“Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale—if it were all would indeed be plain sailing—it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?” “I can’t believe that,” I said slowly. “If it is so, she must be the most consummate actress the world has ever known.” “Ta-ta-ta,” said Poirot impatiently. “Again you have the sentiment, and not the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Madame Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already enumerated to you. The others are self-evident. Therefore, that possibility eliminated, we draw very near to the truth which is, as always, very curious and interesting.” “Poirot,” I cried, “what more do you know?” “_Mon ami___, you must make your own deductions. You have ‘access to the facts!’ Concentrate your grey cells. Reason—not like Giraud—but like Hercule Poirot.” “But are you _sure?___” “My friend, in many ways I have been an imbecile. But at last I see clearly.” “You know everything?” “I have discovered what M. Renauld sent for me to discover.” “And you know the murderer?” “I know one murderer.” “What do you mean?” “We talk a little at cross-purposes. There are here not one crime, but two. The first I have solved, the second—_eh bien___, I will confess, I am not sure!” “But, Poirot, I thought you said the man in the shed had died a natural death?” “Ta-ta-ta.” Poirot made his favourite ejaculation of impatience. “Still you do not understand. One may have a crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential to have two bodies.” His remark struck me as so peculiarly lacking in lucidity that I looked at him in some anxiety. But he appeared perfectly normal. Suddenly he rose and strolled to the window. “Here he is,” he observed. “Who?” “M. Jack Renauld. I sent a note up to the Villa to ask him to come here.” That changed the course of my ideas, and I asked Poirot if he knew that Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. I had hoped to catch my astute little friend napping, but as usual, he was omniscient. He, too, had inquired at the station. “And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made his inquiries.” “You don’t think—” I said, and then stopped. “Ah, no, it would be too horrible!”