and to M. Hautet, who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the Paris detective could not fail to give offense.
“Eh bien, M. Giraud,” said the magistrate rather sharply. “Without doubt you have been employing your time to a marvel You have the names of the assassins for us, have you not? And also the precise spot where they find themselves now?”
Unmoved by this irony, Giraud replied, “I know at least where they have come from.”
“Comment?”
Giraud took two small objects from his pocket and laid them down on the table. We crowded round. The objects were very simple ones: the stub of a cigarette, and an unlighted match. The detective wheeled round on Poirot.
“What do you see there?” he asked.
There was something almost brutal in his tone. It made my cheeks flush. But Poirot remained unmoved. He shrugged his shoulders.
“A cigarette end, and a match.”
“And what does that tell you?”
Poirot spread out his hands. “It tells me—nothing.”
“Ah!” said Giraud, in a satisfied voice. “You haven’t made a study of these things. That’s not an ordinary match—not in this country at least. It's common enough in South America. Luckily it's unlighted. I mightn’t have recognized it otherwise. Evidently one of the men threw away his cigarette end, and lit another, spilling one match out of the box as he did so.”
“And the other match?” asked Poirot.
“Which match?”
“The one he did light his cigarette with. You have found that also?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you didn’t search very thoroughly.”
“Not search thoroughly—” For a moment it seemed as though the detective were going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled himself. “I see you love a joke, M. Poirot. But in any case, match or no match, the cigarette end
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