile distant.
On a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr Durand, lay a tall, striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark hair was now almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality, and strength of her personality would have made itself felt anywhere. You knew at once that you were in the presence of what the French call une maîtresse femme.
She greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head.
‘Pray be seated, messieurs.’
We took chairs, and the magistrate’s clerk established himself at a round table.
‘I hope, madame,’ began M. Hautet, ‘that it will not distress you unduly to relate to us what occurred last night?’
‘Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if these scoundrelly assassins are to be caught and punished.’
‘Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did you go to bed last night?’
‘At half past nine, monsieur. I was tired.’
‘And your husband?’
‘About an hour later, I fancy.’
‘Did he seem disturbed—upset in any way?’
‘No, not more than usual.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We slept. I was awakened by a hand pressed over my mouth. I tried to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the room. They were both masked.’
‘Can you describe them at all, madame?’
‘One was very tall, and had a long black beard, the other was short and stout. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their eyes.’
‘H’m!’ said the magistrate thoughtfully. ‘Too much beard, I fear.’
‘You mean they were false?’
‘Yes, madame. But continue your story.’
‘It was the short man who was holding me. He forced a gag into my mouth, and then bound me with rope hand and foot. The other man was standing over my husband. He had caught up my little dagger paper-knife from the dressing-table and was holding it with the point just over his heart. When the short man had finished with me, he joined the other, and they forced my husband to get up and accompany them into the dressing-room next door. I was nearly fainting with terror, nevertheless I listened desperately.
‘They were speaking in too low a tone for me to hear what they said. But I recognized the language, a bastard Spanish such as is spoken in some parts of South America. They seemed to be demanding something from my husband, and presently they grew angry, and their voices rose a little. I think the tall man was speaking. “You know what we want?” he said. “The secret! Where is it?” I do not know what my husband answered, but the other replied fiercely: “You lie! We know you have it. Where are your keys?”
‘Then I heard sounds of drawers being pulled out. There is a safe on the wall of my husband’s dressing-room in which he always keeps a fairly large amount of ready money. Léonie tells me this has been rifled and the money taken, but evidently what they were looking for was not there, for presently I heard the tall man, with an oath, command my husband to dress himself. Soon after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them, for they hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed.’
‘Pardon,’