6. The Scene of the Crime

           Betweenthem,thedoctorandM.Hautetcarriedtheunconsciouswomanintothehouse.Thecommissarylookedafterthem,shakinghishead.

           “Pauvrefemme,”hemurmuredtohimself.“Theshockwastoomuchforher.Well,well,wecandonothing.Now,M.Poirot,shallwevisittheplacewherethecrimewascommitted?”

           “Ifyouplease,M.Bex.”

           Wepassedthroughthehouse,andoutbythefrontdoor.Poirothadlookedupatthestaircaseinpassing,andshookhisheadinadissatisfiedmanner.

           “Itistomeincrediblethattheservantsheardnothing.Thecreakingofthatstaircase,withthreepeopledescendingit,wouldawakenthedead!”

           “Itwasthemiddleofthenight,remember.Theyweresoundasleepbythen.”

           ButPoirotcontinuedtoshakehisheadasthoughnotfullyacceptingtheexplanation.Onthesweepofthedrive,hepaused,lookingupatthehouse.

           “Whatmovedtheminthefirstplacetotryifthefrontdoorwereopen?Itwasamostunlikelythingthatitshouldbe.Itwasfarmoreprobablethattheyshouldatoncetrytoforceawindow.”

           “Butallthewindowsonthegroundfloorarebarredwithironshutters,”objectedthecommissary.

           Poirotpointedtoawindowonthefirstfloor.

           “Thatisthewindowofthebedroomwehavejustcomefrom,isitnot?Andsee—thereisatreebywhichitwouldbetheeasiestthingintheworldtomount.”

           “Possibly,”admittedtheother.“Buttheycouldnothavedonesowithoutleavingfootprintsintheflower-bed.”

           Isawthejusticeofhiswords.