their little children for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.”
“And the motive?”
“Money, of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would come into half his father’s fortune at the latter’s death.”
“But the tramp. Where does he come in?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Giraud would say that he was an accomplice—an apache who helped young Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of the way afterward.”
“But the hair round the dagger? The woman’s hair?”
“Ah,” said Poirot, smiling broadly. “That is the cream of Giraud’s little jest. According to him, it is not a woman’s hair at all. Remember that some youths of today wear their hair brushed straight back from the forehead with pomade or hairwash to make it lie flat. Consequently some of the hairs are of considerable length.”
“And you believe that too?”
“No,” said Poirot with a curious smile. “For I know it to be the hair of a woman—and more, which woman!”
“Madame Daubreuil,” I announced positively.
“Perhaps,” said Poirot, regarding me quizzically.
But I refused to allow myself to get annoyed.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked, as we entered the hall of the Villa Geneviève.
“I wish to make a search among the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That is why I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.”
“But will not Giraud have searched already?” I asked.
“Of course. He builds a case, as a beaver builds a dam, with a fatiguing industry. But he will not have looked for the things that I am seeking—in all probability he would not have seen their importance if they stared him in the face. Let us begin.”
Neatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined the contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a singularly dull and uninteresting pro-
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