Chapter 15 Chapter 15 A Photo

The doctor's words were so unexpected that we were all puzzled for a while.The deceased was stabbed to death with a dagger.The dagger we knew had been stolen twenty-four hours ago, but Dr. Durand concluded that the man had been dead for forty-eight hours! The whole thing was utterly bizarre. Before we had recovered from the shock, I received a telegram.The telegram was relayed from the hotel to the villa.I tore it open and saw that it was from Poirot, saying that he would take the train to Melanville at twelve twenty-eight. I looked at my watch, and I still had time to pick him up at the station calmly.I feel it is of the utmost importance that he be informed immediately of this new and alarming development in the case.

Evidently, what Poirot wanted to find in Paris had already been obtained, I thought.It only took a few hours, and it was enough to prove it by coming back so quickly. I don't know how he will react when I tell him the startling news. The train was late and I was pacing aimlessly up and down the platform.It suddenly occurred to me to pass the time by asking who had left Melanville on the last train on the night of the accident, and I went up to the shrewd-looking foreman's porter, and brought him into the conversation without much trouble.He passionately claimed that letting these gangsters and assassins get away with it was a downfall for the police.I suggested to him that the assassin might have escaped by the midnight train, but he categorically denied it.If it was two foreigners, he would definitely notice it.There were only about twenty people who drove away that day, and he couldn't fail to notice them.

God knows how it came to me—maybe it was Marta Dobler's terribly anxious tone—and I asked suddenly: "Master Renault...he didn't take that bus, did he?" "Oh, no, sir. It's no fun when he arrives and leaves within half an hour, really!" I stared at him, not understanding what he was talking about.And then I figured it out. "You mean," my heart was pounding, "that Master Renault went to Melanville that night?" "Yes, sir. From that direction by the last train at eleven forty." I felt dizzy.This, then, must be the cause of Marta's extreme uneasiness.Jack Reynolds had been to Melanville on the night of the incident.But why didn't he tell? On the contrary, why did he want us to believe that he had been staying in Cherbourg? Looking back on his frank boyish face, I can't believe that he has anything to do with this crime.But why didn't he say anything about such an important matter? It was clear that Marta had known all this all along, and she was very anxious to ask Poirot if anyone was under suspicion.

The arrival of the train interrupted my contemplation, and I met Poirot in a short while.The little man, radiant, smiling, yelling, and forgetting his British formality, hugged me warmly on the platform. "Moncherami, I have succeeded--very well:" "Really? I couldn't be happier to hear that. Have you heard the latest on what's going on here?" "How do you think I can hear everything? That's what's going on, huh? That gallant Giraud, he's arresting a man, maybe a few? Ah, that fellow, I'll make him look Like a fool: But where are you taking me, my friend? Shall we not go to the hotel? I must trim my beard—they're dulled by the heat of the journey. Besides, nothing Doubt, my overcoat is dusty. And my tie, that needs to be rearranged, too."

I cut him off. "My dear Poirot, forget about it. We must go at once to the villa, where another murder has been committed!" I never saw a man so pale, his jaw drooped, his smugness vanished, and he stared at me tongue-in-cheek. "What are you talking about? Another murder? Ah, then I'm all wrong, I've failed. Giro has every reason to laugh at me!" ①French: My dear friend.Annotation one by one. "You didn't expect that, did you?" "I? Didn't think of it at all. It overturned my theory—it ruined everything—it... oh no!" He fell silent, beating his chest, "It can't be, I can't be wrong Yes! These facts, one by one, are clearly laid out, arranged in sequence, and have only one interpretation. I can't be wrong! I'm right!"

"But……" He interrupted me, "Wait, my friend. I can't be wrong. So this new murder is out of the question, unless... unless... well, wait, I beg you, don't talk." He was silent for a minute or two, then regained his composure, and said in a calm but assured tone, "The deceased was a middle-aged man. The body was found in a locked shed near the scene and had been dead for at least forty-eight hours." And it's very likely that he was stabbed in exactly the same place as Raynor's, not in the back, of course." Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded—and I was.As far as I knew Poirot, Poirot had never done anything so astonishing.A wave of doubts inevitably passed through my heart.

"Poirot," I cried, "you're kidding me, you've heard about it." He stared at me reproachfully with those earnest eyes, "Would I do such a thing? I assure you, I've never heard of anything. Didn't you notice how surprised I was when I first heard your words?" "But how on earth do you know all this?" "So, am I right? I know I'm right. My friend, these tiny gray cells, tiny gray cells! That's what they tell me. Only then, and only then, can it happen The second murder. Now tell me everything. It will be much quicker if we turn left and take a short cut across the golf course to the backyard of Villa Genevieve."

We walked along the path he guided, and I told him everything I knew.Poirot listened attentively. "Is that dagger still in the wound, you say? That's strange. Are you sure it's the same dagger?" "Pretty sure. It's just impossible." "There is nothing impossible. There may be two heads." I raised my eyebrows. "Of course, it is quite improbable; or else it is the most extraordinary coincidence." "You speak thoughtlessly, as usual, Hastings. In some cases, it is absolutely impossible to have two identical weapons. But this is not the case now. This particular weapon is based on Jack Raynor's A kind of special war memorabilia made at the behest of my father. Come to think of it, did he only make one? Actually, no, and he probably made another for his own use."

"But no one ever mentioned it," I retorted. There was a hint of lesson in Poirot's tone of voice. "My friend, in dealing with a case we cannot consider only what has been 'mentioned'. There is no reason why many things which might be important should be mentioned. Likewise, there are good reasons why they should not be mentioned. You can choose any of these two motives." I was silent, and could not help feeling that what he said made sense.After a while, we came to the well-known shed.Our friends are all there.After a short chat, Poirot set to work. I had already seen Giro in action, so I was even more interested.Poirot cast a cursory glance around, examining only the pile of worn coats and trousers by the door.A scornful smile crossed Jiro's lips.Poirot seemed to notice, and threw the clothes aside.

"Is this the gardener's old clothes?" he asked. "Exactly," said Jiro. Crouching down beside the corpse, Poirot examined the texture of the garment with his fingers quickly and methodically, satisfied that there were no marks on it.He examined the boots and the dirty broken nail with particular care.While examining the nails, he asked Jiro hurriedly, "Did you see this man's nails?" "I see," replied Giraud, his face still elusive. Suddenly Poirot straightened up. "Doctor Durand!" "Call me?" The doctor stepped forward.

"Froth on the lips, have you noticed?" "I admit, I didn't pay attention." "Can you see it now?" "Well, of course." Poirot asked Gilot again: "Needless to say, you noticed." Jiro didn't answer.Poirot continued his examination.The dagger had been removed from the wound and placed in a glass jar next to the body.Poirot examined the chin, and then examined the wound more closely.When he looked up.His eyes were excited, flashing the familiar green light. "It's a curious wound, very simple! No blood, and no blood on the clothes. It's just a slight discoloration of the cut. What do you think, monsieurledocteur?" "All I can say is, it's extremely abnormal." "There is nothing abnormal about it at all. It is a very simple matter. The man was stabbed posthumously." Poirot silenced the uproar with a wave of his hand, then turned to Giraud and asked: "Mr. Giraud also Agree with me, don't you, sir?" Whether he really believed it or not, Giraud took the scene calmly, and replied calmly and disdainfully: "Of course, I agree." There was another commotion of surprise and interest. "Good idea:" cried Monsieur Ayut, "to stab him after death: barbaric: I've never heard of it: maybe it's a sworn enemy. " "No," said Poirot, "I must say that it was done in a very level-headed way—to create an illusion." "What illusion?" "It almost creates a false impression," said Poirot mysteriously. Bex has been thinking about it. "Then how did this man get killed?" "He wasn't killed, he died of illness. If I'm not mistaken, he died of epilepsy." Poirot's words caused another great commotion.Dr. Durand bends again ①French: Mr. Doctor. ——Annotation, the lower knee was examined in as much detail as possible, and finally he rose to his feet. "M. Poirot, I trust your judgment to be correct. I was led astray from the very beginning. The indisputable fact of this man's assassination made me ignore all other indications." For a moment Poirot was a hero.The prosecutor repeatedly praised.Poirot accepted the compliments with great grace, and then took his leave, on the pretext that we had not had lunch, and that he wished to relieve the fatigue of the journey.As we were leaving the shed, Giraud came up. "And one more thing, M. Poirot," he said, in a mildly mocking tone, "that we found this wound around the hilt of the dagger— —a woman's hair." "Ah!" said Poirot, "a woman's hair? Which woman's? I don't understand." "I don't understand either," Jiro finished.He bowed and left. "He's still holding on, what a Giraud," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked towards the hotel. "I don't see where he's going to lead us astray! A woman's hair, eh!" We ate with great gusto, but I noticed that Poirot was a little absent-minded.after dinner.We went upstairs to our living room, and I asked him to tell me about his mysterious trip to Paris. "With pleasure, my friend. I went to Paris and found this." He took from his pocket a small newspaper clipping, a reproduction of a photograph of a woman.He handed me the photo, and I couldn't help but cry out. "You know her, my friend?" I nod.Although the photos were clearly taken many years ago, with different hair and clothing styles, the similarities are unmistakable. "Mrs. Dobler!" I cried. Poirot smiled and shook his head. "Not quite, my friend, that was not her name then. This picture is of the notorious Mrs. Bellodi:" Lady Bellodi! For a split second I recalled the whole incident, the murder trial that caught the world's attention: The Bellodi case!