“One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the

back,” remarked Poirot.

Very gently he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the middle of it was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.

He let the body fall back to its original position.

Poirot lingered a moment, looking back toward the body. When he spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.

“He wore his overcoat very long,” he said.

“The champion deceiver of our time.”