“Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that was Georges Conneau who dictated the lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack Renauld, follows that the third case is put out of court. And, still attributing the crime to Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are forced to the second—that Madame Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved—or in other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree to that.” “Yes,” I admitted. “It seems logical enough.” “_Bien!___ Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges Conneau?” “The tramp.” “Have we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?” “No, but—” “Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts no longer support them. Ask yourself instead who Madame Renauld _did___ love.” I shook my head perplexed. “_Mais, oui___, you know perfectly. Who did Madame Renauld love so dearly that when she saw his dead body, she fell down in a swoon?” I stared dumbfounded. “Her husband?” I gasped. Poirot nodded. “Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call him.” I rallied myself. “But it’s impossible.” “How ‘impossible?’ Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?” “Yes, but—” “And did she not very effectively blackmail M. Renauld?” “That may be true enough, but—” “And is it not a fact that we know nothing of M. Renauld’s youth and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?” “All that is so,” I said more firmly, “but you seem to me to be overlooking one salient point.” “What is it, my friend?” “Why, we have admitted Georges Conneau planned the crime. That brings us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!” “_Eh bien, mon ami___,” said Poirot placidly, “that is just what he did do!” 21 Hercule Poirot on the Case! In a measured voice, Poirot began his exposition. “It seems strange to you, _mon ami___, that a man should plan his own death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, M. Renauld planned his own death, but there is one detail that perhaps escapes you—he did not intend to die.” I shook my head, bewildered. “But no, it is all most simple really,” said Poirot kindly. “For the crime that M. Renauld proposed a murderer was not necessary, as I told you, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a different angle.