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A
very
faint
smile
came
to
Poirot
’
s
lips
.
He
seemed
about
to
speak
,
but
checked
himself
.
He
bent
down
to
where
a
spade
was
lying
.
“
That
’
s
what
the
grave
was
dug
with
,
right
enough
,
”
said
Giraud
.
“
But
you
’
ll
get
nothing
from
it
.
It
was
Renauld
’
s
own
spade
,
and
the
man
who
used
it
wore
gloves
.
Here
they
are
.
”
He
gesticulated
with
his
foot
to
where
two
soiled
earth
-
stained
gloves
were
lying
.
“
And
they
’
re
Renauld
’
s
too
—
or
at
least
his
gardener
’
s
.
I
tell
you
,
the
men
who
planned
out
this
crime
were
taking
no
chances
.
The
man
was
stabbed
with
his
own
dagger
,
and
would
have
been
buried
with
his
own
spade
.
They
counted
on
leaving
no
traces
!
But
I
’
ll
beat
them
.
There
’
s
always
something
!
And
I
mean
to
find
it
.
”
But
Poirot
was
now
apparently
interested
in
something
else
,
a
short
discoloured
piece
of
lead
-
piping
which
lay
beside
the
spade
.
He
touched
it
delicately
with
his
finger
.
“
And
does
this
,
too
,
belong
to
the
murdered
man
?
”
he
asked
,
and
I
thought
I
detected
a
subtle
flavour
of
irony
in
the
question
.
Giraud
shrugged
his
shoulders
to
indicate
that
he
neither
knew
nor
cared
.
“
May
have
been
lying
around
here
for
weeks
.
Anyway
,
it
doesn
’
t
interest
me
.
”
“
I
,
on
the
contrary
,
find
it
very
interesting
,
”
said
Poirot
sweetly
.
I
guessed
that
he
was
merely
bent
on
annoying
the
Paris
detective
and
,
if
so
,
he
succeeded
.
The
other
turned
away
rudely
,
remarking
that
he
had
no
time
to
waste
,
and
bending
down
he
resumed
his
minute
search
of
the
ground
.
Meanwhile
Poirot
,
as
though
struck
by
a
sudden
idea
,
stepped
back
over
the
boundary
,
and
tried
the
door
of
the
little
shed
.
“
That
’
s
locked
,
”
said
Giraud
over
his
shoulder
.
“
But
it
’
s
only
a
place
where
the
gardener
keeps
his
rubbish
.
The
spade
didn
’
t
come
from
there
,
but
from
the
toolshed
up
by
the
house
.
”
