The Murder on the Links

TO MY HUSBAND
A fellow enthusiast for detective stories, and to whom I am indebted for much
helpful advice and criticism.

Contents

1
A Fellow Traveller

I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young writer,
determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and original enough
to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors, penned the
following sentence:

“ ‘Hell!’ said the Duchess.”

Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion. Only the
lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a Duchess!

It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris and
was returning by the morning service to London where I was still sharing rooms
with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.

The Calais express was singularly empty—in fact, my own compartment held
only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure from the
hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all my traps when
the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my companion, but I was
now violently recalled to the fact of her existence. Jumping up from her seat,
she let down the window and stuck her head out, withdrawing it a moment later
with the brief and forcible ejaculation “Hell!”

Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no
patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes
like a chimney, and uses language which would make a Billingsgate fishwoman
blush!

I looked up now, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face, surmounted by
a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls hid each ear. I judged
that she was little more than seventeen, but her face was covered with powder,
and her lips were quite impossibly scarlet.

Nothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive grimace.

“Dear me, we’ve shocked the kind gentleman!” she observed to
an imaginary audience. “I apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and
all that, but Oh, Lord, there’s reason enough for it! Do you know
I’ve lost my only sister?”

“Really?” I said politely. “How unfortunate.”

“He disapproves!” remarked the lady. “He disapproves
utterly—of me, and my sister—which last is unfair, because he
hasn’t seen her!”

I opened my mouth, but she forestalled me.

“Say no more! Nobody loves me! I shall go into the garden and eat worms!
Boohoo! I am crushed!”

She buried herself behind a large comic French paper. In a minute or two I saw
her eyes stealthily peeping at me over the top. In spite of myself I could not
help smiling, and in a minute she had tossed the paper aside, and had burst
into a merry peal of laughter.

“I knew you weren’t such a mutt as you looked,” she cried.

Her laughter was so infectious that I could not help joining in, though I
hardly cared for the word “mutt.” The girl was certainly all that I
most disliked, but that was no reason why I should make myself ridiculous by my
attitude. I prepared to unbend. After all, she was decidedly pretty. …

“There! Now we’re friends!” declared the minx. “Say
you’re sorry about my sister—”

“I am desolated!”

“That’s a good boy!”

“Let me finish. I was going to add that, although I am desolated, I can
manage to put up with her absence very well.” I made a little bow.

But this most unaccountable of damsels frowned and shook her head.

“Cut it out. I prefer the ‘dignified disapproval’ stunt. Oh,
your face! ‘Not one of us,’ it said. And you were right
there—though, mind you, it’s pretty hard to tell nowadays.
It’s not every one who can distinguish between a demi and a duchess.
There now, I believe I’ve shocked you again! You’ve been dug out of
the backwoods, you have. Not that I mind that. We could do with a few more of
your sort. I just hate a fellow who gets fresh. It makes me mad.”

She shook her head vigorously.

“What are you like when you’re mad?” I inquired with a smile.

“A regular little devil! Don’t care what I say, or what I do,
either! I nearly did a chap in once. Yes, really. He’d have deserved it
too. Italian blood I’ve got. I shall get into trouble one of these
days.”

“Well,” I begged, “don’t get mad with me.”

“I shan’t. I like you—did the first moment I set eyes on you.
But you looked so disapproving that I never thought we should make
friends.”

“Well, we have. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I’m an actress. No—not the kind you’re thinking of,
lunching at the Savoy covered with jewellery, and with their photograph in
every paper saying how much they love Madame So and So’s face cream.
I’ve been on the boards since I was a kid of six—tumbling.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said puzzled.

“Haven’t you seen child acrobats?”

“Oh, I understand.”

“I’m American born, but I’ve spent most of my life in
England. We got a new show now—”

“We?”

“My sister and I. Sort of song and dance, and a bit of patter, and a dash
of the old business thrown in. It’s quite a new idea, and it hits them
every time. There’s to be money in it—”

My new acquaintance leaned forward, and discoursed volubly, a great many of her
terms being quite unintelligible to me. Yet I found myself evincing an
increasing interest in her. She seemed such a curious mixture of child and
woman. Though perfectly worldly-wise, and able, as she expressed it, to take
care of herself, there was yet something curiously ingenuous in her
single-minded attitude towards life, and her whole-hearted determination to
“make good.” This glimpse of a world unknown to me was not without
its charm, and I enjoyed seeing her vivid little face light up as she talked.

We passed through Amiens. The name awakened many memories. My companion seemed
to have an intuitive knowledge of what was in my mind.

“Thinking of the War?”

I nodded.

“You were through it, I suppose?”

“Pretty well. I was wounded once, and after the Somme they invalided me
out altogether. I had a half fledged Army job for a bit. I’m a sort of
private secretary now to an M. P.”

“My! That’s brainy!”

“No, it isn’t. There’s really awfully little to do. Usually a
couple of hours every day sees me through. It’s dull work too. In fact, I
don’t know what I should do if I hadn’t got something to fall back
upon.”

“Don’t say you collect bugs!”

“No. I share rooms with a very interesting man. He’s a
Belgian—an ex-detective. He’s set up as a private detective in
London, and he’s doing extraordinarily well. He’s really a very
marvellous little man. Time and again he has proved to be right where the
official police have failed.”

My companion listened with widening eyes.

“Isn’t that interesting, now? I just adore crime. I go to all the
mysteries on the movies. And when there’s a murder on I just devour the
papers.”

“Do you remember the Styles Case?” I asked.

“Let me see, was that the old lady who was poisoned? Somewhere down in
Essex?”

I nodded.

“That was Poirot’s first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him, the
murderer would have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of detective
work.”

Warming to my subject, I ran over the heads of the affair, working up to the
triumphant and unexpected dénouement. The girl listened spellbound. In fact, we
were so absorbed that the train drew into Calais station before we realized it.

“My goodness gracious me!” cried my companion. “Where’s
my powder-puff?”

She proceeded to bedaub her face liberally, and then applied a stick of lip
salve to her lips, observing the effect in a small pocket glass, and betraying
not the faintest sign of self-consciousness.

“I say,” I hesitated. “I dare say it’s cheek on my
part, but why do all that sort of thing?”

The girl paused in her operations, and stared at me with undisguised surprise.

“It isn’t as though you weren’t so pretty that you can afford
to do without it,” I said stammeringly.

“My dear boy! I’ve got to do it. All the girls do. Think I want to
look like a little frump up from the country?” She took one last look in
the mirror, smiled approval, and put it and her vanity-box away in her bag.
“That’s better. Keeping up appearances is a bit of a fag, I grant,
but if a girl respects herself it’s up to her not to let herself get
slack.”

To this essentially moral sentiment, I had no reply. A point of view makes a
great difference.

I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform. My companion
held out her hand.

“Good-bye, and I’ll mind my language better in future.”

“Oh, but surely you’ll let me look after you on the boat?”

“Mayn’t be on the boat. I’ve got to see whether that sister
of mine got aboard after all anywhere. But thanks all the same.”

“Oh, but we’re going to meet again, surely? I—” I
hesitated. “I want to meet your sister.”

We both laughed.

“That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I
don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on
the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face
expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings
trouble—I know that well enough. …”

Her face changed. For the moment all the light-hearted gaiety died out of it.
It looked angry—revengeful. …

“So good-bye,” she finished, in a lighter tone.

“Aren’t you even going to tell me your name?” I cried, as she
turned away.

She looked over her shoulder. A dimple appeared in each cheek. She was like a
lovely picture by Greuze.

“Cinderella,” she said, and laughed.

But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again.

2
An Appeal for Help

It was five minutes past nine when I entered our joint sitting-room for
breakfast on the following morning.

My friend Poirot, exact to the minute as usual, was just tapping the shell of
his second egg.

He beamed upon me as I entered.

“You have slept well, yes? You have recovered from the crossing so
terrible? It is a marvel, almost you are exact this morning. Pardon, but
your tie is not symmetrical. Permit that I rearrange him.”

Elsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little man!
Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one side,
eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache, air of
dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For neatness of any
kind, he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set crooked, or a speck of
dust, or a slight disarray in one’s attire, was torture to the little man
until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter. “Order”
and “Method” were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible
evidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that, taken
by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. Then he
would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency, and remark with great
satisfaction: “The true work, it is done from within. The
little grey cells—remember always the little grey cells, mon
ami!”

I slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirot’s
greeting, that an hour’s sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be
dignified by the epithet “terrible.”

Poirot waved his egg-spoon in vigorous refutation of my remark.

“Du tout! If for an hour one experiences sensations and emotions
of the most terrible, one has lived many hours! Does not one of your English
poets say that time is counted, not by hours, but by heart-beats?”

“I fancy Browning was referring to something more romantic than sea
sickness, though.”

“Because he was an Englishman, an Islander to whom la Manche was
nothing. Oh, you English! With nous autres it is different. Figure to
yourself that a lady of my acquaintance at the beginning of the war fled to
Ostend. There she had a terrible crisis of the nerves. Impossible to escape
further except by crossing the sea! And she had a horror—mais une
horreur!—of the sea! What was she to do? Daily les Boches were
drawing nearer. Imagine to yourself the terrible situation!”

“What did she do?” I inquired curiously.

“Fortunately her husband was homme pratique. He was also very
calm, the crises of the nerves, they affected him not. Il l’a emportée
simplement! Naturally when she reached England she was prostrate, but she
still breathed.”

Poirot shook his head seriously. I composed my face as best I could.

Suddenly he stiffened and pointed a dramatic finger at the toast rack.

“Ah, par exemple, c’est trop fort!” he cried.

“What is it?”

“This piece of toast. You remark him not?” He whipped the offender
out of the rack, and held it up for me to examine.

“Is it square? No. Is it a triangle? Again no. Is it even round? No. Is
it of any shape remotely pleasing to the eye? What symmetry have we here?
None.”

“It’s cut from a cottage loaf,” I explained soothingly.

Poirot threw me a withering glance.

“What an intelligence has my friend Hastings!” he exclaimed
sarcastically. “Comprehend you not that I have forbidden such a
loaf—a loaf haphazard and shapeless, that no baker should permit himself
to bake!”

I endeavoured to distract his mind.

“Anything interesting come by the post?”

Poirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air.

“I have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives
nowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist. The
cases I have been employed upon lately were banal to the last degree. In
verity I am reduced to recovering lost lap-dogs for fashionable ladies! The
last problem that presented any interest was that intricate little affair of
the Yardly diamond, and that was—how many months ago, my friend?”

He shook his head despondently, and I roared with laughter.

“Cheer up, Poirot, the luck will change. Open your letters. For all you
know, there may be a great Case looming on the horizon.”

Poirot smiled, and taking up the neat little letter opener with which he opened
his correspondence he slit the tops of the several envelopes that lay by his
plate.

“A bill. Another bill. It is that I grow extravagant in my old age. Aha!
a note from Japp.”

“Yes?” pricked up my ears. The Scotland Yard Inspector had more
than once introduced us to an interesting case.

“He merely thanks me (in his fashion) for a little point in the
Aberystwyth Case on which I was able to set him right. I am delighted to have
been of service to him.”

“How does he thank you?” I asked curiously, for I knew my Japp.

“He is kind enough to say that I am a wonderful sport for my age, and
that he was glad to have had the chance of letting me in on the case.”

This was so typical of Japp, that I could not forbear a chuckle. Poirot
continued to read his correspondence placidly.

“A suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local boy scouts. The
Countess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another
lap-dog without doubt! And now for the last. Ah—”

I looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading
attentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me.

“This is out of the ordinary, mon ami. Read for yourself.”

The letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic
hand:

“Villa Geneviève
Merlinville-sur-Mer
France

“Dear Sir,
“I am in need of the services of a detective and, for reasons which I
will give you later, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard
of you from several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only
a man of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be discreet. I do not
wish to trust details to the post, but, on account of a secret I possess, I go
in daily fear of my life. I am convinced that the danger is imminent, and
therefore I beg that you will lose no time in crossing to France. I will send a
car to meet you at Calais, if you will wire me when you are arriving. I shall
be obliged if you will drop all cases you have on hand, and devote yourself
solely to my interests. I am prepared to pay any compensation necessary. I
shall probably need your services for a considerable period of time, as it may
be necessary for you to go out to Santiago, where I spent several years of my
life. I shall be content for you to name your own fee.
    “Assuring you once more that the matter is urgent,

“Yours faithfully
“P. T. RENAULD.”

Below the signature was a hastily scrawled line, almost illegible: “For
God’s sake, come!”

I handed the letter back with quickened pulses.

“At last!” I said. “Here is something distinctly out of the
ordinary.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Poirot meditatively.

“You will go of course,” I continued.

Poirot nodded. He was thinking deeply. Finally he seemed to make up his mind,
and glanced up at the clock. His face was very grave.

“See you, my friend, there is no time to lose. The Continental express
leaves Victoria at 11 o’clock. Do not agitate yourself. There is plenty
of time. We can allow ten minutes for discussion. You accompany me,
n’est-ce pas?”

“Well—”

“You told me yourself that your employer needed you not for the next few
weeks.”

“Oh, that’s all right. But this Mr. Renauld hints strongly that his
business is private.”

“Ta-ta-ta. I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, I seem to know the
name?”

“There’s a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His
name’s Renauld. I don’t know whether it could be the same.”

“But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is in
Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah, but we progress finely.”

“Dear me, Poirot,” I said, my excitement rising, “I smell
some goodly shekels in this. If we succeed, we shall make our fortunes!”

“Do not be too sure of that, my friend. A rich man and his money are not
so easily parted. Me, I have seen a well-known millionaire turn out a tramful
of people to seek for a dropped halfpenny.”

I acknowledged the wisdom of this.

“In any case,” continued Poirot, “it is not the money which
attracts me here. Certainly it will be pleasant to have carte blanche in
our investigations; one can be sure that way of wasting no time, but it is
something a little bizarre in this problem which arouses my interest. You
remarked the postscript? How did it strike you?”

I considered.

“Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end
his self-control snapped and, on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled those
four desperate words.”

But my friend shook his head energetically.

“You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is
nearly black, that of the postscript is quite pale?”

“Well?” I said puzzled.

“Mon Dieu, mon ami, but use your little grey cells! Is it not
obvious? M. Renauld wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he reread it
carefully. Then, not on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last words,
and blotted the sheet.”

“But why?”

“Parbleu! so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has
upon you.”

“What?”

“Mais, oui—to make sure of my coming! He reread the letter
and was dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!”

He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light that
always betokened inward excitement: “And so, mon ami, since that
postscript was added, not on impulse, but soberly, in cold blood, the urgency
is very great, and we must reach him as soon as possible.”

“Merlinville,” I murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of
it, I think.”

Poirot nodded.

“It is a quiet little place—but chic! It lies about midway between
Bolougne and Calais. It is rapidly becoming the fashion. Rich English people
who wish to be quiet are taking it up. M. Renauld has a house in England, I
suppose?”

“Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the
country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about him,
he doesn’t do much in a social way. I believe he has large South American
interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile and the
Argentino.”

“Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack.
A small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.”

“And the Countess?” I inquired with a smile.

“Ah! je m’en fiche! Her case was certainly not
interesting.”

“Why so sure of that?”

“Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot
wait—always remember that, Hastings.”

Eleven o’clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover.
Before starting Poirot had despatched a telegram to Mr. Renauld giving the time
of our arrival at Calais. “I’m surprised you haven’t invested
in a few bottles of some sea sick remedy, Poirot,” I observed
maliciously, as I recalled our conversation at breakfast.

My friend, who was anxiously scanning the weather, turned a reproachful face
upon me.

“Is it that you have forgotten the method most excellent of Laverguier?
His system, I practise it always. One balances oneself, if you remember,
turning the head from left to right, breathing in and out, counting six between
each breath.”

“H’m,” I demurred. “You’ll be rather tired of
balancing yourself and counting six by the time you get to Santiago, or Buenos
Ayres, or wherever it is you land.”

“Quelle idée! You do not figure to yourself that I shall go to
Santiago?”

“Mr. Renauld suggests it in his letter.”

“He did not know the methods of Hercule Poirot. I do not run to and fro,
making journeys, and agitating myself. My work is done from
within—here—” he tapped his forehead significantly.

As usual, this remark roused my argumentative faculty.

“It’s all very well, Poirot, but I think you are falling into the
habit of despising certain things too much. A finger-print has led sometimes to
the arrest and conviction of a murderer.”

“And has, without doubt, hanged more than one innocent man,”
remarked Poirot dryly.

“But surely the study of finger-prints and footprints, cigarette ash,
different kinds of mud, and other clues that comprise the minute observation of
details—all these are of vital importance?”

“But certainly. I have never said otherwise. The trained observer, the
expert, without doubt he is useful! But the others, the Hercules Poirots, they
are above the experts! To them the experts bring the facts, their business is
the method of the crime, its logical deduction, the proper sequence and order
of the facts; above all, the true psychology of the case. You have hunted the
fox, yes?”

“I have hunted a bit, now and again,” I said, rather bewildered by
this abrupt change of subject. “Why?”

“Eh bien, this hunting of the fox, you need the dogs, no?”

“Hounds,” I corrected gently. “Yes, of course.”

“But yet,” Poirot wagged his finger at me. “You did not
descend from your horse and run along the ground smelling with your nose and
uttering loud Ow Ows?”

In spite of myself I laughed immoderately. Poirot nodded in a satisfied manner.

“So. You leave the work of the d— hounds to the hounds. Yet you
demand that I, Hercule Poirot, should make myself ridiculous by lying down
(possibly on damp grass) to study hypothetical footprints, and should scoop up
cigarette ash when I do not know one kind from the other. Remember the Plymouth
Express mystery. The good Japp departed to make a survey of the railway line.
When he returned, I, without having moved from my apartments, was able to tell
him exactly what he had found.”

“So you are of the opinion that Japp wasted his time.”

“Not at all, since his evidence confirmed my theory. But I
should have wasted my time if I had gone. It is the same with so
called ‘experts.’ Remember the handwriting testimony in the
Cavendish Case. One counsel’s questioning brings out testimony as to the
resemblances, the defence brings evidence to show dissimilarity. All the
language is very technical. And the result? What we all knew in the first
place. The writing was very like that of John Cavendish. And the psychological
mind is faced with the question ‘Why?’ Because it was actually his?
Or because some one wished us to think it was his? I answered that question,
mon ami, and answered it correctly.”

And Poirot, having effectually silenced, if not convinced me, leaned back with
a satisfied air.

On the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend’s solitude. The
weather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond, so I
was hardly surprised to hear that Laverguier’s method had once more
justified itself when a smiling Poirot joined me on disembarking at Calais. A
disappointment was in store for us, as no car had been sent to meet us, but
Poirot put this down to his telegram having been delayed in transit.

“Since it is carte blanche, we will hire a car,” he said
cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us creaking and jolting along, in the
most ramshackle of automobiles that ever plied for hire, in the direction of
Merlinville.

My spirits were at their highest.

“What gorgeous air!” I exclaimed. “This promises to be a
delightful trip.”

“For you, yes. For me, I have work to do, remember, at our
journey’s end.”

“Bah!” I said cheerfully. “You will discover all, ensure this
Mr. Renauld’s safety, run the would-be assassins to earth, and all will
finish in a blaze of glory.”

“You are sanguine, my friend.”

“Yes, I feel absolutely assured of success. Are you not the one and only
Hercule Poirot?”

But my little friend did not rise to the bait. He was observing me gravely.

“You are what the Scotch people call ‘fey,’ Hastings. It
presages disaster.”

“Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.”

“No, but I am afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I do not know. But I have a premonition—a je ne sais
quoi!”

He spoke so gravely, that I was impressed in spite of myself.

“I have a feeling,” he said slowly, “that this is going to be
a big affair—a long, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work
out.”

I would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the little
town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the Villa
Geneviève.

“Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève is about
half a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big Villa, overlooking the
sea.”

We thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A fork in the
road brought us to a second halt. A peasant was trudging towards us, and we
waited for him to come up to us in order to ask the way again. There was a tiny
Villa standing right by the road, but it was too small and dilapidated to be
the one we wanted. As we waited, the gate of it swung open and a girl came out.

The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his seat and
asked for direction.

“The Villa Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right,
monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.”

The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were fascinated
by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate, watching us. I am an
admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody could have passed without
remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a young goddess, her uncovered
golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I swore to myself that she was one of the
most beautiful girls I had ever seen. As we swung up the rough road, I turned
my head to look after her.

“By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young
goddess.”

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

“Ça commence!” he murmured. “Already you have seen a
goddess!”

“But, hang it all, wasn’t she?”

“Possibly. I did not remark the fact.”

“Surely you noticed her?”

“Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance,
saw a goddess. I—” he hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.

But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously, we both
uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing sergent de ville. He
held up his hand to bar our way.

“You cannot pass, monsieurs.”

“But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an
appointment. This is his Villa, isn’t it?”

“Yes, monsieur, but—”

Poirot leaned forward.

“But what?”

“M. Renauld was murdered this morning.”

3
At the Villa Geneviève

In a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement. He
caught the man by the shoulder.

“What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?”

The sergent de ville drew himself up.

“I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.”

“True. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The
Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.

“Voilà! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent
in to the commissary at once?”

The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few
seconds a comrade joined him and was handed Poirot’s message. There was a
wait of some minutes, and then a short stout man with a huge moustache came
bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and stood aside.

“My dear M. Poirot,” cried the new-comer, “I am delighted to
see you. Your arrival is most opportune.”

Poirot’s face had lighted up.

“M. Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.” He turned to me. “This
is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings—M. Lucien Bex.”

The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex turned once
more to Poirot.

“Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. I
heard that you had left the Force?”

“So I have. I run a private business in London.”

“And you say you have information to give which may assist us?”

“Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent
for?”

“No. By whom?”

“The dead man. It seems he knew an attempt was going to be made on his
life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.”

“Sacri tonnerre!” ejaculated the Frenchman. “So he
foresaw his own murder? That upsets our theories considerably! But come
inside.”

He held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house. M. Bex
continued to talk:

“The examining magistrate, M. Hautet, must hear of this at once. He has
just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin his
interrogations. A charming man. You will like him. Most sympathetic. Original
in his methods, but an excellent judge.”

“When was the crime committed?” asked Poirot.

“The body was discovered this morning about nine o’clock. Madame
Renauld’s evidence, and that of the doctors goes to show that the death
must have occurred about 2 a.m. But enter, I pray of you.”

We had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the Villa. In the
hall another sergent de ville was sitting. He rose at sight of the
commissary.

“Where is M. Hautet now?” inquired the latter.

“In the salon, monsieur.”

M. Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M. Hautet and
his clerk were sitting at a big round table. They looked up as we entered. The
commissary introduced us, and explained our presence.

M. Hautet, the Juge d’Instruction, was a tall, gaunt man, with piercing
dark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of caressing as he
talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man, with slightly stooping
shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr. Durand.

“Most extraordinary,” remarked M. Hautet, as the commissary
finished speaking. “You have the letter here, monsieur?”

Poirot handed it to him, and the magistrate read it.

“H’m. He speaks of a secret. What a pity he was not more explicit.
We are much indebted to you, M. Poirot. I hope you will do us the honour of
assisting us in our investigations. Or are you obliged to return to
London?”

“M. le juge, I propose to remain. I did not arrive in time to prevent my
client’s death, but I feel myself bound in honour to discover the
assassin.”

The magistrate bowed.

“These sentiments do you honour. Also, without doubt, Madame Renauld will
wish to retain your services. We are expecting M. Giraud from the Sûreté in
Paris any moment, and I am sure that you and he will be able to give each other
mutual assistance in your investigations. In the meantime, I hope that you will
do me the honour to be present at my interrogations, and I need hardly say that
if there is any assistance you require it is at your disposal.”

“I thank you, monsieur. You will comprehend that at present I am
completely in the dark. I know nothing whatever.”

M. Hautet nodded to the commissary, and the latter took up the tale:

“This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her
work, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to burglars, she
looked into the dining-room, but seeing the silver was safe she thought no more
about it, concluding that her master had, without doubt, risen early, and gone
for a stroll.”

“Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of
his?”

“No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the
English—that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable things
at any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a younger maid, Léonie, was
horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and almost at the same moment news
was brought that M. Renauld’s body had been discovered, stone dead,
stabbed in the back.”

“Where?”

“That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. M. Poirot,
the body was lying, face downwards, in an open grave.”

“What?”

“Yes. The pit was freshly dug—just a few yards outside the boundary
of the Villa grounds.”

“And he had been dead—how long?”

Dr. Durand answered this.

“I examined the body this morning at ten o’clock. Death must have
taken place at least seven, and possibly ten hours previously.”

“H’m, that fixes it at between midnight and 3 a.m.”

“Exactly, and Madame Renauld’s evidence places it at after 2 a.m.
which narrows the field still further. Death must have been instantaneous, and
naturally could not have been self-inflicted.”

Poirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:

“Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by the
horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost
unconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men entered
the bedroom, gagged and bound her, whilst forcibly abducting her husband. This
we know at second hand from the servants. On hearing the tragic news, she fell
at once into an alarming state of agitation. On arrival, Dr. Durand immediately
prescribed a sedative, and we have not yet been able to question her. But
without doubt she will awake more calm, and be equal to bearing the strain of
the interrogation.”

The commissary paused.

“And the inmates of the house, monsieur?”

“There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with
the former owners of the Villa Geneviève. Then there are two young girls,
sisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville, and they come
of the most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom M. Renauld
brought over from England with him, but he is away on a holiday. Finally there
are Madame Renauld and her son, M. Jack Renauld. He, too, is away from home at
present.”

Poirot bowed his head. M. Hautet spoke:

“Marchaud!”

The sergent de ville appeared.

“Bring in the woman Françoise.”

The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two, he returned, escorting
the frightened Françoise.

“You name is Françoise Arrichet?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?”

“Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the Villa
this spring, I consented to remain on with the English milor. Never did I
imagine—”

The magistrate cut her short.

“Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the
front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?”

“Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.”

“And last night?”

“I fastened it as usual.”

“You are sure of that?”

“I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.”

“What time would that be?”

“The same time as usual, half-past ten, monsieur.”

“What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?”

“Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me.
Monsieur was still in his study.”

“Then, if any one unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been M.
Renauld himself?”

Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.

“What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every
minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had
had to let cette dame out—”

The magistrate interrupted sharply:

“Cette dame? What lady do you mean?”

“Why, the lady who came to see him.”

“Had a lady been to see him that evening?”

“But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.”

“Who was she? Did you know her?”

A rather cunning look spread over the woman’s face. “How should I
know who it was?” she grumbled. “I did not let her in last
night.”

“Aha!” roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with
a bang on the table. “You would trifle with the police, would you? I
demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit M.
Renauld in the evenings.”

“The police—the police,” grumbled Françoise. “Never did
I think that I should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who
she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.”

The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter
astonishment.

“Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the
road?”

“That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one,
cellela!” The old woman tossed her head scornfully.

“Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary.
“Impossible.”

“Voilà,” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for
telling the truth.”

“Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We
were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they
were—” he paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without
doubt?”

“How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was milor
anglais—trés riche—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor,
that one—and trés chic for all that she lives so quietly with her
daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer young,
but ma foi! I who speak to you have seen the men’s heads turn
after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she has had more money
to spend—all the town knows it. The little economies, they are at an
end.” And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable certainty.

M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.

“And Madame Renauld?” he asked at length. “How did she take
this—friendship.”

Françoise shrugged her shoulders.

“She was always most amiable—most polite. One would say that she
suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur?
Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not the same
woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has changed. He also has had
his worries. One could see that he was on the brink of a crisis of the nerves.
And who could wonder, with an affair conducted such a fashion? No reticence, no
discretion. Style anglais, without doubt!”

I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was continuing
his questions, undistracted by side issues.

“You say that M. Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she
left, then?”

“Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door.
Monsieur said good night, and shut the door after her.”

“What time was that?”

“About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.”

“Do you know when M. Renauld went to bed?”

“I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so
that one hears every one who goes up and down.”

“And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the
night?”

“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”

“Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?”

“I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.”

“What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?”

“Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place
anywhere.”

“Good, Françoise, you can go.”

The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked back.

“I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad
one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember
that.” And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.

“Léonie Oulard,” called the magistrate.

Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M. Hautet
dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the discovery
of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an exaggerated
account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the night.

Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had changed
greatly of late.

“Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always
depressed.” But Denise had her own theory. “Without doubt it was
the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A
terrible society that!”

“It is, of course, possible,” said the magistrate smoothly.
“Now, my girl, was it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last
night?”

“Not last night, monsieur, the night before.”

“But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last
night?”

“No, monsieur. A lady did come to see M. Renauld last night, but
it was not Madame Daubreuil.”

Surprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew Madame
Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but shorter, and much
younger. Nothing could shake her statement.

“Had you ever seen this lady before?”

“Never, monsieur.” And then the girl added diffidently: “But
I think she was English.”

“English?”

“Yes, monsieur. She asked for M. Renauld in quite good French, but the
accent—one can always tell it, n’est-ce pas? Besides when
they came out of the study they were speaking in English.”

“Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?”

“Me, I speak the English very well,” said Denise with pride.
“The lady was speaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I
heard Monsieur’s last words as he opened the door for her.” She
paused, and then repeated carefully and laboriously:

“ ‘Yeas—yeas—butt for Gaud’s saike go
nauw!’ ”

“Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now!” repeated the
magistrate.

He dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled
Françoise. To her he propounded the question as to whether she had not made a
mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil’s visit. Françoise,
however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame Daubreuil
had come. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make herself
interesting, voilà tout! So she had cooked up this fine tale about a
strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English too! Probably Monsieur had never
spoken that sentence in English at all, and even if he had, it proved nothing,
for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used that language
when talking to M. and Madame Renauld. “You see, M. Jack, the son of
Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the French very badly.”

The magistrate did not insist. Instead he inquired about the chauffeur, and
learned that only yesterday, M. Renauld had declared that he was not likely to
use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a holiday.

A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s eyes.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:

“Pardon, M. Bex, but without doubt M. Renauld could drive the car
himself?”

The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied promptly:

“No, Monsieur did not drive himself.”

Poirot’s frown deepened.

“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said
impatiently.

“See you not? In his letter M. Renauld speaks of sending the car for me
to Calais.”

“Perhaps he meant a hired car,” I suggested.

“Doubtless that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your own.
Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday—suddenly, at
a moment’s notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him out of the
way before we arrived?”

4
The Letter Signed “Bella”

Françoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully on the
table.

“M. Bex,” he said at length, “here we have directly
conflicting testimony. Which are we to believe, Françoise or Denise?”

“Denise,” said the commissary decidedly. “It was she who let
the visitor in. Françoise is old and obstinate, and has evidently taken a
dislike to Madame Daubreuil. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that
Renauld was entangled with another woman.”

“Tiens!” cried M. Hautet. “We have forgotten to inform
M. Poirot of that.” He searched amongst the papers on the table, and
finally handed the one he was in search of to my friend. “This letter, M.
Poirot, we found in the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat.”

Poirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumbled, and was
written in English in a rather unformed hand:

“My dearest one:”
Why have you not written for so long? You do love me still, don’t you?
Your letters lately have been so different, cold and strange, and now this long
silence. It makes me afraid. If you were to stop loving me! But that’s
impossible—what a silly kid I am—always imagining things! But if
you did stop loving me, I don’t know what I should do—kill
myself perhaps! I couldn’t live without you. Sometimes I fancy another
woman is coming between us. Let her look out, that’s all—and you
too! I’d as soon kill you as let her have you! I mean it.
    “But there, I’m writing high-flown nonsense. You love me, and I
love you—yes, love you, love you, love you!

“Your own adoring
“BELLA.”

There was no address or date. Poirot handed it back with a grave face.

“And the assumption is, M. le juge—?”

The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders.

“Obviously M. Renauld was entangled with this Englishwoman—Bella.
He comes over here, meets Madame Daubreuil, and starts an intrigue with her. He
cools off to the other, and she instantly suspects something. This letter
contains a distinct threat. M. Poirot, at first sight the case seemed
simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that M. Renauld was stabbed in the back
seemed to point distinctly to its being a woman’s crime.”

Poirot nodded.

“The stab in the back, yes—but not the grave! That was laborious
work, hard work—no woman dug that grave, monsieur. That was a man’s
doing.”

The commissary exclaimed excitedly: “Yes, yes, you are right. We did not
think of that.”

“As I said,” continued M. Hautet, “at first sight the case
seemed simple, but the masked men, and the letter you received from M. Renauld
complicate matters. Here we seem to have an entirely different set of
circumstances, with no relationship between the two. As regards the letter
written to yourself, do you think it is possible that it referred in any way to
this ‘Bella,’ and her threats?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Hardly. A man like M. Renauld, who has led an adventurous life in
out-of-the-way places, would not be likely to ask for protection against a
woman.”

The examining magistrate nodded his head emphatically.

“My view exactly. Then we must look for the explanation of the
letter—”

“In Santiago,” finished the commissary. “I shall cable
without delay to the police in that city, requesting full details of the
murdered man’s life out there, his love affairs, his business
transactions, his friendships, and any enmities he may have incurred. It will
be strange if, after that, we do not hold a clue to his mysterious
murder.”

The commissary looked round for approval.

“Excellent,” said Poirot appreciatively.

“His wife, too, may be able to give us a pointer,” added the
magistrate.

“You have found no other letters from this Bella amongst M.
Renauld’s effects?” asked Poirot.

“No. Of course one of our first proceedings was to search through his
private papers in the study. We found nothing of interest, however. All seemed
square and above-board. The only thing at all out of the ordinary was his will.
Here it is.”

Poirot ran through the document.

“So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr. Stonor—who is he, by the
way?”

“M. Renauld’s secretary. He remained in England, but was over here
once or twice for a week-end.”

“And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise.
Simply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants, Denise and
Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.” He handed it back.

“Perhaps,” began Bex, “you did not notice—”

“The date?” twinkled Poirot. “But yes, I noticed it. A
fortnight ago. Possibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men
die intestate through never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it
is dangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his having
a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous
intrigues.”

“Yes,” said M. Hautet doubtfully. “But it is possibly a
little unfair on his son, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother.
If she were to marry again, and her second husband obtained an ascendancy over
her, this boy might never touch a penny of his father’s money.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Man is a vain animal. M. Renauld figured to himself, without doubt, that
his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have been a wise
precaution to leave the money in his mother’s hands. The sons of rich men
are proverbially wild.”

“It may be as you say. Now, M. Poirot, you would without doubt like to
visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been removed, but of
course photographs have been taken from every conceivable angle, and will be at
your disposal as soon as they are available.”

“I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.”

The commissary rose.

“Come with me, monsieurs.”

He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him. Poirot,
with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.

“Monsieur.”

“Monsieur.”

At last they got out into the hall.

“That room there, it is the study, hein?” asked Poirot
suddenly, nodding towards the door opposite.

“Yes. You would like to see it?” He threw the door open as he
spoke, and we entered.

The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was small, but
furnished with great taste and comfort. A businesslike writing desk, with many
pigeon holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-covered armchairs faced
the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books
and magazines. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the end of the room
opposite the window there was a handsome oak sideboard with a tantalus on top.
The curtains and portière were of a soft dull green, and the carpet
matched them in tone.

Poirot stood a moment taking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his
hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from
the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard.
His face expressed complete approval.

“No dust?” I asked, with a smile.

He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.

“Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a
pity.”

His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.

“Ah!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief.
“The hearth-rug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it.

Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small
fragment of paper.

“In France, as in England,” he remarked, “the domestics omit
to sweep under the mats!”

Bex took the fragment from him, and I came closer to examine it.

“You recognize it—eh, Hastings?”

I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was
very familiar.

The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine.

“A fragment of a cheque,” he exclaimed.

The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was written in
ink the word “Duveen.”

“Bien,” said Bex. “This cheque was payable to, or
drawn by, one named Duveen.”

“The former, I fancy,” said Poirot, “for, if I am not
mistaken, the handwriting is that of M. Renauld.”

That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk.

“Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air,
“I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”

Poirot laughed.

“The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings
here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As
soon as I saw that the hearth-rug was out of the straight, I said to myself:
‘Tiens! The leg of the chair caught it in being pushed back.
Possibly there may be something beneath it which the good Françoise
overlooked.’ ”

“Françoise?”

“Or Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust, the
room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like
this. Yesterday, possibly last night, M. Renauld drew a cheque to the order of
some one named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered on the floor.
This morning—” But M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the
bell.

Françoise answered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the
floor. What had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course!
What else?

With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face lightening, he ran
to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead man’s cheque
book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last counterfoil was blank.

“Courage!” cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. “Without
doubt, Madame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person
named Duveen.”

The commissary’s face cleared. “That is true. Let us
proceed.”

As we turned to leave the room, Poirot remarked casually: “It was here
that M. Renauld received his guest last night, eh?”

“It was—but how did you know?”

“By this. I found it on the back of the leather chair.”

And he held up between his finger and thumb a long black hair—a
woman’s hair!

M. Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small shed
leaning against the house. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it.

“The body is here. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before
you arrived, as the photographers had done with it.”

He opened the door and we passed in. The murdered man lay on the ground, with a
sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the covering. Renauld was a man
of medium height, slender and lithe in figure. He looked about fifty years of
age, and his dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey. He was clean shaven
with a long thin nose, and eyes set rather close together, and his skin was
deeply bronzed, as that of a man who had spent most of his life beneath
tropical skies. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and an expression of
absolute amazement and terror was stamped on the livid features.

“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
there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.

“Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?”

“It was left in the wound.” The commissary reached down a large
glass jar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper-knife
than anything else. It had a black handle, and a narrow shining blade. The
whole thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured
point gingerly with his finger tip.

“Ma foi! but it is sharp! A nice easy little tool for
murder!”

“Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,”
remarked Bex regretfully. “The murderer must have worn gloves.”

“Of course he did,” said Poirot contemptuously. “Even in
Santiago they know enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English Mees
knows it—thanks to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in
the Press. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no
finger-prints. It is so amazingly simple to leave the finger-prints of some one
else! And then the police are happy.” He shook his head. “I very
much fear our criminal is not a man of method—either that or he was
pressed for time. But we shall see.”

He let the body fall back into its original position.

“He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,” he remarked.

“Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious
point.”

At this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after him. He
strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She endeavoured to peep in
with ghoulish curiosity.

“Well, what is it?” demanded Bex impatiently.

“Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered, and is quite
ready to receive the examining magistrate.”

“Good,” said M. Bex briskly. “Tell M. Hautet and say that we
will come at once.”

Poirot lingered a moment, looking back towards the body. I thought for a moment
that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his determination never
to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But 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 constrainedly.

5
Mrs. Renauld’s Story

We found M. Hautet awaiting us in the hall, and we all proceeded upstairs
together, Françoise marching ahead to show us the way. Poirot went up in a
zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a grimace:

“No wonder the servants heard M. Renauld mounting the stairs; not a board
of them but creaks fit to wake the dead!”

At the head of the staircase, a small passage branched off.

“The servants’ quarters,” explained Bex.

We continued along a corridor, and Françoise tapped on the last door to the
right of it.

A faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large sunny apartment looking
out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a quarter of a mile
distant.

On a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr. Durand, lay a tall,
striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark hair was now
almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality and strength of her
personality would have made itself felt anywhere. You knew at once that you
were in the presence of what the French call “une maitresse
femme.”

She greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head.

“Pray be seated, monsieurs.”

We took chairs, and the magistrate’s clerk established himself at a round
table.

“I hope, madame,” began M. Hautet, “that it will not distress
you unduly to relate to us what occurred last night?”

“Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if these scoundrelly
assassins are to be caught and punished.”

“Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you
questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did you go
to bed last night?”

“At half-past nine, monsieur. I was tired.”

“And your husband?”

“About an hour later, I fancy.”

“Did he seem disturbed—upset in any way?”

“No, not more than usual.”

“What happened then?”

“We slept. I was awakened by a hand being pressed over my mouth. I tried
to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the room. They
were both masked.”

“Can you describe them at all, madame?”

“One was very tall, and had a long black beard, the other was short and
stout. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their
eyes.”

“H’m,” said the magistrate thoughtfully, “too much
beard, I fear.”

“You mean they were false?”

“Yes, madame. But continue your story.”

“It was the short man who was holding me. He forced a gag into my mouth,
and then bound me with rope hand and foot. The other man was standing over my
husband. He had caught up my little dagger paper-knife from the dressing-table
and was holding it with the point just over his heart. When the short man had
finished with me, he joined the other, and they forced my husband to get up and
accompany them into the dressing-room next door. I was nearly fainting with
terror, nevertheless I listened desperately.

“They were speaking in too low a tone for me to hear what they said. But
I recognized the language, a bastard Spanish such as is spoken in some parts of
South America. They seemed to be demanding something from my husband, and
presently they grew angry, and their voices rose a little. I think the tall man
was speaking. ‘You know what we want!’ he said. ‘The
secret! Where is it?’ I do not know what my husband answered, but
the other replied fiercely: ‘You lie! We know you have it. Where are your
keys?’

“Then I heard sounds of drawers being pulled out. There is a safe on the
wall of my husband’s dressing-room in which he always keeps a fairly
large amount of ready money. Léonie tells me this has been rifled and the money
taken, but evidently what they were looking for was not there, for presently I
heard the tall man, with an oath, command my husband to dress himself. Soon
after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them, for they
hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed.”

“Pardon,” interrupted Poirot, “but is there then no
other egress from the dressing-room?”

“No, monsieur, there is only the communicating door into my room. They
hurried my husband through, the short man in front, and the tall man behind him
with the dagger still in his hand. Paul tried to break away to come to me. I
saw his agonized eyes. He turned to his captors. ‘I must speak to
her,’ he said. Then, coming to the side of the bed, ‘It is all
right, Eloise,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid. I shall return before
morning.’ But, although he tried to make his voice confident, I could see
the terror in his eyes. Then they hustled him out of the door, the tall man
saying: ‘One sound—and you are a dead man, remember.’

“After that,” continued Mrs. Renauld, “I must have fainted.
The next thing I recollect is Léonie rubbing my wrists, and giving me
brandy.”

“Madame Renauld,” said the magistrate, “had you any idea what
it was for which the assassins were searching?”

“None whatever, monsieur.”

“Had you any knowledge that your husband feared something?”

“Yes. I had seen the change in him.”

“How long ago was that?”

Mrs. Renauld reflected.

“Ten days perhaps.”

“Not longer?”

“Possibly. I only noticed it then.”

“Did you question your husband at all as to the cause?”

“Once. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he was
suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to conceal
the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing.”

“Were you aware that he had called in the services of a detective?”

“A detective?” exclaimed Mrs. Renauld, very much surprised.

“Yes, this gentleman—M. Hercule Poirot.” Poirot bowed.
“He arrived today in response to a summons from your husband.” And
taking the letter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the
lady.

She read it with apparently genuine astonishment.

“I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the
danger.”

“Now, madame, I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any
incident in your husband’s past life in South America which might throw
light on his murder?”

Mrs. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head.

“I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people he
had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one
distinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident—only that I am
not aware of it.”

The examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately.

“And you can fix the time of this outrage?”

“Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike
two.” She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case
which stood in the centre of the chimney-piece.

Poirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded,
satisfied.

“And here too,” exclaimed M. Bex, “is a wrist watch, knocked
off the dressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms.
Little did they know it would testify against them.”

Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed
to one of utter stupefaction.

“Mon Dieu!” he ejaculated.

“What is it?”

“The hands of the watch point to seven o’clock!”

“What?” cried the examining magistrate, astonished.

But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary,
and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.

“The glass is broken, yes, but the watch itself is still going.”

The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the
magistrate bethought him of another point.

“But surely it is not seven o’clock now?”

“No,” said Poirot gently, “it is a few minutes after five.
Possibly the watch gains, is that so, madame?”

Mrs. Renauld was frowning perplexedly.

“It does gain,” she admitted, “but I’ve never known it
to gain quite so much as that.”

With a gesture of impatience, the magistrate left the matter of the watch and
proceeded with his interrogatory.

“Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the
murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you suggest
any explanation?”

“Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to
latch it when he came in.”

“Is that a likely thing to happen?”

“Very. My husband was the most absent-minded of men.”

There was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke, as though this trait in the
dead man’s character had at times vexed her.

“There is one inference I think we might draw,” remarked the
commissary suddenly. “Since the men insisted on M. Renauld dressing
himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the place where
‘the secret’ was concealed, lay some distance away.”

The magistrate nodded.

“Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by
morning.”

“What times does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?”
asked Poirot.

“Eleven-fifty one way, and 12:17 the other, but it is more probable that
they had a motor waiting.”

“Of course,” agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.

“Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,” continued the
magistrate, brightening. “A motor containing two foreigners is quite
likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, M. Bex.”

He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs.
Renauld:

“There is another question. Do you know any one of the name of
‘Duveen’?”

“Duveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the
moment, I cannot say I do.”

“You have never heard your husband mention any one of that name?”

“Never.”

“Do you know any one whose Christian name is Bella?”

He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of
anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural
manner. He continued his questions.

“Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?”

Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly.

“No, who was that?”

“A lady.”

“Indeed?”

But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed
unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the crime, and he was
anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary.

He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then
rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in
the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger.

“Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”

She gave a little cry.

“Yes, that is my little dagger.” Then—she saw the stained
point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is
that—blood?”

“Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed
it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about it’s being the one
that was on your dressing-table last night?”

“Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during
the War. He gave his age as older than it was.” There was a touch of the
proud mother in her voice. “This was made from a streamline aeroplane
wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.”

“I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he
now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.”

“Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Ayres.”

“What?”

“Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on
business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for
him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving
Cherbourg for Buenos Ayres last night, and he wired him to catch it.”

“Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Ayres was?”

“No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Ayres is not my
son’s final destination. He was going overland from there to
Santiago.”

And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed:

“Santiago! Again Santiago!”

It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that word,
that Poirot approached Mrs. Renauld. He had been standing by the window like a
man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what had passed. He
paused by the lady’s side with a bow.

“Pardon, madame, but may I examine your wrists.”

Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs. Renauld held them out to him.
Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten into the
flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of excitement I
had seen in his eyes disappeared.

“They must cause you great pain,” he said, and once more he looked
puzzled.

But the magistrate was speaking excitedly.

“Young M. Renauld must be communicated with at once by wireless. It is
vital that we should know anything he can tell us about this trip to
Santiago.” He hesitated. “I hoped he might have been near at hand,
so that we could have saved you pain, madame.” He paused.

“You mean,” she said in a low voice, “the identification of
my husband’s body?”

The magistrate bowed his head.

“I am a strong woman, monsieur. I can bear all that is required of me. I
am ready—now.”

“Oh, tomorrow will be quite soon enough, I assure you—”

“I prefer to get it over,” she said in a low tone, a spasm of pain
crossing her face. “If you will be so good as to give me your arm,
Doctor?”

The doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs. Renauld’s
shoulders, and a slow procession went down the stairs. M. Bex hurried on ahead
to open the door of the shed. In a minute or two Mrs. Renauld appeared in the
doorway. She was very pale, but resolute. Behind her, M. Hautet was clacking
commiserations and apologies like an animated hen.

She raised her hand to her face.

“A moment, messieurs, while I steel myself.”

She took her hand away and looked down at the dead man. Then the marvellous
self-control which had upheld her so far deserted her.

“Paul!” she cried. “Husband! Oh, God!” And pitching
forward she fell unconscious to the ground.

Instantly Poirot was beside her, he raised the lid of her eye, felt her pulse.
When he had satisfied himself that she had really fainted, he drew aside. He
caught me by the arm.

“I am an imbecile, my friend! If ever there was love and grief in a
woman’s voice, I heard it then. My little idea was all wrong. Eh
bien! I must start again!”

6
The Scene of the Crime

Between them, the doctor and M. Hautet carried the unconscious woman into the
house. The commissary looked after them, shaking his head.

“Pauvre femme,” he murmured to himself. “The shock was
too much for her. Well, well, we can do nothing. Now, M. Poirot, shall we visit
the place where the crime was committed?”

“If you please, M. Bex.”

We passed through the house, and out by the front door. Poirot had looked up at
the staircase in passing, and shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

“It is to me incredible that the servants heard nothing. The creaking of
that staircase, with three people descending it, would awaken the
dead!”

“It was the middle of the night, remember. They were sound asleep by
then.”

But Poirot continued to shake his head as though not fully accepting the
explanation. On the sweep of the drive, he paused, looking up at the house.

“What moved them in the first place to try if the front door were open?
It was a most unlikely thing that it should be. It was far more probable that
they should at once try to force a window.”

“But all the windows on the ground floor are barred with iron
shutters,” objected the commissary.

Poirot pointed to a window on the first floor.

“That is the window of the bedroom we have just come from, is it not? And
see—there is a tree by which it would be the easiest thing in the world
to mount.”

“Possibly,” admitted the other. “But they could not have done
so without leaving footprints in the flower-bed.”

I saw the justice of his words. There were two large oval flower-beds planted
with scarlet geraniums, one each side of the steps leading up to the front
door. The tree in question had its roots actually at the back of the bed
itself, and it would have been impossible to reach it without stepping on the
bed.

“You see,” continued the commissary, “owing to the dry
weather no prints would show on the drive or paths; but, on the soft mould of
the flower-bed, it would have been a very different affair.”

Poirot went close to the bed and studied it attentively. As Bex had said, the
mould was perfectly smooth. There was not an indentation on it anywhere.

Poirot nodded, as though convinced, and we turned away, but he suddenly darted
off and began examining the other flower-bed.

“M. Bex!” he called. “See here. Here are plenty of traces for
you.”

The commissary joined him—and smiled.

“My dear M. Poirot, those are without doubt the footprints of the
gardener’s large hobnailed boots. In any case, it would have no
importance, since this side we have no tree, and consequently no means of
gaining access to the upper story.”

“True,” said Poirot, evidently crestfallen. “So you think
these footprints are of no importance?”

“Not the least in the world.”

Then, to my utter astonishment, Poirot pronounced these words:

“I do not agree with you. I have a little idea that these footprints are
the most important things we have seen yet.”

M. Bex said nothing, merely shrugged his shoulders. He was far too courteous to
utter his real opinion.

“Shall we proceed?” he asked instead.

“Certainly. I can investigate this matter of the footprints later,”
said Poirot cheerfully.

Instead of following the drive down to the gate, M. Bex turned up a path that
branched off at right angles. It led, up a slight incline, round to the right
of the house, and was bordered on either side by a kind of shrubbery. Suddenly
it emerged into a little clearing from which one obtained a view of the sea. A
seat had been placed here, and not far from it was a rather ramshackle shed. A
few steps further on, a neat line of small bushes marked the boundary of the
Villa grounds. M. Bex pushed his way through these and we found ourselves on a
wide stretch of open downs. I looked round, and saw something that filled me
with astonishment.

“Why, this is a golf course,” I cried.

Bex nodded.

“The limits are not completed yet,” he explained. “It is
hoped to be able to open them sometime next month. It was some of the men
working on them who discovered the body early this morning.”

I gave a gasp. A little to my left, where for the moment I had overlooked it,
was a long narrow pit, and by it, face downwards, was the body of a man! For a
moment, my heart gave a terrible leap, and I had a wild fancy that the tragedy
had been duplicated. But the commissary dispelled my illusion by moving forward
with a sharp exclamation of annoyance:

“What have my police been about? They had strict orders to allow no one
near the place without proper credentials!”

The man on the ground turned his head over his shoulder.

“But I have proper credentials,” he remarked, and rose slowly to
his feet.

“My dear M. Giraud,” cried the commissary. “I had no idea
that you had arrived, even. The examining magistrate has been awaiting you with
the utmost impatience.”

As he spoke, I was scanning the new-comer with the keenest curiosity. The
famous detective from the Paris Sûreté was familiar to me by name, and I was
extremely interested to see him in the flesh. He was very tall, perhaps about
thirty years of age, with auburn hair and moustache, and a military carriage.
There was a trace of arrogance in his manner which showed that he was fully
alive to his own importance. Bex introduced us, presenting Poirot as a
colleague. A flicker of interest came into the detective’s eye.

“I know you by name, M. Poirot,” he said. “You cut quite a
figure in the old days, didn’t you? But methods are very different
now.”

“Crimes, though, are very much the same,” remarked Poirot gently.

I saw at once that Giraud was prepared to be hostile. He resented the other
being associated with him, and I felt that if he came across any clue of
importance he would be more than likely to keep it to himself.

“The examining magistrate—” began Bex again. But Giraud
interrupted him rudely:

“A fig for the examining magistrate! The light is the important thing.
For all practical purposes it will be gone in another half-hour or so. I know
all about the case, and the people at the house will do very well until
tomorrow, but, if we’re going to find a clue to the murderers, here is
the spot we shall find it. Is it your police who have been trampling all over
the place? I thought they knew better nowadays.”

“Assuredly they do. The marks you complain of were made by the workmen
who discovered the body.”

The other grunted disgustedly.

“I can see the tracks where the three of them came through the
hedge—but they were cunning. You can just recognize the centre footmarks
as those of M. Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully
obliterated. Not that there would really be much to see anyway on this hard
ground, but they weren’t taking any chances.”

“The external sign,” said Poirot. “That is what you seek,
eh?”

The other detective stared.

“Of course.”

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.”

“Marvellous,” murmured M. Bex, to me ecstatically. “He has
been here but half an hour, and he already knows everything! What a man!
Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today.”

Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly
impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help feeling
that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it vexed me. He
seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly, puerile points that
had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he suddenly asked:

“M. Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this whitewashed line that
extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?”

“No, M. Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there
is here to be a ‘bunkair,’ as you call it.”

“A bunkair?” Poirot turned to me. “That is the irregular hole
filled with sand and a bank at one side, is it not?”

I concurred.

“You do not play the golf, M. Poirot?” inquired Bex.

“I? Never! What a game!” He became excited. “Figure to
yourself, each hole it is of a different length. The obstacles, they are not
arranged mathematically. Even the greens are frequently up one side! There is
only one pleasing thing—the how do you call them?—tee boxes! They,
at least, are symmetrical.”

I could not refrain from a laugh at the way the game appeared to Poirot, and my
little friend smiled at me affectionately, bearing no malice. Then he asked:

“But M. Renauld, without doubt he played the golf?”

“Yes, he was a keen golfer. It’s mainly owing to him, and to his
large subscriptions, that this work is being carried forward. He even had a say
in the designing of it.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Then he remarked:

“It was not a very good choice they made—of a spot to bury the
body? When the men began to dig up the ground, all would have been
discovered.”

“Exactly,” cried Giraud triumphantly. “And that
proves that they were strangers to the place. It’s an excellent
piece of indirect evidence.”

“Yes,” said Poirot doubtfully. “No one who knew would bury a
body there—unless—unless—they wanted it to be
discovered. And that is clearly absurd, is it not?”

Giraud did not even trouble to reply.

“Yes,” said Poirot, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice.
“Yes—undoubtedly—absurd!”

7
The Mysterious Madame Daubreuil

As we retraced our steps to the house, M. Bex excused himself for leaving us,
explaining that he must immediately acquaint the examining magistrate with the
fact of Giraud’s arrival. Giraud himself had been obviously delighted
when Poirot declared that he had seen all he wanted. The last thing we
observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud, crawling about on all fours, with a
thoroughness in his search that I could not but admire. Poirot guessed my
thoughts, for as soon as we were alone he remarked ironically:

“At last you have seen the detective you admire—the human foxhound!
Is it not so, my friend?”

“At any rate, he’s doing something,” I said, with
asperity. “If there’s anything to find, he’ll find it. Now
you—”

“Eh bien! I also have found something! A piece of
lead-piping.”

“Nonsense, Poirot. You know very well that’s got nothing to do with
it. I meant little things—traces that may lead us infallibly to
the murderers.”

“Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one
measuring two millimetres! But it is the romantic idea that all important clues
must be infinitesimal! As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to do with
the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so. No”—as I was
about to interpose a question—“we will say no more. Leave Giraud to
his search, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough—and
yet—and yet, mon ami, I am not satisfied! And do you know why?
Because of the wrist watch that is two hours fast. And then there are several
curious little points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object
of the murderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and
have done with it?”

“They wanted the ‘secret,’ ” I reminded him.

Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.

“Well, where is this ‘secret’? Presumably some distance away,
since they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand,
almost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a
weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.”

He paused frowning, and then went on:

“Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an
accomplice and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain
open? I wonder if—”

He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly
he turned to me.

“My friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken
your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!”

“Where?”

“In that right-hand bed yonder. M. Bex says that they are the footmarks
of the gardener. Let us see if that is so. See, he approaches with his
wheelbarrow.”

Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of
seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling
towards us.

“You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the
footmarks?” I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little.
Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably
they were.

“Exactly,” said Poirot.

“But won’t he think it very odd?”

“He will not think about it at all.”

We could say no more, for the old man had joined us.

“You want me for something, monsieur?”

“Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven’t you?”

“Twenty-four years, monsieur.”

“And your name is—?”

“Auguste, monsieur.”

“I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb. They
have been planted long?”

“Some time, monsieur. But of course, to keep the beds looking smart, one
must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides
keeping the old blooms well picked off.”

“You put in some new plants yesterday, didn’t you? Those in the
middle there, and in the other bed also?”

“Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to
‘pick up.’ Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As
Monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is
hot.”

Auguste was charmed with Poirot’s interest, and was quite inclined to be
garrulous.

“That is a splendid specimen there,” said Poirot, pointing.
“Might I perhaps have a cutting of it?”

“But certainly, monsieur.” The old fellow stepped into the bed, and
carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.

Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.

“You see?” said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to
examine the indentation of the gardener’s hobnailed boot. “It is
quite simple.”

“I did not realize—”

“That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent
mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?”

I examined the bed carefully.

“All the footmarks in the bed were made by the same boot,” I said
at length after a careful study.

“You think so? Eh bien, I agree with you,” said Poirot.

He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of something else.

“At any rate,” I remarked, “you will have one bee less in
your bonnet now.”

“Mon Dieu! But what an idiom! What does it mean?”

“What I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these
footmarks.”

But to my surprise Poirot shook his head.

“No, no, mon ami. At last I am on the right track. I am still in
the dark, but, as I hinted just now to M. Bex, these footmarks are the most
important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud—I should
not be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever.”

At that moment, the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the commissary came
down the steps.

“Ah, M. Poirot, we were coming to look for you,” said the
magistrate. “It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame
Daubreuil. Without doubt she will be very much upset by M. Renauld’s
death, and we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that
he did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the
woman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are weak,
don’t we?”

I admired the picturesqueness of M. Hautet’s language. I suspected that
the examining magistrate was by now thoroughly enjoying his part in the
mysterious drama.

“Is M. Giraud not going to accompany us?” asked Poirot.

“M. Giraud has shown clearly that he prefers to conduct the case in his
own way,” said M. Hautet dryly. One could see easily enough that
Giraud’s cavalier treatment of the examining magistrate had not
prejudiced the latter in his favour. We said no more, but fell into line.
Poirot walked with the examining magistrate, and the commissary and I followed
a few paces behind.

“There is no doubt that Françoise’s story is substantially
correct,” he remarked to me in a confidential tone. “I have been
telephoning headquarters. It seems that three times in the last six
weeks—that is to say since the arrival of M. Renauld at
Merlinville—Madame Daubreuil has paid a large sum in notes into her
banking account. Altogether the sum totals two hundred thousand francs!”

“Dear me,” I said, considering, “that must be something like
four thousand pounds!”

“Precisely. Yes, there can be no doubt that he was absolutely infatuated.
But it remains to be seen whether he confided his secret to her. The examining
magistrate is hopeful, but I hardly share his views.”

During this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the fork in the
road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in another moment I
realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the mysterious Madame
Daubreuil, was the small house from which the beautiful girl had emerged.

“She has lived here for many years,” said the commissary, nodding
his head towards the house. “Very quietly, very unobtrusively. She seems
to have no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she has made in
Merlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not
even know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you
comprehend.” I nodded, my interest growing.

“And—the daughter?” I ventured.

“A truly beautiful young girl—modest, devout, all that she should
be. One pities her, for, though she may know nothing of the past, a man who
wants to ask her hand in marriage must necessarily inform himself, and
then—” The commissary shrugged his shoulders cynically.

“But it would not be her fault!” I cried, with rising indignation.

“No. But what will you? A man is particular about his wife’s
antecedents.”

I was prevented from further argument by our arrival at the door. M. Hautet
rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed, and then we heard a footfall within, and
the door was opened. On the threshold stood my young goddess of that afternoon.
When she saw us, the colour left her cheeks, leaving her deathly white, and her
eyes widened with apprehension. There was no doubt about it, she was afraid!

“Mademoiselle Daubreuil,” said M. Hautet, sweeping off his hat,
“we regret infinitely to disturb you, but the exigencies of the
Law—you comprehend? My compliments to Madame your mother, and will she
have the goodness to grant me a few moments’ interview.”

For a moment the girl stood motionless. Her left hand was pressed to her side,
as though to still the sudden unconquerable agitation of her heart. But she
mastered herself, and said in a low voice:

“I will go and see. Please come inside.”

She entered a room on the left of the hall, and we heard the low murmur of her
voice. And then another voice, much the same in timbre, but with a slightly
harder inflection behind its mellow roundness said:

“But certainly. Ask them to enter.”

In another minute we were face to face with the mysterious Madame Daubreuil.

She was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her
figure had all the grace of full maturity. Her hair, again unlike her
daughter’s, was dark, and parted in the middle in the madonna style. Her
eyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. There was a dimple in the
round chin, and the half parted lips seemed always to hover on the verge of a
mysterious smile. There was something almost exaggeratedly feminine about her,
at once yielding and seductive. Though very well preserved, she was certainly
no longer young, but her charm was of the quality which is independent of age.

Standing there, in her black dress with the fresh white collar and cuffs, her
hands clasped together, she looked subtly appealing and helpless.

“You wished to see me, monsieur?” she asked.

“Yes, madame.” M. Hautet cleared his throat. “I am
investigating the death of M. Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?”

She bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change.

“We came to ask you whether you can—er—throw any light upon
the circumstances surrounding it?”

“I?” The surprise of her tone was excellent.

“Yes, madame. It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you
alone.” He looked meaningly in the direction of the girl.

Madame Daubreuil turned to her.

“Marthe, dear—”

But the girl shook her head.

“No, maman, I will not go. I am not a child. I am twenty-two. I
shall not go.”

Madame Daubreuil turned back to the examining magistrate.

“You see, monsieur.”

“I should prefer not to speak before Mademoiselle Daubreuil.”

“As my daughter says, she is not a child.”

For a moment the magistrate hesitated, baffled.

“Very well, madame,” he said at last. “Have it your own way.
We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man
at his Villa in the evenings. Is that so?”

The colour rose in the lady’s pale cheeks, but she replied quietly:

“I deny your right to ask me such a question!”

“Madame, we are investigating a murder.”

“Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder.”

“Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man well.
Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?”

“Never.”

“Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have
made there?”

“No.”

“Then you can give us no help at all?”

“I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his
wife tell you what you want to know?” Her voice held a slender inflection
of irony.

“Madame Renauld has told us all she can.”

“Ah!” said Madame Daubreuil. “I wonder—”

“You wonder what, madame?”

“Nothing.”

The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was fighting a
duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.

“You persist in your statement that M. Renauld confided nothing in
you?”

“Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?”

“Because, madame,” said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality.
“A man tells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his
wife.”

“Ah!” she sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. “Monsieur,
you insult me! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the
goodness to leave my house!”

The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa Marguerite like
a shamefaced pack of schoolboys. The magistrate muttered angry ejaculations to
himself. Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he came out of his reverie
with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a good hotel near at hand.

“There is a small place, the Hotel des Bains, on this side of town. A few
hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations. We shall
see you in the morning then, I presume?”

“Yes, I thank you, M. Hautet.”

With mutual civilities, we parted company, Poirot and I going towards
Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.

“The French police system is very marvellous,” said Poirot, looking
after them. “The information they possess about every one’s life,
down to the most commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been
here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with M.
Renauld’s tastes and pursuits, and at a moment’s notice they can
produce information as to Madame Daubreuil’s banking account, and the
sums that have lately been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great
institution. But what is that?” He turned sharply.

A figure was running hatless, down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.

“I beg your pardon,” she cried breathlessly, as she reached us.
“I—I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But
is it true, what the people say, that M. Renauld called in a detective before
he died, and—and that you are he?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “It is quite true.
But how did you learn it?”

“Françoise told our Amélie,” explained Marthe, with a blush.

Poirot made a grimace.

“The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it
matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?”

The girl hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost
in a whisper, she asked:

“Is—any one suspected?”

Poirot eyed her keenly.

Then he replied evasively:

“Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, I know—but—any one in particular?”

“Why do you want to know?”

The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot’s words
about her earlier in the day recurred to me. The “girl with the anxious
eyes!”

“M. Renauld was always very kind to me,” she replied at last.
“It is natural that I should be interested.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at
present is hovering round two persons.”

“Two?”

I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.

“Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chilians from
Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and
beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!”

The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.

“I must run back now. Maman will miss me.”

And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I
stared after her.

“Mon ami,” said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice,
“is it that we are to remain planted here all night—just because
you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl?”

I laughed and apologized.

“But she is beautiful, Poirot. Any one might be excused for
being bowled over by her.”

Poirot groaned.

“Mon Dieu! But it is that you have the susceptible heart!”

“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember after the Styles Case
when—”

“When you were in love with two charming women at once, and neither of
them were for you? Yes, I remember.”

“You consoled me by saying that perhaps some day we should hunt together
again, and that then—”

“Eh bien?”

“Well, we are hunting together again, and—” I paused, and
laughed rather self-consciously.

But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly.

“Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is
not for you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!”

“Why,” I cried, “the commissary assured me that she was as
good as she is beautiful! A perfect angel!”

“Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of
angels,” remarked Poirot cheerfully. “A malformation of the grey
cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a madonna.”

“Poirot,” I cried, horrified, “you cannot mean that you
suspect an innocent child like this!”

“Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her.
But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat
unusual.”

“For once, I see further than you do,” I said. “Her anxiety
is not for herself—but for her mother.”

“My friend,” said Poirot, “as usual, you see nothing at all.
Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter
worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I
repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for
you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. Sacré! if only I could remember where I
had seen that face!”

“What face?” I asked, surprised. “The
daughter’s?”

“No. The mother’s.”

Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically.

“But yes—it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was
still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before,
but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. I rather
fancy—”

“Yes?”

“I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!”

8
An Unexpected Meeting

We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did
not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed
on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed
not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.

Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.

Léonie shook her head.

“She is terribly upset, la pauvre dame! She will eat
nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to
see her. Ah, par exemple, it is not I who would grieve like that for a
man who had deceived me with another woman!”

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

“What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who
loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been many
scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?”

Again Léonie shook her head.

“Never, monsieur. Never have I heard Madame utter a word of
protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an
angel—quite different to Monsieur.”

“Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”

“Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The
day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—ma foi! they might have been
heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!”

“Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take
place?”

“Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his
train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in
the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the
station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was
white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was
angry!”

Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.

“And the dispute, what was it about?”

“Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that
they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast,
that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But
Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!”

The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.

“And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy
remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”

“One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”

“They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur the
commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the
murder.”

“Quelle idée,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.

“You will go out and join them?”

“No, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool there on
this hot morning.”

This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.

“If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.

“Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account,
eh?”

“Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s
anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”

“The human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a
comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au
revoir.”

I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we
had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself.
I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes,
so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so further to the right.
If Giraud were still on the spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he
knew of my presence. But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a
struggle to force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was
quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young
lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.

She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an
exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!

The surprise was mutual.

“You,” we both exclaimed simultaneously.

The young lady recovered herself first.

“My only Aunt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing
here?”

“For the matter of that, what are you?” I retorted.

“When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home to
England like a good little boy. Have they given you a season ticket to and fro,
on the strength of your M.P.?”

I ignored the end of the speech.

“When last I saw you,” I said, “you were trotting home with
your sister, like a good little girl. By the way, how is your sister?”

A flash of white teeth rewarded me.

“How kind of you to ask! My sister is well, I thank you.”

“She is here with you?”

“She remained in town,” said the minx with dignity.

“I don’t believe you’ve got a sister,” I laughed.
“If you have, her name is Harris!”

“Do you remember mine?” she asked, with a smile.

“Cinderella. But you’re going to tell me the real one now,
aren’t you?”

She shook her head with a wicked look.

“Not even why you’re here?”

“Oh, that! I suppose you’ve heard of members of my profession
‘resting.’ ”

“At expensive French watering-places?”

“Dirt cheap if you know where to go.”

I eyed her keenly.

“Still, you’d no intention of coming here when I met you two days
ago?”

“We all have our disappointments,” said Miss Cinderella
sententiously. “There now, I’ve told you quite as much as is good
for you. Little boys should not be inquisitive. You’ve not yet told me
what you’re doing here? Got the M.P. in tow, I suppose, doing the gay boy
on the beach.”

I shook my head. “Guess again. You remember my telling you that my great
friend was a detective?”

“Yes?”

“And perhaps you’ve heard about this crime—at the Villa
Geneviève—?”

She stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.

“You don’t mean—that you’re in on that?”

I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as she
regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds, she remained silent,
staring at me. Then she nodded her head emphatically.

“Well, if that doesn’t beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see
all the horrors.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. Bless the boy, didn’t I tell you I doted on crimes?
What do you think I’m imperilling my ankles for in high-heeled shoes over
this stubble? I’ve been nosing round for hours. Tried the front way in,
but that old stick-in-the-mud of a French gendarme wasn’t taking any. I
guess Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra, and Mary, Queen of Scots, rolled in one
wouldn’t cut ice with him! It’s a real piece of luck happening on
you this way. Come on, show me all the sights.”

“But look here—wait a minute—I can’t. Nobody’s
allowed in. They’re awfully strict.”

“Aren’t you and your friend the big bugs?”

I was loath to relinquish my position of importance.

“Why are you so keen?” I asked weakly. “And what is it you
want to see.”

“Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the
body, and any finger-prints or interesting things like that. I’ve never
had a chance of being right in on a murder like this before. It’ll last
me all my life?”

I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The girl’s
ghoulish excitement nauseated me. I had read of the mobs of women who besieged
the law courts when some wretched man was being tried for his life on the
capital charge. I had sometimes wondered who these women were. Now I knew. They
were of the likeness of Cinderella, young, yet obsessed with a yearning for
morbid excitement, for sensation at any price, without regard to any decency or
good feeling. The vividness of the girl’s beauty had attracted me in
spite of myself, yet at heart I retained my first impression of disapproval and
dislike. I thought of my mother, long since dead. What would she have said of
this strange modern product of girlhood? The pretty face with the paint and
powder, and the ghoulish mind behind!

“Come off your high horse,” said the lady suddenly. “And
don’t give yourself airs. When you got called to this job, did you put
your nose in the air and say it was a nasty business, and you wouldn’t be
mixed up in it?”

“No, but—”

“If you’d been here on a holiday, wouldn’t you be nosing
round just the same as I am? Of course you would.”

“I’m a man. You’re a woman.”

“Your idea of a woman is some one who gets on a chair and shrieks if she
sees a mouse. That’s all prehistoric. But you will show me
round, won’t you? You see, it might make a big difference to me.”

“In what way?”

“They’re keeping all the reporters out. I might make a big scoop
with one of the papers. You don’t know how much they pay for a bit of
inside stuff.”

I hesitated. She slipped a small soft hand into mine.

“Please—there’s a dear.”

I capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of showman.
After all, the moral attitude displayed by the girl was none of my business. I
was a little nervous as to what the examining magistrate might say, but I
reassured myself by the reflection that no harm could possibly be done.

We repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A man was on
guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight, and raised no
question as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as vouched for by me. I
explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had been made, and she listened
attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent question. Then we turned our
steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded rather cautiously, for, truth
to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet any one. I took the girl through the
shrubbery round to the back of the house where the small shed was. I
recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the door, M. Bex had left
the key with the sergent de ville Marchaud, “in case M. Giraud
should require it while we are upstairs.” I thought it quite likely that
the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud again.
Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house. Marchaud
was on duty outside the door of the salon. From within came the murmur
of voices.

“Monsieur desires Hautet? He is within. He is again interrogating
Françoise.”

“No,” I said hastily, “I don’t want him. But I should
very much like the key of the shed outside if it is not against
regulations.”

“But certainly, monsieur.” He produced it. “Here it is. M. le
juge gave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You
will return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.”

“Of course.”

I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud’s eyes, at
least, I ranked equally in importance with Poirot. The girl was waiting for me.
She gave an exclamation of delight as she saw the key in my hand.

“You’ve got it then?”

“Of course,” I said coolly. “All the same, you know, what
I’m doing is highly irregular.”

“You’ve been a perfect duck, and I shan’t forget it. Come
along. They can’t see us from the house, can they?”

“Wait a minute.” I arrested her eager advance. “I won’t
stop you if you really wish to go in. But do you? You’ve seen the grave,
and the grounds, and you’ve heard all the details of the affair.
Isn’t that enough for you? This is going to be gruesome, you know,
and—unpleasant.”

She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite fathom.
Then she laughed.

“Me for the horrors,” she said. “Come along.”

In silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed in. I
walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as M. Bex had done
the preceding afternoon. A little gasping sound escaped from the girl’s
lips, and I turned and looked at her. There was horror on her face now, and
those debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly. She had not chosen
to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard of it. I
felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it now. I
turned the corpse gently over.

“You see,” I said, “he was stabbed in the back.”

Her voice was almost soundless.

“With what?”

I nodded towards the glass jar.

“That dagger.”

Suddenly the girl reeled, and then sank down in a heap. I sprang to her
assistance.

“You are faint. Come out of here. It has been too much for you.”

“Water,” she murmured. “Quick. Water. …”

I left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants were
about, and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a few drops
of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again. The girl was
lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water revived her in
a marvellous manner.

“Take me out of here—oh, quickly, quickly!” she cried,
shuddering.

Supporting her with my arm I led her out into the air, and she pulled the door
to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath.

“That’s better. Oh, it was horrible! Why did you ever let me go
in?”

I felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I was
not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so callous
as I had thought her. After all she was little more than a child, and her
curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order.

“I did my best to stop you, you know,” I said gently.

“I suppose you did. Well, good-bye.”

“Look here, you can’t start off like that—all alone.
You’re not fit for it. I insist on accompanying you back to
Merlinville.”

“Nonsense. I’m quite all right now.”

“Supposing you felt faint again? No, I shall come with you.”

But this she combated with a good deal of energy. In the end, however, I
prevailed so far as to be allowed to accompany her to the outskirts of the
town. We retraced our steps over our former route, passing the grave again, and
making a detour on to the road. Where the first straggling line of shops began,
she stopped and held out her hand.

“Good-bye, and thank you ever so much for coming with me.”

“Are you sure you’re all right now?”

“Quite, thanks. I hope you won’t get into any trouble over showing
me things?”

I disclaimed the idea lightly.

“Well, good-bye.”

“Au revoir,” I corrected. “If you’re staying here, we
shall meet again.”

She flashed a smile at me.

“That’s so. Au revoir, then.”

“Wait a second, you haven’t told me your address?”

“Oh, I’m staying at the Hôtel du Phare. It’s a little place,
but quite good. Come and look me up tomorrow.”

“I will,” I said, with perhaps rather unnecessary
empressement.

I watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the Villa. I
remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed. Fortunately no one had
noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed it and returned it to the
sergent de ville. And, as I did so, it came upon me suddenly that though
Cinderella had given me her address I still did not know her name.

9
M. Giraud Finds Some Clues

In the Salon I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the
old gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present, greeted
me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into a seat.
M. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did not succeed in
eliciting anything of importance.

The gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his. He wore them when handling a
certain species of primula plant which was poisonous to some people. He could
not say when he had worn them last. Certainly he had not missed them. Where
were they kept? Sometimes in one place, sometimes in another. The spade was
usually to be found in the small tool shed. Was it locked? Of course it was
locked. Where was the key kept? Parbleu, it was in the door of course!
There was nothing of value to steal. Who would have expected a party of
bandits, of assassins? Such things did not happen in Madame la
Vicomtesse’s time. M. Hautet signifying that he had finished with him,
the old man withdrew, grumbling to the last. Remembering Poirot’s
unaccountable insistence on the footprints in the flower beds, I scrutinized
him narrowly as he gave his evidence. Either he had nothing to do with the
crime or he was a consummate actor. Suddenly, just as he was going out of the
door, an idea struck me. “Pardon M. Hautet,” I cried,
“but will you permit me to ask him one question?”

“But certainly, monsieur.”

Thus encouraged, I turned to Auguste.

“Where do you keep your boots?”

“Sac à papier!” growled the old man. “On my feet.
Where else?”

“But when you go to bed at night?”

“Under my bed.”

“But who cleans them?”

“Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on the
front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, bien entendu,
but otherwise—!” he shrugged his shoulders.

I shook my head, discouraged.

“Well, well,” said the magistrate. “We do not advance very
much. Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago.
Has any one seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very
good mind to send for him and—”

“You will not have to send far, M. le juge.”

The quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in through the
open window.

He leaped lightly into the room, and advanced to the table.

“Here I am, M. le juge, at your service. Accept my excuses for not
presenting myself sooner.”

“Not at all. Not at all,” said the magistrate, rather confused.

“Of course I am only a detective,” continued the other. “I
know nothing of interrogatories. Were I conducting one, I should be inclined to
do so without an open window. Any one standing outside can so easily hear all
that passes. … But no matter.”

M. Hautet flushed angrily. There was evidently going to be no love lost between
the examining magistrate and the detective in charge of the case. They had
fallen foul of each other at the start. Perhaps in any event it would have been
much the same. To Giraud, all examining magistrates were fools, and to M.
Hautet who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the Paris detective
could not fail to give offence.

“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 would be sufficient. It is a South American cigarette
with liquorice pectoral paper.”

Poirot bowed. The commissary spoke:

“The cigarette end and match might have belonged to M. Renauld. Remember,
it is only two years since he returned from South America.”

“No,” replied the other confidently. “I have already searched
among the effects of M. Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he
used are quite different.”

“You do not think it odd,” asked Poirot, “that these
strangers should come unprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and
that they should so conveniently find all these things?”

Giraud smiled in a rather superior manner.

“Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it
would be inexplicable.”

“Aha!” said M. Hautet. “An accomplice. An accomplice within
the house!”

“Or outside it,” said Giraud with a peculiar smile.

“But some one must have admitted them? We cannot allow that, by an
unparalleled piece of good fortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk
in?”

“D’accord, M. le juge. The door was opened for them, but it
could just as easily be opened from outside—by some one who possessed a
key.”

“But who did possess a key?”

Giraud shrugged his shoulders.

“As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if they
can help it. But several people might have had one. M. Jack Renauld,
the son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but
he might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the
gardener—he has been here many years. One of the younger servants may
have a lover. It is easy to take an impression of a key and have one cut. There
are many possibilities. Then there is another person who, I should judge, is
exceedingly likely to have such a thing in her keeping.”

“Who is that?”

“Madame Daubreuil,” said the detective dryly.

“Eh, eh!” said the magistrate, his face falling a little, “so
you have heard about that, have you?”

“I hear everything,” said Giraud imperturbably.

“There is one thing I could swear you have not heard,” said M.
Hautet, delighted to be able to show superior knowledge, and without more ado,
he retailed the story of the mysterious visitor the night before. He also
touched on the cheque made out to “Duveen,” and finally handed
Giraud the letter signed “Bella.”

Giraud listened in silence, studied the letter attentively, and then handed it
back.

“All very interesting, M. le juge. But my theory remains
unaffected.”

“And your theory is?”

“For the moment I prefer not to say. Remember, I am only just beginning
my investigations.”

“Tell me one thing, M. Giraud,” said Poirot suddenly. “Your
theory allows for the door being opened. It does not explain why it was
left open. When they departed, would it not have been natural for them
to close it behind them. If a sergent de ville had chanced to come up to
the house, as is sometimes done to see that all is well, they might have been
discovered and overtaken almost at once.”

“Bah! They forgot it. A mistake, I grant you.”

Then, to my surprise, Poirot uttered almost the same words as he had uttered to
Bex the previous evening:

“I do not agree with you. The door being left open was the
result of either design or necessity, and any theory that does not admit that
fact is bound to prove vain.”

We all regarded the little man with a good deal of astonishment. The confession
of ignorance drawn from him over the match end had, I thought, been bound to
humiliate him, but here he was self satisfied as ever, laying down the law to
the great Giraud without a tremor.

The detective twisted his moustache, eyeing my friend in a somewhat bantering
fashion.

“You don’t agree with me, eh? Well, what strikes you particularly
about the case. Let’s hear your views.”

“One thing presents itself to me as being significant. Tell me, M.
Giraud, does nothing strike you as familiar about this case? Is there nothing
it reminds you of?”

“Familiar? Reminds me of? I can’t say off-hand. I don’t think
so, though.”

“You are wrong,” said Poirot quietly. “A crime almost
precisely similar has been committed before.”

“When? And where?”

“Ah, that, unfortunately, I cannot for the moment remember—but I
shall do so. I had hoped you might be able to assist me.”

Giraud snorted incredulously.

“There have been many affairs of masked men! I cannot remember the
details of them all. These crimes all resemble each other more or less.”

“There is such a thing as the individual touch.” Poirot suddenly
assumed his lecturing manner, and addressed us collectively. “I am
speaking to you now of the psychology of crime. M. Giraud knows quite well that
each criminal has his particular method, and that the police, when called in to
investigate—say a case of burglary—can often make a shrewd guess at
the offender, simply by the peculiar method he has employed. (Japp would tell
you the same, Hastings.) Man is an unoriginal animal. Unoriginal within the law
in his daily respectable life, equally unoriginal outside the law. If a man
commits a crime, any other crime he commits will resemble it closely. The
English murderer who disposed of his wives in succession by drowning them in
their baths was a case in point. Had he varied his methods, he might have
escaped detection to this day. But he obeyed the common dictates of human
nature, arguing that what had once succeeded would succeed again, and he paid
the penalty of his lack of originality.”

“And the point of all this?” sneered Giraud.

“That when you have two crimes precisely similar in design and execution,
you find the same brain behind them both. I am looking for that brain, M.
Giraud—and I shall find it. Here we have a true clue—a
psychological clue. You may know all about cigarettes and match ends, M.
Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man!” And the ridiculous
little fellow tapped his forehead with emphasis.

Giraud remained singularly unimpressed.

“For your guidance,” continued Poirot, “I will also advise
you of one fact which might fail to be brought to your notice. The wrist watch
of Madame Renauld, on the day following the tragedy, had gained two hours. It
might interest you to examine it.”

Giraud stared.

“Perhaps it was in the habit of gaining?”

“As a matter of fact, I am told it did.”

“Eh bien, then!”

“All the same, two hours is a good deal,” said Poirot softly.
“Then there is the matter of the footprints in the flower-bed.”

He nodded his head towards the open window. Giraud took two eager strides, and
looked out.

“This bed here?”

“Yes.”

“But I see no footprints?”

“No,” said Poirot, straightening a little pile of books on a table.
“There are none.”

For a moment an almost murderous rage obscured Giraud’s face. He took two
strides towards his tormentor, but at that moment the salon door was
opened, and Marchaud announced.

“M. Stonor, the secretary, has just arrived from England. May he
enter?”

10
Gabriel Stonor

The man who entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall, with a well knit
athletic frame, and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he dominated the assembly.
Even Giraud seemed anaemic beside him. When I knew him better I realized that
Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual personality. English by birth, he had
knocked about all over the world. He had shot big game in Africa, travelled in
Korea, ranched in California, and traded in the South Sea Islands. He had been
secretary to a New York railway magnate, and had spent a year encamped in the
desert with a friendly tribe of Arabs.

His unerring eye picked out M. Hautet.

“The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you, M.
le juge. This is a terrible business. How’s Mrs. Renauld? Is she bearing
up fairly well? It must have been an awful shock to her.”

“Terrible, terrible,” said M. Hautet. “Permit me to introduce
M. Bex—our commissary of police, M. Giraud of the Sûreté. This gentleman
is M. Hercule Poirot. M. Renauld sent for him, but he arrived too late to do
anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of M. Poirot’s, Captain
Hastings.”

Stonor looked at Poirot with some interest.

“Sent for you, did he?”

“You did not know, then, that M. Renauld contemplated calling in a
detective?” interposed M. Bex.

“No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

“Why?”

“Because the old man was rattled! I don’t know what it was all
about. He didn’t confide in me. We weren’t on those terms. But
rattled he was—and badly!”

“H’m!” said M. Hautet. “But you have no notion of the
cause?”

“That’s what I said, sir.”

“You will pardon me, M. Stonor, but we must begin with a few formalities.
Your name?”

“Gabriel Stonor.”

“How long ago was it that you became secretary to M. Renauld?”

“About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met him
through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering good boss he
was too.”

“Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?”

“Yes, a good bit.”

“Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?”

“Several times, I believe.”

“He never mentioned any special incident that occurred
there—anything that might have provoked some vendetta against him?”

“Never.”

“Did he speak of any secret that he had acquired whilst sojourning
there?”

“No.”

“Did he ever say anything at all about a secret?”

“Not that I can remember. But, for all that, there was a mystery
about him. I’ve never heard him speak of his boyhood for instance, or of
any incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French Canadian by
birth, I believe, but I’ve never heard him speak of his life in Canada.
He could shut up like a clam if he liked.”

“So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue
as to any secret to obtain possession of which he might have been
murdered?”

“That’s so.”

“M. Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in connection with M.
Renauld?”

“Duveen. Duveen.” He tried the name over thoughtfully. “I
don’t think I have. And yet it seems familiar.”

“Do you know a lady, a friend of M. Renauld’s whose Christian name
is Bella?”

Again Mr. Stonor shook his head.

“Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It’s curious! I’m sure
I know it. But for the moment I can’t remember in what connection.”

The magistrate coughed.

“You understand, M. Stonor—the case is like this. There must be
no reservations. You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration
for Madame Renauld—for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and
affection, you might—enfin!” said M. Hautet getting rather
tied up in his sentence, “there must absolutely be no
reservations.”

Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.

“I don’t quite get you,” he said gently. “Where does
Mrs. Renauld come in? I’ve an immense respect and affection for that
lady; she’s a very wonderful and unusual type, but I don’t quite
see how my reservations, or otherwise, could affect her?”

“Not if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more than a
friend to her husband?”

“Ah!” said Stonor. “I get you now. But I’ll bet my
bottom dollar that you’re wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a
petticoat. He just adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I
know.”

M. Hautet shook his head gently.

“M. Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this
Bella to M. Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have
further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue
with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining Villa. And this
is the man who, according to you, never looked at a petticoat!”

The secretary’s eyes narrowed.

“Hold on, M. le juge. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul
Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is utterly impossible.
There’s some other explanation.”

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.

“What other explanation could there be?”

“What leads you to think it was a love affair?”

“Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the evenings.
Also, since M. Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame Daubreuil has paid
large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all, the amount totals four
thousand pounds of your English money.”

“I guess that’s right,” said Stonor quietly. “I
transmitted him those sums at his request. But it wasn’t an
intrigue.”

“Eh! mon Dieu! What else could it be?”

“Blackmail,” said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand
with a slam on the table. “That’s what it was.”

“Ah! Voilà une idée!” cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of
himself.

“Blackmail,” repeated Stonor. “The old man was being
bled—and at a good rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I
told you just now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame
Daubreuil knew enough of it to put the screws on.”

“It is possible,” the commissary cried excitedly. “Decidedly,
it is possible.”

“Possible?” roared Stonor. “It’s certain! Tell me, have
you asked Mrs. Renauld about this love affair stunt of yours?”

“No, monsieur. We did not wish to occasion her any distress if it could
reasonably be avoided.”

“Distress? Why, she’d laugh in your face. I tell you, she and
Renauld were a couple in a hundred.”

“Ah, that reminds me of another point,” said M. Hautet. “Did
M. Renauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his
will?”

“I know all about it—took it to the lawyer for him after he’d
drawn it out. I can give you the name of his solicitors if you want to see it.
They’ve got it there. Quite simple. Half in trust to his wife for her
lifetime, the other half to his son. A few legacies. I rather think he left me
a thousand.”

“When was this will drawn up?”

“Oh, about a year and a half ago.”

“Would it surprise you very much, M. Stonor, to hear that M. Renauld had
made another will, less than a fortnight ago?”

Stonor was obviously very much surprised.

“I’d no idea of it. What’s it like?”

“The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There is
no mention of his son.”

Mr. Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

“I call that rather rough on the lad. His mother adores him, of course,
but to the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on his
father’s part. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it all goes
to prove what I told you, that Renauld and his wife were on first rate
terms.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said M. Hautet. “It is possible we
shall have to revise our ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to
Santiago, and are expecting a reply from there any minute. In all possibility,
everything will then be perfectly clear and straightforward. On the other hand,
if your suggestion of blackmail is true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to
give us valuable information.”

Poirot interjected a remark:

“M. Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with M.
Renauld?”

“Over a year?”

“Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?”

“I’m quite sure he hasn’t. Before coming to Mr. Renauld, he
had been for many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know
well.”

“In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?”

“Absolutely.”

Poirot seemed somewhat crest-fallen.

Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.

“My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to her
for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her
upstairs.”

Marchaud saluted and disappeared.

We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and Mrs.
Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.

M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and she
thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his with an
eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld turned to M.
Hautet.

“You wished to ask me something, M. le juge.”

“With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French
Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth, or upbringing?”

She shook her head.

“My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came
from the North West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy childhood, for
he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived entirely in the
present and the future.”

“Was there any mystery in his past life?”

Mrs. Renauld smiled a little, and shook her head.

“Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.”

M. Hautet also smiled.

“True, we must not permit ourselves to get melodramatic. There is one
thing more—” he hesitated.

Stonor broke in impetuously:

“They’ve got an extraordinary idea into their heads Mrs. Renauld.
They actually fancy that Mr. Renauld was carrying on an intrigue with a Madame
Daubreuil who, it seems, lives next door.”

The scarlet colour flamed into Mrs. Renauld’s cheeks. She flung her head
up, then bit her lip, her face quivering. Stonor stood looking at her in
astonishment, but M. Bex leaned forward and said gently: “We regret to
cause you pain, madame, but have you any reason to believe that Madame
Daubreuil was your husband’s mistress?”

With a sob of anguish, Mrs. Renauld buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders
heaved convulsively. At last she lifted her head, and said brokenly:

“She may have been.”

Never, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement on
Stonor’s face. He was thoroughly taken aback.

11
Jack Renauld

What the next development of the conversation would have been, I cannot say,
for at that moment the door was thrown violently open, and a tall young man
strode into the room.

Just for a moment I had the uncanny sensation that the dead man had come to
life again. Then I realized that this dark head was untouched with grey, and
that, in point of fact, it was a mere boy who now burst in among us with so
little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs. Renauld with an impetuosity that took
no heed of the presence of others.

“Mother!”

“Jack!” With a cry she folded him in her arms. “My dearest!
But what brings you here? You were to sail on the Anzora from Cherbourg
two days ago?” Then, suddenly recalling to herself the presence of
others, she turned with a certain dignity, “My son, messieurs.”

“Aha!” said M. Hautet, acknowledging the young man’s bow.
“So you did not sail on the Anzora?”

“No, monsieur. As I was about to explain, the Anzora was detained
twenty-four hours through engine trouble. I should have sailed last night
instead of the night before, but, happening to buy an evening paper, I saw in
it an account of the—the awful tragedy that had befallen us—”
His voice broke and the tears came into his eyes. “My poor
father—my poor, poor, father.”

Staring at him like one in a dream, Mrs. Renauld repeated: “So you did
not sail?” And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she murmured
as though to herself, “After all, it does not matter—now.”

“Sit down, M. Renauld, I beg of you,” said M. Hautet, indicating a
chair. “My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible
shock to you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that
you were prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us
just the information we need to clear up this mystery.”

“I am at your disposal, M. le juge. Ask me any questions you
please.”

“To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at
your father’s request?”

“Quite so, M. le juge. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed
without delay to Buenos Ayres, and from thence via the Andes to Valparaiso and
on to Santiago.”

“Ah. And the object of this journey?”

“I have no idea, M. le juge.”

“What?”

“No. See, here is the telegram.”

The magistrate took it and read it aloud.

“ ‘Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark Anzora sailing
tonight Buenos Ayres. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will
await you Buenos Ayres. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance.
Renauld.’ And there had been no previous correspondence on the
matter?”

Jack Renauld shook his head.

“That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my
father, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in South
America. But he had never mooted any suggestion of sending me out.”

“You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M.
Renauld?”

“I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of
my holidays in that country, so I really know far less of South America than
might be supposed. You see, the war broke out when I was seventeen.”

“You served in the English Flying Corps, did you not?”

“Yes, M. le juge.”

M. Hautet nodded his head, and proceeded with his inquiries along the, by now,
well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew
nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the city of Santiago,
or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had noticed no change in
his father’s manner of late, and that he had never heard him refer to a
secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as connected with business
interests.

As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in.

“I should like to put a few questions on my own account, M. le
juge.”

“By all means, M. Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly.

Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.

“Were you on good terms with your father, M. Renauld?”

“Certainly I was,” returned the lad haughtily.

“You assert that positively?”

“Yes.”

“No little disputes, eh?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Every one may have a difference of opinion
now and then.”

“Quite so, quite so. But if any one were to assert that you had a violent
quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person,
without doubt, would be lying?”

I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast “I know
everything” had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted
by the question.

“We—we did have an argument,” he admitted.

“Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument did you use this phrase:
‘When you are dead, I can do as I please?’ ”

“I may have done,” muttered the other. “I don’t
know.”

“In response to that, did your father say: ‘But I am not dead
yet!’ To which you responded: ‘I wish you were!’ ”

The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the
table in front of him.

“I must request an answer, please, M. Renauld,” said Giraud
sharply.

With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper-knife on to the floor.

“What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my
father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even
remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at
that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his
chair, flushed and defiant.

Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:

“That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the
interrogatory, M. le juge.”

“Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject
of your quarrel?”

“I decline to state.”

M. Hautet sat up in his chair.

“M. Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he
thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?”

Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another
voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot.

“I will inform you, if you like, M. le juge.”

“You know?”

“Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe
Daubreuil.”

Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.

“Is this so, monsieur.”

Jack Renauld bowed his head.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I
wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact, he flew at once into
a violent rage. Naturally I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted,
and I, too, lost my temper.”

M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld.

“You were aware of this—attachment, madame.”

“I feared it,” she replied simply.

“Mother,” cried the boy. “You too! Marthe is as good as she
is beautiful. What can you have against her?”

“I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should
prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman not one who has a
mother of doubtful antecedents!”

Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could
well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son
showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.

Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:

“I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I
hoped that it was only a boy and girl flirtation which would blow over all the
quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence, but my
husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and care-worn, different
altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to give him
any additional worry.”

M. Hautet nodded.

“When you informed your father of your intentions towards Mademoiselle
Daubreuil,” he resumed, “he was surprised?”

“He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily to
dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to such a
marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle Daubreuil. To
that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting terms of the
mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I answered that I was
marrying Marthe, and not her antecedents, but he shouted me down with a
peremptory refusal to discuss the matter in any way. The whole thing must be
given up. The injustice and high-handedness of it all maddened
me—especially since he himself always seemed to go out of his way to be
attentive to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that they should be asked
to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in earnest. My father reminded
me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it must have been in answer to
that that I made the remark about doing as I pleased after his
death—”

Poirot interrupted with a quick question.

“You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?”

“I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust
for my mother to come to me at her death,” replied the lad.

“Proceed with your story,” said the magistrate.

“After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly
realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for
the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed
down. I wrote to Marthe, telling her what had happened, and her reply soothed
me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be steadfast, and
any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection for each other must
be tried and proved, and when my parents realized that it was no light
infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent towards us. Of course, to
her, I had not dwelt on my father’s principal objection to the match. I
soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence. My father wrote me
several letters to Paris, affectionate in tone, and which did not refer to our
disagreement or its cause, and I replied in the same strain.”

“You can produce those letters, eh?” said Giraud.

“I did not keep them.”

“No matter,” said the detective.

Renauld looked at him for a moment, but the magistrate was continuing his
questions.

“To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen,
M. Renauld?”

“Duveen?” said Jack. “Duveen?” He leant forward, and
slowly picked up the paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his
head, his eyes met the watching ones of Giraud. “Duveen? No, I
can’t say I am.”

“Will you read this letter, M. Renauld? And tell me if you have any idea
as to who the person was who addressed it to your father?”

Jack Renauld took the letter, and read it through, the colour mounting in his
face as he did so.

“Addressed to my father?” The emotion and indignation in his tones
were evident.

“Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.”

“Does—” He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a
glance towards his mother. The magistrate understood.

“As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?”

“I have no idea whatsoever.”

M. Hautet sighed.

“A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the
letter altogether. What do you think, M. Giraud? It does not seem to lead us
anywhere.”

“It certainly does not,” agreed the detective with emphasis.

“And yet,” sighed the magistrate, “it promised at the
beginning to be such a beautiful and simple case!” He caught Mrs.
Renauld’s eye, and blushed in immediate confusion. “Ah, yes,”
he coughed, turning over the papers on the table. “Let me see, where were
we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this may give you pain, M. Renauld. I understand it
was a present from you to your mother. Very sad—very
distressing—”

Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the perusal of
the letter, was now deadly white.

“Do you mean—that it was with an aeroplane wire paper cutter that
my father was—was killed? But it’s impossible! A little thing like
that!”

“Alas, M. Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear.
Sharp and easy to handle.”

“Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the—the body?”

“Oh, no, it had been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It
would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it.
Still—M. Bex, might I trouble you?”

“Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.”

“Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested
Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s
body.”

The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate, always
disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied.

“But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us
here.”

The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by the
hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that struck his
trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading the mysterious
love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his first theory of
jealousy and a stab in the back.

Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in.

“M. le juge! M. le juge!”

“But yes. What is it?”

“The dagger! It is gone!”

“Comment—gone?”

“Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!”

“What?” I cried. “Impossible. Why, only this morning I
saw—” The words died on my tongue.

But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.

“What is that you say?” cried the commissary. “This
morning?”

“I saw it there this morning,” I said slowly. “About an hour
and a half ago, to be accurate.”

“You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?”

“I asked the sergent de ville for it.”

“And you went there? Why?”

I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to make a
clean breast of it.

“M. le juge,” I said. “I have committed a grave fault, for
which I must crave your indulgence.”

“Eh bien! Proceed, monsieur.”

“The fact of the matter is,” I said, wishing myself anywhere else
than where I was, “that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She
displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and
I—well, in short, I took the key to show her the body.”

“Ah, par exemple,” cried the magistrate indignantly.
“But it is a grave fault you have committed there, Captain Hastings. It
is altogether most irregular. You should not have permitted yourself this
folly.”

“I know,” I said meekly. “Nothing that you can say could be
too severe, M. le juge.”

“You did not invite this lady to come here?”

“Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who
happens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that until my
unexpected meeting with her.”

“Well, well,” said the magistrate, softening. “It was most
irregular, but the lady is without doubt young and beautiful, n’est-ce
pas? What it is to be young! O jeunesse, jeunesse!” And he
sighed sentimentally.

But the commissary, less romantic, and more practical, took up the tale:

“But did not you reclose and lock the door when you departed.”

“That’s just it,” I said slowly. “That’s what I
blame myself for so terribly. My friend was upset at the sight. She nearly
fainted. I got her some brandy and water, and afterwards insisted on
accompanying her back to town. In the excitement, I forgot to relock the door.
I only did so when I got back to the Villa.”

“Then for twenty minutes at least—” said the commissary
slowly. He stopped.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Twenty minutes,” mused the commissary.

“It is deplorable,” said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner
returning. “Without precedent.”

Suddenly another voice spoke.

“You find it deplorable, M. le juge?” asked Giraud.

“Certainly I do.”

“Eh bien! I find it admirable,” said the other
imperturbably.

This unexpected ally quite bewildered me.

“Admirable, M. Giraud?” asked the magistrate, studying him
cautiously out of the corner of his eye.

“Precisely.”

“And why?”

“Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the assassin,
has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with that
knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.” There was a note of
menace in his voice. He continued: “He risked a good deal to gain
possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that finger-prints might be
discovered on it.”

Poirot turned to Bex.

“You said there were none?”

Giraud shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps he could not be sure.”

Poirot looked at him.

“You are wrong, M. Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must have been
sure.”

“I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice
who was not aware of that fact.”

“Ils sont mal renseignés, les accomplices!” muttered Poirot,
but he said no more.

The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M.
Hautet addressed us:

“Our work here is finished. Perhaps, M. Renauld, you will listen whilst
your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the proceedings as
informal as possible. I have been called original in my methods, but I maintain
that there is much to be said for originality. The case is now in the clever
hands of the renowned M. Giraud. He will without doubt distinguish himself.
Indeed, I wonder that he has not already laid his hands upon the murderers!
Madame, again let me assure you of my heart-felt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish
you all good day.” And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he
took his departure.

Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his, and observed the time.

“Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,” he said.
“And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning.
No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.”

We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off
in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me:

“One little moment, my friend.” Dexterously, he whipped out his
yard measure, and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in
the hall from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before,
and guessed that it belonged to either Mr. Stonor, or Jack Renauld.

Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket,
and followed me out into the open air.

12
Poirot Elucidates Certain Points

“Why did you measure that overcoat?” I asked, with some curiosity,
as we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.

“Parbleu! to see how long it was,” replied my friend
imperturbably.

I was vexed. Poirot’s incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing
never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of
thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time,
certain words Mrs. Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me, fraught
with a new significance. “So you did not sail?” she had said, and
then had added: “After all, it does not matter—now.”

What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical—significant. Was
it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all knowledge
of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have entrusted his son.
But was she really less ignorant than she pretended? Could she enlighten us if
she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully thought out and preconceived
plan?

The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I was right. Mrs.
Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her son,
she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if not
the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very
powerful considerations must keep her silent.

“You think profoundly, my friend,” remarked Poirot, breaking in
upon my reflections. “What is it that intrigues you so?”

I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would ridicule
my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.

“You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that
she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring,
at least of conniving at the crime.”

“You suspected her?” I cried.

“But certainly! She benefits enormously—in fact, by this new will,
she is the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for
attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of examining
her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that she had
gagged and bound herself. Eh bien, I saw at once that there was no fake,
the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut into the flesh. That ruled
out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed. But it was
still possible for her to have connived at it, or to have been the instigator
with an accomplice. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was singularly
familiar to me—the masked men that she could not recognize, the mention
of ‘the secret’—I had heard, or read, all these things
before. Another little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the
truth. The wrist watch, Hastings, the wrist watch!”

Again that wrist watch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.

“You see, mon ami? You comprehend?”

“No,” I replied with some ill humour. “I neither see nor
comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries, and it’s useless
asking you to explain. You always like keeping everything up your sleeve to the
last minute.”

“Do not enrage yourself, my friend,” said Poirot with a smile.
“I will explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, c’est
entendu? He treats me as an old one of no importance! We shall
see! In common fairness I gave him a hint. If he does not choose to act
upon it, that is his own look out.”

I assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion.

“C’est bien! Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell
me, my friend, at what time, according to you, did the tragedy take
place?”

“Why, at two o’clock or thereabouts,” I said, astonished.
“You remember, Mrs. Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while
the men were in the room.”

“Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate,
Bex, and every one else, accept the time without further question. But I,
Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at least
two hours earlier.”

“But the doctors—”

“They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place
between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason, it was
imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it
actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact
hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Mrs. Renauld’s
testimony alone, some one moved on the hands of that wrist watch to two
o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the
case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism
of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part,
for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld
was lying: secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement
of the time.”

“But what reason could there be?”

“Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I
cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having
a possible connection.”

“And that is?”

“The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.”

I followed it out slowly.

“So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, any one
leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!”

“Perfect, Hastings! You have it!”

I sprang up.

“But we must inquire at the station. Surely they cannot have failed to
notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!”

“You think so, Hastings?”

“Of course. Let us go there now.”

Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.

“Go by all means if you wish, mon ami—but if you go, I
should not ask for particulars of two foreigners.”

I stared, and he said rather impatiently:

“Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men
and all the rest of cette histoire-là!”

His words took me so much aback that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on
serenely:

“You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this
crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things,
either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an
account read of a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our
assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce
definitely on that after—” he broke off.

I was revolving sundry matters in my mind.

“But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and
Santiago?”

“Undoubtedly there was a secret in M. Renauld’s life—there
can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a
red herring, dragged continually across the track to put us off the scent. It
is possible that it was used in the same way on M. Renauld, to keep him from
directing his suspicions into a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured,
Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at
hand, in France.”

He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be
convinced. But I essayed one final objection:

“And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of
them.”

A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot’s face.

“Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to
find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever
dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his
stomach. ‘See what I have found,’ he says. And then again to me:
‘What do you see here?’ Me, I answer, with profound and deep truth,
‘Nothing.’ And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to
himself, ‘Oh, that he is imbecile, this old one!’ But we shall
see. …”

But my mind had reverted to the main facts.

“Then all this story of the masked men—?”

“Is false.”

“What really happened?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“One person could tell us—Madame Renauld. But she will not speak.
Threats and entreaties would not move her. A remarkable woman that, Hastings. I
recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman of unusual
character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of being
concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.”

“What made you do that?”

“Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband’s
body. I could swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully, “one cannot mistake these
things.”

“I beg your pardon, my friend—one can always be mistaken. Regard a
great actress, does not her acting of grief carry you away and impress you with
its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I needed other
evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great criminal can be a
great actor. I base my certainty in this case, not upon my own impression, but
upon the undeniable fact that Mrs. Renauld actually fainted. I turned up her
eyelids and felt her pulse. There was no deception—the swoon was genuine.
Therefore I was satisfied that her anguish was real and not assumed. Besides, a
small additional point not without interest, it was unnecessary for Mrs.
Renauld to exhibit unrestrained grief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of
her husband’s death, and there would be no need for her to simulate
another such a violent one on beholding his body. No, Mrs. Renauld was not her
husband’s murderess. But why has she lied? She lied about the wrist
watch, she lied about the masked men—she lied about a third thing. Tell
me, Hastings, what is your explanation of the open door?”

“Well,” I said, rather embarrassed, “I suppose it was an
oversight. They forgot to shut it.”

Poirot shook his head, and sighed.

“That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a
meaning behind that open door which for a moment I cannot fathom.”

“I have an idea,” I cried suddenly.

“A la bonne heure! Let us hear it.”

“Listen. We are agreed that Mrs. Renauld’s story is a fabrication.
Is it not possible, then, that Mr. Renauld left the house to keep an
appointment—possibly with the murderer—leaving the front door open
for his return. But he did not return, and the next morning he is found,
stabbed in the back.”

“An admirable theory, Hastings, but for two facts which you have
characteristically overlooked. In the first place, who gagged and bound Madame
Renauld? And why on earth should they return to the house to do so? In the
second place, no man on earth would go out to keep an appointment wearing his
underclothes and an overcoat. There are circumstances in which a man might wear
pajamas and an overcoat—but the other, never!”

“True,” I said, rather crest-fallen.

“No,” continued Poirot, “we must look elsewhere for a
solution of the open door mystery. One thing I am fairly sure of—they did
not leave through the door. They left by the window.”

“What?”

“Precisely.”

“But there were no footmarks in the flower bed underneath.”

“No—and there ought to have been. Listen, Hastings. The
gardener, Auguste, as you heard him say, planted both those beds the preceding
afternoon. In the one there are plentiful impressions of his big hobnailed
boots—in the other, none! You see? Some one had passed that way,
some one who, to obliterate their footprints, smoothed over the surface of the
bed with a rake.”

“Where did they get a rake?”

“Where they got the spade and the gardening gloves,” said Poirot
impatiently. “There is no difficulty about that.”

“What makes you think that they left that way, though? Surely it is more
probable that they entered by the window, and left by the door.”

“That is possible of course. Yet I have a strong idea that they left by
the window.”

“I think you are wrong.”

“Perhaps, mon ami.”

I mused, thinking over the new field of conjecture that Poirot’s
deductions had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic allusions
to the flower bed and the wrist watch. His remarks had seemed so meaningless at
the moment and now, for the first time, I realized how remarkably, from a few
slight incidents, he had unravelled much of the mystery that surrounded the
case. I paid a belated homage to my friend. As though he read my thoughts, he
nodded sagely.

“Method, you comprehend! Method! Arrange your facts. Arrange your ideas.
And if some little fact will not fit in—do not reject it but consider it
closely. Though its significance escapes you, be sure that it is
significant.”

“In the meantime,” I said, considering, “although we know a
great deal more than we did, we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who
killed Mr. Renauld.”

“No,” said Poirot cheerfully. “In fact we are a great deal
further off.”

The fact seemed to afford him such peculiar satisfaction that I gazed at him in
wonder. He met my eye and smiled.

“But yes, it is better so. Before, there was at all events a clear theory
as to how and by whose hands he met his death. Now that is all gone. We are in
darkness. A hundred conflicting points confuse and worry us. That is well. That
is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth order. But if you find order to
start with, if a crime seems simple and above-board, eh bien, méfiez
vous! It is, how do you say it?—cooked! The great criminal
is simple—but very few criminals are great. In trying to cover up
their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, mon ami, I would
that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his
crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch
such a one.”

But I had not followed his words. A light had burst upon me.

“Poirot! Mrs. Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding
somebody.”

From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could see that the
idea had already occurred to him.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Shielding some one—or
screening some one. One of the two.”

I saw very little difference between the two words, but I developed my theme
with a good deal of earnestness. Poirot maintained a strictly non-committal
attitude, repeating:

“It may be—yes, it may be. But as yet I do not know! There is
something very deep underneath all this. You will see. Something very
deep.”

Then, as we entered our hotel, he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.

13
The Girl with the Anxious Eyes

We lunched with an excellent appetite. I understood well enough that Poirot did
not wish to discuss the tragedy where we could so easily be overheard. But, as
is usual when one topic fills the mind to the exclusion of everything else, no
other subject of interest seemed to present itself. For a while we ate in
silence, and then Poirot observed maliciously:

“Eh bien! And your indiscretions! You recount them not?”

I felt myself blushing.

“Oh, you mean this morning?” I endeavoured to adopt a tone of
absolute nonchalance.

But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole
story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.

“Tiens! A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this
charming young lady?”

I had to confess that I did not know.

“Still more romantic! The first rencontre in the train from Paris,
the second here. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, is not that the
saying?”

“Don’t be an ass, Poirot.”

“Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is
Mademoiselle—Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk,
Hastings! You should establish a harem!”

“It’s all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very
beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely—I don’t mind
admitting it. The other’s nothing—don’t suppose I shall ever
see her again. She was quite amusing to talk to just for a railway journey, but
she’s not the kind of girl I should ever get keen on.”

“Why?”

“Well—it sounds snobbish perhaps—but she’s not a lady,
not in any sense of the word.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. There was less raillery in his voice as he asked:

“You believe, then, in birth and breeding?”

“I may be old-fashioned, but I certainly don’t believe in marrying
out of one’s class. It never answers.”

“I agree with you, mon ami. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it
is as you say. But there is always the hundredth time! Still, that does not
arise, as you do not propose to see the lady again.”

His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness with
which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, writ large in letters of
fire, I saw the words “Hôtel du Phare,” and I heard again her voice
saying “Come and look me up” and my own answering with
empressement: “I will.”

Well, what of it? I had meant to go at the time. But since then, I had had time
to reflect. I did not like the girl. Thinking it over in cold blood, I came
definitely to the conclusion that I disliked her intensely. I had got hauled
over the coals for foolishly gratifying her morbid curiosity, and I had not the
least wish to see her again.

I answered Poirot lightly enough.

“She asked me to look her up, but of course I shan’t.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Well—I don’t want to.”

“I see.” He studied me attentively for some minutes. “Yes. I
see very well. And you are wise. Stick to what you have said.”

“That seems to be your invariable advice,” I remarked, rather
piqued.

“Ah, my friend, have faith in Papa Poirot. Some day, if you permit, I
will arrange you a marriage of great suitability.”

“Thank you,” I said laughing, “but the prospect leaves me
cold.”

Poirot sighed and shook his head.

“Les Anglais!” he murmured. “No
method—absolutely none whatever. They leave all to chance!” He
frowned, and altered the position of the salt cellar.

“Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d’Angleterre you
told me, did you not?”

“No. Hôtel du Phare.”

“True, I forgot.”

A moment’s misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never mentioned
any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him, and felt reassured. He was cutting
his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his task. He must
have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.

We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny cigarettes,
and then drew his watch from his pocket.

“The train to Paris leaves at 2:25,” he observed. “I should
be starting.”

“Paris?” I cried.

“That is what I said, mon ami.”

“You are going to Paris? But why?”

He replied very seriously.

“To look for the murderer of M. Renauld.”

“You think he is in Paris?”

“I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must
look for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good
time. Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long.
In all probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should
accompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the society
of M. Renauld fils. And thirdly, if you wish, endeavour to cut him out
with Mademoiselle Marthe. But I fear you will not have great success.”

I did not quite relish the last remark.

“That reminds me,” I said. “I meant to ask you how you knew
about those two?”

“Mon ami—I know human nature. Throw together a boy young
Renauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe, and the result is almost
inevitable. Then, the quarrel! It was money or a woman and, remembering
Léonie’s description of the lad’s anger, I decided on the latter.
So I made my guess—and I was right.”

“And that was why you warned me against setting my heart on the lady? You
already suspected that she loved young Renauld?”

Poirot smiled.

“At any rate—I saw that she had anxious eyes. That is how
always think of Mademoiselle Daubreuil as the girl with the anxious
eyes. …”

His voice was so grave that it impressed me uncomfortably.

“What do you mean by that, Poirot?”

“I fancy, my friend, that we shall see before very long. But I must
start.”

“You’ve oceans of time.”

“Perhaps—perhaps. But I like plenty of leisure at the station. I do
not wish to rush, to hurry, to excite myself.”

“At all events,” I said, rising, “I will come and see you
off.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. I forbid it.”

He was so peremptory that I stared at him in surprise. He nodded emphatically.

“I mean it, mon ami. Au revoir! You permit that I embrace you? Ah,
no, I forget that it is not the English custom. Une poignee de main,
alors.”

I felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down the
beach, and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join them.
I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself amongst them in
some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled aimlessly along
the sands towards the further end of the town. It occurred to me that, after
all, it would only be decent feeling on my part to inquire after the girl. And
it would save trouble in the end. The matter would then be finished with. There
would be no need for me to trouble about her any further. But, if I did not go
at all, she might quite possibly come and look me up at the Villa. And that
would be annoying in every way. Decidedly it would be better to pay a short
call, in the course of which I could make it quite clear that I could do
nothing further for her in my capacity of showman.

Accordingly I left the beach, and walked inland. I soon found the Hôtel du
Phare, a very unpretentious building. It was annoying in the extreme not to
know the lady’s name and, to save my dignity, I decided to stroll inside
and look around. Probably I should find her in the lounge. Merlinville was a
small place, you left your hotel to go to the beach, and you left the beach to
return to the hotel. There were no other attractions. There was a Casino being
built, but it was not yet completed.

I had walked the length of the beach without seeing her, therefore she must be
in the hotel. I went in. Several people were sitting in the tiny lounge, but my
quarry was not amongst them. I looked into some other rooms, but there was no
sign of her. I waited for some time, till my impatience got the better of me. I
took the concierge aside, and slipped five francs into his hand.

“I wish to see a lady who is staying here. A young English lady, small
and dark. I am not sure of her name.”

The man shook his head, and seemed to be suppressing a grin.

“There is no such lady as you describe staying here.”

“She is American possibly,” I suggested. These fellows are so
stupid.

But the man continued to shake his head.

“No, monsieur. There are only six or seven English and American ladies
altogether, and they are all much older than the lady you are seeking. It is
not here that you will find her, monsieur.”

He was so positive that I felt doubts.

“But the lady told me she was staying here.”

“Monsieur must have made a mistake—or it is more likely the lady
did, since there has been another gentleman here inquiring for her.”

“What is that you say?” I cried, surprised.

“But yes, monsieur. A gentleman who described her just as you have
done.”

“What was he like?”

“He was a small gentleman, well dressed, very neat, very spotless, the
moustache very stiff, the head of a peculiar shape, and the eyes green.”

Poirot! So that was why he refused to let me accompany him to the station. The
impertinence of it! I would thank him not to meddle in my concerns. Did he
fancy I needed a nurse to look after me? Thanking the man, I departed, somewhat
at a loss, and still much incensed with my meddlesome friend. I regretted that
he was, for the moment, out of reach. I should have enjoyed telling him what I
thought of his unwarranted interference. Had I not distinctly told him that I
had no intention of seeing the girl? Decidedly, one’s friends can be too
zealous!

But where was the lady? I set aside my wrath, and tried to puzzle it out.
Evidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then another
thought struck me. Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately withheld her
name and given me the wrong address? The more I thought about it, the more I
felt convinced that this last surmise of mine was right. For some reason or
other she did not wish to let the acquaintance ripen into friendship. And
though half an hour earlier this had been precisely my own view, I did not
enjoy having the tables turned upon me. The whole affair was profoundly
unsatisfactory, and I went up to the Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct
ill humour. I did not go to the house, but went up the path to the little bench
by the shed, and sat there moodily enough.

I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand. In a
second or two I realized that they came, not from the garden I was in, but from
the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were approaching
rapidly. A girl’s voice was speaking, a voice that I recognized as that
of the beautiful Marthe.

“Chéri,” she was saying, “is it really true? Are all
our troubles over.”

“You know it, Marthe,” Jack Renauld replied. “Nothing can
part us now, beloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can
take you from me.”

“Nothing?” the girl murmured. “Oh, Jack, Jack—I am
afraid.”

I had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally
eavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in
the hedge. They stood together facing me, the man’s arm round the girl,
his eyes looking into hers. They were a splendid looking couple, the dark,
well-knit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as
they stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed
their young lives.

But the girl’s face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize
it, as he held her closer to him and asked:

“But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to
fear—now?”

And then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as she
murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words.

“I am afraid—for you. …”

I did not hear young Renauld’s answer, for my attention was distracted by
an unusual appearance a little further down the hedge. There appeared to be a
brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the
summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush
withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was
Giraud.

Enjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of ear-shot.

“What were you doing there?” I asked.

“Exactly what you were doing—listening.”

“But I was not there on purpose!”

“Ah!” said Giraud. “I was.”

As always, I admired the man whilst disliking him. He looked me up and down
with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.

“You didn’t help matters by butting in. I might have heard
something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?”

“M. Poirot has gone to Paris,” I replied coldly.

“And I can tell you, M. Giraud, that he is anything but an old fossil. He
has solved many cases that have completely baffled the English police.”

“Bah! The English police!” Giraud snapped his fingers disdainfully.
“They must be on a level with our examining magistrates. So he has gone
to Paris, has he? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there, the better.
But what does he think he will find there?”

I thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.

“That I am not at liberty to say,” I said quietly.

Giraud subjected me to a piercing stare.

“He has probably enough sense not to tell you,” he
remarked rudely. “Good afternoon. I’m busy.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, and left me without ceremony. Matters
seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève. Giraud evidently did not desire
my company and, from what I had seen, it seemed fairly certain that Jack
Renauld did not either.

I went back to the town, had an enjoyable bath and returned to the hotel. I
turned in early, wondering whether the following day would bring forth anything
of interest.

I was wholly unprepared for what it did bring forth. I was eating my petit
déjeuner in the dining-room, when the waiter, who had been talking to some one
outside, came back in obvious excitement. He hesitated for a minute, fidgeting
with his napkin, and then burst out.

“Monsieur will pardon me, but he is connected, is he not, with the affair
at the Villa Geneviève?’

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “Why?”

“Monsieur has not heard the news, though?”

“What news?”

“That there has been another murder there last night!”

“What?”

Leaving my breakfast, I caught up my hat and ran as fast as I could. Another
murder—and Poirot away! What fatality. But who had been murdered?

I dashed in at the gate. A group of the servants was in the drive, talking and
gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.

“What has happened?”

“Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse
upon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for M. le curé to
bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that roof. It
might be my turn, who knows?”

She crossed herself.

“Yes,” I cried, “but who has been killed?”

“Do I know—me? A man—a stranger. They found him up
there—in the shed—not a hundred yards from where they found poor
Monsieur. And that is not all. He is stabbed—stabbed to the heart
with the same dagger!”

14
The Second Body

Waiting for no more, I turned and ran up the path to the shed. The two men on
guard there stood aside to let me pass and, filled with excitement, I entered.

The light was dim, the place was a mere rough wooden erection to keep old pots
and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold I checked myself,
fascinated by the spectacle before me.

Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with which he was
examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a frown at my entrance,
then his face relaxed a little in a sort of good-humoured contempt.

“Ah, c’est l’Anglais! Enter then. Let us see what you
can make of this affair.”

Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in.

“There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.

I stepped across.

The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height, swarthy of
complexion, and possibly about fifty years of age. He was neatly dressed in a
dark blue suit, well cut and probably made by an expensive tailor, but not new.
His face was terribly convulsed, and on his left side, just over the heart, the
hilt of a dagger stood up, black and shining. I recognized it. It was the same
dagger I had seen reposing in the glass jar the preceding morning!

“I’m expecting the doctor any minute,” explained Giraud.
“Although we hardly need him. There’s no doubt what the man died
of. He was stabbed to the heart, and death must have been pretty well
instantaneous.”

“When was it done? Last night?”

Giraud shook his head.

“Hardly. I don’t lay down the law on medical evidence, but the
man’s been dead well over twelve hours. When do you say you last saw that
dagger?”

“About ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

“Then I should be inclined to fix the crime as being done not long after
that.”

“But people were passing and repassing this shed continually.”

Giraud laughed disagreeably.

“You progress to a marvel! Who told you he was killed in this
shed?”

“Well—” I felt flustered. “I—I assumed it.”

“Oh, what a fine detective! Look at him, mon petit—does a
man stabbed to the heart fall like that—neatly with his feet together,
and his arms to his side? No. Again does a man lie down on his back and permit
himself to be stabbed without raising a hand to defend himself? It is absurd,
is it not? But see here—and here—” He flashed the torch along
the ground. I saw curious irregular marks in the soft dirt. “He was
dragged here after he was dead. Half dragged, half carried by two people. Their
tracks do not show on the hard ground outside, and here they have been careful
to obliterate them—but one of the two was a woman, my young
friend.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“But if the tracks are obliterated, how do you know?”

“Because, blurred as they are, the prints of the woman’s shoe are
unmistakable. Also, by this—” And, leaning forward, he
drew something from the handle of the dagger and held it up for me to see. It
was a woman’s long black hair—similar to the one Poirot had taken
from the arm-chair in the library.

With a slightly ironic smile he wound it round the dagger again.

“We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he
explained. “It pleases the examining magistrate. Eh bien, do you
notice anything else?”

I was forced to shake my head.

“Look at his hands.”

I did. The nails were broken and discoloured, and the skin was hard. It hardly
enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I looked up at
Giraud.

“They are not the hands of a gentleman,” he said, answering my
look. “On the contrary his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is
curious, is it not?”

“Very curious,” I agreed.

“And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This man
was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was masquerading. Why?
Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by disguising himself? As yet we
do not know, but one thing we do know—he was as anxious to conceal his
identity as we are to discover it.”

He looked down at the body again.

“As before there are no finger-prints on the handle of the dagger. The
murderer again wore gloves.”

“You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I
asked eagerly.

Giraud became inscrutable.

“Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!”

The sergent de ville appeared at the doorway.

“Monsieur?”

“Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour
ago?”

“She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.”

“Good. I only want one at a time, though.”

Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs.
Renauld.

“Here is Madame.”

Giraud came forward with a curt bow.

“This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly
aside. “Here is the man. Do you know him?”

And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to read
her mind, noting every indication of her manner.

But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked
down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of
agitation or recognition.

“No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is
quite a stranger to me.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?”

“No,” she seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea.
“No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the
examining magistrate thought, but still—no.” Now she seemed to make
her mind up definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this
man.”

“Very well, madame. That is all, then.”

She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads in her
hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man, in a
completely natural manner.

Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could not tell. He
merely called to Marchaud:

“You have got the other there?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Bring her in then.”

“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting
with vehemence.

“I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all
this?”

“Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one
murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them
both.”

“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a
wild accusation! It is infamous.”

“Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the
hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced
towards her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”

With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.

“It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of
either crime. Any one who says I do lies! Ah! mon Dieu, what shall I
do?”

“Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has
accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more
ado.”

“Anything you wish, monsieur.”

“Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?”

Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame
Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and
curiosity. Then she shook her head.

“I do not know him.”

It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud
dismissed her with a nod of the head. “You are letting her go?” I
asked in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her
head.”

“I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud dryly. “She
is under surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.”

Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.

“Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?” he asked suddenly.

I considered the face carefully.

“No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman
most decidedly.”

Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.

“Same here.”

He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside,
and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of the floor of the
shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he went over the
floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on a bundle by the
door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers, and he flung it down
again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested him, but in the end he
shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically
turning them over one by one. In the end, he rose to his feet, and shook his
head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten my
presence.

But, at that moment, a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old friend,
the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex, with the doctor
behind him, came bustling in.

“But this is extraordinary, Mr. Giraud,” cried M. Hautet.
“Another crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is
some deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?”

“That is just what nobody can tell us, M. le juge. He has not been
identified.”

“Where is the body?” asked the doctor.

Giraud moved aside a little.

“There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And
with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder
followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can handle
the dagger freely—there are no finger-prints on it.”

The doctor knelt down by the dead man, and Giraud turned to the examining
magistrate.

“A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.”

“And so no one can identify him,” mused the magistrate.
“Could it possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out
among themselves.”

Giraud shook his head.

“The man is a Frenchman—I would take my oath of that—”

But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor who was sitting back on
his heels with a perplexed expression.

“You say he was killed yesterday morning?”

“I fix it by the theft of the dagger,” explained Giraud. “He
may, of course, have been killed later in the day.”

“Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least
forty-eight hours, and probably longer.”

We stared at each other in blank amazement.

15
A Photograph

The doctor’s words were so surprising that we were all momentarily taken
aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have been stolen
only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr. Durand asserted positively that
he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing was fantastic to
the last extreme.

We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor’s announcement,
when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to the
Villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the
train arriving at Merlinville at 12:28.

I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to the
station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance that he
should know at once of the new and startling developments in the case.

Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he wanted
in Paris. The quickness of his return proved that. Very few hours had sufficed.
I wondered how he would take the exciting news I had to impart.

The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down the
platform, until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a few
questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening of
the tragedy.

I approached the chief porter, an intelligent looking man, and had little
difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to
the Police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands of assassins should be
allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility they
might have left by the midnight train, but he negatived the idea decidedly. He
would have noticed two foreigners—he was sure of it. Only about twenty
people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to observe them.

I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep
anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly:

“Young M. Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?”

“Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it
would not be amusing, that!”

I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me. Then I
saw. …

“You mean,” I said, my heart beating a little, “that M. Jack
Renauld arrived at Merlinville that evening?”

“But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the
11:40.”

My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant
anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime! But
why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that he
had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish countenance, I could
hardly bring myself to believe that he had any connection with the crime. Yet
why this silence on his part about so vital a matter? One thing was certain,
Marthe had known all along. Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of
Poirot to know whether any one were suspected.

My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in another
moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He beamed and
vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced me warmly on the
platform.

“Mon cher ami, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a
marvel!”

“Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest
here?”

“How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some
developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even arrests
perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But where are you
taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend
to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of travelling.
Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must
rearrange.”

I cut short his remonstrances.

“My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at
once. There has been another murder!”

I have frequently been disappointed when fancying that I was giving news of
importance to my friend. Either he has known it already or he has dismissed it
as irrelevant to the main issue—and in the latter case events have
usually proved him justified. But this time I could not complain of missing my
effect. Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the
jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.

“What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, I am all wrong. I have
failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!”

“You did not expect it, then?”

“I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins
everything—it—ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on
the chest. “It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts,
taken methodically and in their proper order admit of only one explanation. I
must be right! I am right!”

“But then—”

He interrupted me.

“Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is
impossible unless—unless—oh, wait, I implore you. Say no
word—”

He was silent for a moment or two, then, resuming his normal manner, he said in
a quiet assured voice: “The victim is a man of middle-age. His body was
found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least
forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar
manner to M. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.”

It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he
had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably, a doubt
crossed my mind.

“Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve
heard all about it already.”

He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.

“Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing
whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?”

“But how on earth could you know all that?”

“I was right then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the
little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have
been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can
take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the
Villa Geneviève much more quickly.”

As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew. Poirot
listened attentively.

“The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it
was the same one?”

“Absolutely certain. That’s what make it so impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most
extraordinary coincidence.”

“You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two
identical weapons would be highly improbable. But not here. This
particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s
orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he
should have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for his own
use.”

“But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected.

A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone. “My friend, in
working upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are
‘mentioned.’ There is no reason to mention many things which may be
important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for not
mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.”

I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought us to
the famous shed. We found all our friends there and, after an interchange of
polite amenities, Poirot began his task.

Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot bestowed but a
cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined was the ragged
coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose to Giraud’s lips,
and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down again.

“Old clothes of the gardener’s?” he queried.

“Exactly,” said Giraud.

Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical. He
examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were no
marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and
broken finger-nails. Whilst examining the latter he threw a quick question at
Giraud.

“You saw these?”

“Yes, I saw them,” replied the other. His face remained
inscrutable.

Suddenly Poirot stiffened.

“Dr. Durand!”

“Yes?” The doctor came forward.

“There is foam on the lips. You observed it?”

“I didn’t notice it, I must admit.”

“But you observe it now?”

“Oh, certainly.”

Poirot again shot a question at Giraud.

“You noticed it without doubt?”

The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been withdrawn from
the wound. It reposed in a glass jar by the side of the body. Poirot examined
it, then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up, his eyes were
excited, and shone with the green light I knew so well.

“It is a strange wound, this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the
clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all. What do
you think, M. le docteur?”

“I can only say that it is most abnormal.”

“It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed
after he was dead.” And, stilling the clamour of voices that
arose with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added, “M.
Giraud agrees with me, do you not, monsieur?”

Whatever Giraud’s real belief, he accepted the position without moving a
muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he replied:

“Certainly I agree.”

The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.

“But what an idea!” cried M. Hautet. “To stab a man after he
is dead! Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate, perhaps.”

“No, M. le juge,” said Poirot. “I should fancy it was done
quite cold-bloodedly—to create an impression.”

“What impression?”

“The impression it nearly did create,” returned Poirot oracularly.

M. Bex had been thinking.

“How, then, was the man killed?”

“He was not killed. He died. He died, M. le juge, if I am not much
mistaken, of an epileptic fit!”

This statement of Poirot’s again aroused considerable excitement. Dr.
Durand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he rose to
his feet.

“Well, M. le docteur?”

“M. Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your
assertion. I was misled to begin with. The incontrovertible fact that the man
had been stabbed distracted my attention from any other indications.”

Poirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse in
compliments. Poirot responded gracefully, and then excused himself on the
pretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched, and that he wished to repair the
ravages of the journey. As we were about to leave the shed, Giraud approached
us.

“One more thing, M. Poirot,” he said, in his suave mocking voice.
“We found this coiled round the handle of the dagger. A woman’s
hair.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “A woman’s hair? What woman’s,
I wonder?”

“I wonder also,” said Giraud. Then, with a bow, he left us.

“He was insistent, the good Giraud,” said Poirot thoughtfully, as
we walked towards the hotel. “I wonder in what direction he hopes to
mislead me? A woman’s hair—h’m!”

We lunched heartily, but I found Poirot somewhat distrait and inattentive.
Afterwards we went up to our sitting-room and there I begged him to tell me
something of his mysterious journey to Paris.

“Willingly, my friend. I went to Paris to find this.”

He took from his pocket a small faded newspaper cutting. It was the
reproduction of a woman’s photograph. He handed it to me. I uttered an
exclamation.

“You recognize it, my friend?”

I nodded. Although the photo obviously dated from very many years back, and the
hair was dressed in a different style, the likeness was unmistakable.

“Madame Daubreuil!” I exclaimed.

Poirot shook his head with a smile.

“Not quite correct, my friend. She did not call herself by that name in
those days. That is a picture of the notorious Madame Beroldy!”

Madame Beroldy! In a flash the whole thing came back to me. The murder trial
that had evoked such world-wide interest.

The Beroldy Case.

16
The Beroldy Case

Some twenty years or so before the opening of the present story, Monsieur
Arnold Beroldy, a native of Lyons, arrived in Paris accompanied by his pretty
wife and their little daughter, a mere babe. Monsieur Beroldy was a junior
partner in a firm of wine merchants, a stout middle-aged man, fond of the good
things of life, devoted to his charming wife, and altogether unremarkable in
every way. The firm in which Monsieur Beroldy was a partner was a small one,
and although doing well, it did not yield a large income to the junior partner.
The Beroldys had a small apartment and lived in a very modest fashion to begin
with.

But unremarkable though Monsieur Beroldy might be, his wife was plentifully
gilded with the brush of Romance. Young and good looking, and gifted withal
with a singular charm of manner, Madame Beroldy at once created a stir in the
quarter, especially when it began to be whispered that some interesting mystery
surrounded her birth. It was rumoured that she was the illegitimate daughter of
a Russian Grand Duke. Others asserted that it was an Austrian Archduke, and
that the union was legal, though morganatic. But all stories agreed upon one
point, that Jeanne Beroldy was the centre of an interesting mystery. Questioned
by the curious, Madame Beroldy did not deny these rumours. On the other hand
she let it be clearly understood that, though her “lips” were
“sealed,” all these stories had a foundation in fact. To intimate
friends she unburdened herself further, spoke of political intrigues, of
“papers,” of obscure dangers that threatened her. There was also
much talk of Crown jewels that were to be sold secretly, with herself acting as
the go-between.

Amongst the friends and acquaintances of the Beroldys was a young lawyer,
Georges Conneau. It was soon evident that the fascinating Jeanne had completely
enslaved his heart. Madame Beroldy encouraged the young man in a discreet
fashion, but being always careful to affirm her complete devotion to her
middle-aged husband. Nevertheless, many spiteful persons did not hesitate to
declare that young Conneau was her lover—and not the only one!

When the Beroldys had been in Paris about three months, another personage came
upon the scene. This was Mr. Hiram P. Trapp, a native of the United States, and
extremely wealthy. Introduced to the charming and mysterious Madame Beroldy, he
fell a prompt victim to her fascinations. His admiration was obvious, though
strictly respectful.

About this time, Madame Beroldy became more outspoken in her confidences. To
several friends, she declared herself greatly worried on her husband’s
behalf. She explained that he had been drawn into several schemes of a
political nature, and also referred to some important papers that had been
entrusted to him for safekeeping and which concerned a “secret” of
far reaching European importance. They had been entrusted to his custody to
throw pursuers off the track, but Madame Beroldy was nervous, having recognized
several important members of the Revolutionary Circle in Paris.

On the 28th day of November, the blow fell. The woman who came daily to clean
and cook for the Beroldys was surprised to find the door of the apartment
standing wide open. Hearing faint moans issuing from the bedroom, she went in.
A terrible sight met her eyes. Madame Beroldy lay on the floor, bound hand and
foot, uttering feeble moans, having managed to free her mouth from a gag. On
the bed was Monsieur Beroldy, lying in a pool of blood, with a knife driven
through his heart.

Madame Beroldy’s story was clear enough. Suddenly awakened from sleep,
she had discerned two masked men bending over her. Stifling her cries, they had
bound and gagged her. They had then demanded of Monsieur Beroldy the famous
“secret.”

But the intrepid wine merchant refused point-blank to accede to their request.
Angered by his refusal, one of the men incontinently stabbed him through the
heart. With the dead man’s keys, they had opened the safe in the corner,
and had carried away with them a mass of papers. Both men were heavily bearded,
and had worn masks, but Madame Beroldy declared positively that they were
Russians.

The affair created an immense sensation. It was referred to variously as
“the Nihilist Atrocity,” “Revolutionaries in Paris,”
and the “Russian Mystery.” Time went on, and the mysterious bearded
men were never traced. And then, just as public interest was beginning to die
down, a startling development occurred. Madame Beroldy was arrested and charged
with the murder of her husband.

The trial, when it came on, aroused widespread interest. The youth and beauty
of the accused, and her mysterious history, were sufficient to make of it a
cause célèbre. People ranged themselves wildly for or against the
prisoner. But her partisans received several severe checks to their enthusiasm.
The romantic past of Madame Beroldy, her royal blood, and the mysterious
intrigues in which she had her being were shown to be mere fantasies of the
imagination.

It was proved beyond doubt that Jeanne Beroldy’s parents were a highly
respectable and prosaic couple, fruit merchants, who lived on the outskirts of
Lyons. The Russian Grand Duke, the court intrigues, and the political
schemes—all the stories current were traced back to—the lady
herself! From her brain had emanated these ingenious myths, and she was proved
to have raised a considerable sum of money from various credulous persons by
her fiction of the “Crown jewels”—the jewels in question
being found to be mere paste imitations. Remorselessly the whole story of her
life was laid bare. The motive for the murder was found in Mr. Hiram P. Trapp.
Mr. Trapp did his best, but relentlessly and agilely cross-questioned he was
forced to admit that he loved the lady, and that, had she been free, he would
have asked her to be his wife. The fact that the relations between them were
admittedly platonic strengthened the case against the accused. Debarred from
becoming his mistress by the simple honourable nature of the man, Jeanne
Beroldy had conceived the monstrous project of ridding herself of her elderly
undistinguished husband, and becoming the wife of the rich American.

Throughout, Madame Beroldy confronted her accusers with complete sang froid and
self possession. Her story never varied. She continued to declare strenuously
that she was of royal birth, and that she had been substituted for the daughter
of the fruit seller at an early age. Absurd and completely unsubstantiated as
these statements were, a great number of people believed implicitly in their
truth.

But the prosecution was implacable. It denounced the masked
“Russians” as a myth, and asserted that the crime had been
committed by Madame Beroldy and her lover, Georges Conneau. A warrant was
issued for the arrest of the latter, but he had wisely disappeared. Evidence
showed that the bonds which secured Madame Beroldy were so loose that she could
easily have freed herself.

And then, towards the close of the trial, a letter, posted in Paris, was sent
to the Public Prosecutor. It was from Georges Conneau and, without revealing
his whereabouts, it contained a full confession of the crime. He declared that
he had indeed struck the fatal blow at Madame Beroldy’s instigation. The
crime had been planned between them. Believing that her husband ill-treated
her, and maddened by his own passion for her, a passion which he believed her
to return, he had planned the crime and struck the fatal blow that should free
the woman he loved from a hateful bondage. Now, for the first time, he learnt
of Mr. Hiram P. Trapp, and realized that the woman he loved had betrayed him!
Not for his sake did she wish to be free—but in order to marry the
wealthy American. She had used him as a cat’s-paw, and now, in his
jealous rage, he turned and denounced her, declaring that throughout he had
acted at her instigation.

And then Madame Beroldy proved herself the remarkable woman she undoubtedly
was. Without hesitation, she dropped her previous defence, and admitted that
the “Russians” were a pure invention on her part. The real murderer
was Georges Conneau. Maddened by passion, he had committed the crime, vowing
that if she did not keep silence he would enact a terrible vengeance from her.
Terrified by his threats, she had consented—also fearing it likely that
if she told the truth she might be accused of conniving at the crime. But she
had steadfastly refused to have anything more to do with her husband’s
murderer, and it was in revenge for this attitude on her part that he had
written this letter accusing her. She swore solemnly that she had had nothing
to do with the planning of the crime, that she had awoke on that memorable
night to find Georges Conneau standing over her, the blood-stained knife in his
hand.

It was a touch and go affair. Madame Beroldy’s story was hardly credible.
But this woman, whose fairy tales of royal intrigues had been so easily
accepted, had the supreme art of making herself believed. Her address to the
jury was a masterpiece. The tears streaming down her face, she spoke of her
child, of her woman’s honour—of her desire to keep her reputation
untarnished for the child’s sake. She admitted that, Georges Conneau
having been her lover, she might perhaps be held morally responsible for the
crime—but, before God, nothing more! She knew that she had committed a
grave fault in not denouncing Conneau to the law, but she declared in a broken
voice that that was a thing no woman could have done. … She had loved him!
Could she let her hand be the one to send him to the Guillotine? She had been
guilty of much, but she was innocent of the terrible crime imputed to her.

However that may have been, her eloquence and personality won the day. Madame
Beroldy, amidst a scene of unparalleled excitement, was acquitted. Despite the
utmost endeavours of the police, Georges Conneau was never traced. As for
Madame Beroldy, nothing more was heard of her. Taking the child with her, she
left Paris to begin a new life.

17
We Make Further Investigations

I have set down the Beroldy case in full. Of course all the details did not
present themselves to my memory as I have recounted them here. Nevertheless, I
recalled the case fairly accurately. It had attracted a great deal of interest
at the time, and had been fully reported by the English papers, so that it did
not need much effort of memory on my part to recollect the salient details.

Just for the moment, in my excitement, it seemed to clear up the whole matter.
I admit that I am impulsive, and Poirot deplores my custom of jumping to
conclusions, but I think I had some excuse in this instance. The remarkable way
in which this discovery justified Poirot’s point of view struck me at
once.

“Poirot,” I said, “I congratulate you. I see everything
now.”

“If that is indeed the truth, I congratulate you,
mon ami. For as a rule you are not famous for seeing—eh, is it not
so?”

I felt a little annoyed.

“Come now, don’t rub it in. You’ve been so confoundedly
mysterious all along with your hints and your insignificant details that any
one might fail to see what you were driving at.”

Poirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he
looked up.

“And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it
that you see?”

“Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil—Beroldy, who murdered Mr.
Renauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.”

“Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly acquitted? That in
actual fact she was guilty of connivance in her husband’s murder?”

I opened my eyes wide.

“But of course! Don’t you?”

Poirot walked to the end of the room, absentmindedly straightened a chair, and
then said thoughtfully.

“Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no ‘of course’ about
it, my friend. Technically speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.”

“Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.”

Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked than
ever.

“So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil
murdered M. Renauld?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.

“Why?” I stammered. “Why? Oh, because—” I came to
a stop.

Poirot nodded his head at me.

“You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame
Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness sake) murder M. Renauld? We can
find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his death; considered as
either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You cannot have a murder
without a motive. The first crime was different, there we had a rich lover
waiting to step into her husband’s shoes.”

“Money is not the only motive for murder,” I objected.

“True,” agreed Poirot placidly. “There are two others, the
crime passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for
an idea which implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the
murderer. Homicidal mania, and religious fanaticism belong to that class. We
can rule it out here.”

“But what about the crime passionnel? Can you rule that out? If
Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, if she found that his affection
was cooling, or if her jealousy was aroused in any way, might she not have
struck him down in a moment of anger?”

Poirot shook his head.

“If—I say if, you note—Madame Daubreuil was
Renauld’s mistress, he had not had time to tire of her. And in any case
you mistake her character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional
stress. She is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life
disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she had been
cold-blooded and calculating in her motives and actions. It was not to link her
life with that of her young lover that she connived at her husband’s
murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her
objective. If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here
there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave?
That was a man’s work.”

“She might have had an accomplice,” I suggested, unwilling to
relinquish my belief.

“I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between
the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked
men, the ‘secret,’ the papers!”

Poirot smiled a little.

“Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The
similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But
reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us
this tale—if it were all would indeed be plain sailing—it is Madame
Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?”

“I can’t believe that,” I said slowly. “If it is so,
she must be the most consummate actress the world has ever known.”

“Ta-ta-ta,” said Poirot impatiently. “Again you have the
sentiment, and not the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a
consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it
necessary? I do not believe Madame Renauld to be in league with Madame
Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already enumerated to you.
The others are self-evident. Therefore, that possibility eliminated, we draw
very near to the truth which is, as always, very curious and
interesting.”

“Poirot,” I cried, “what more do you know?”

“Mon ami, you must make your own deductions. You have
‘access to the facts!’ Concentrate your grey cells.
Reason—not like Giraud—but like Hercule Poirot.”

“But are you sure?”

“My friend, in many ways I have been an imbecile. But at last I see
clearly.”

“You know everything?”

“I have discovered what M. Renauld sent for me to discover.”

“And you know the murderer?”

“I know one murderer.”

“What do you mean?”

“We talk a little at cross-purposes. There are here not one crime, but
two. The first I have solved, the second—eh bien, I will confess,
I am not sure!”

“But, Poirot, I thought you said the man in the shed had died a natural
death?”

“Ta-ta-ta.” Poirot made his favourite ejaculation of impatience.
“Still you do not understand. One may have a crime without a murderer,
but for two crimes it is essential to have two bodies.”

His remark struck me as so peculiarly lacking in lucidity that I looked at him
in some anxiety. But he appeared perfectly normal. Suddenly he rose and
strolled to the window.

“Here he is,” he observed.

“Who?”

“M. Jack Renauld. I sent a note up to the Villa to ask him to come
here.”

That changed the course of my ideas, and I asked Poirot if he knew that Jack
Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. I had hoped to catch
my astute little friend napping, but as usual, he was omniscient. He, too, had
inquired at the station.

“And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The
excellent Giraud, he also has probably made his inquiries.”

“You don’t think—” I said, and then stopped. “Ah,
no, it would be too horrible!”

Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me
that though there were seven women directly or indirectly connected with the
case Mrs. Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor,
and the three servants—there was, with the exception of old Auguste who
could hardly count, only one man—Jack Renauld. And a man must have
dug a grave. …

I had no time to develop further the appalling idea that had occurred to me,
for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.

Poirot greeted him in a business-like manner.

“Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will
perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the Villa is not too congenial to me.
M. Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me
has not been striking and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little
discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.”

“Exactly, M. Poirot,” said the lad. “That fellow Giraud is an
ill-conditioned brute, and I’d be delighted to see some one score at his
expense.”

“Then I may ask a little favour of you?”

“Certainly.”

“I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next
station along the line, Abbalac. Ask there at the cloak-room whether two
foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small
station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?”

“Of course I will,” said the boy, mystified, though ready for the
task.

“I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,”
explained Poirot. “There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will
ask you not to return to the Villa, as I have no wish for Giraud to get an
inkling of your errand.”

“Very well, I will go straight to the station.”

He rose to his feet. Poirot’s voice stopped him.

“One moment, M. Renauld, there is one little matter that puzzles me. Why
did you not mention to M. Hautet this morning that you were in Merlinville on
the night of the crime?”

Jack Renauld’s face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.

“You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg, as I told the examining
magistrate this morning.”

Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed, cat-like, until they only showed a
gleam of green.

“Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there—for it is
shared by the station staff. They say you arrived by the 11:40 train.”

For a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.

“And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating in
my father’s murder?” He asked the question haughtily, his head
thrown back.

“I should like an explanation of the reason that brought you here.”

“That is simple enough. I came to see my fiancée, Mademoiselle Daubreuil.
I was on the eve of a long voyage, uncertain as to when I should return. I
wished to see her before I went, to assure her of my unchanging
devotion.”

“And you did see her?” Poirot’s eyes never left the
other’s face.

There was an appreciable pause before Renauld replied. Then he said:

“Yes.”

“And afterwards?”

“I found I had missed the last train. I walked to St. Beauvais where I
knocked up a garage and got a car to take me back to Cherbourg.”

“St. Beauvais? That is fifteen kilometres. A long walk, M.
Renauld.”

“I—I felt like walking.”

Poirot bowed his head as a sign that he accepted the explanation. Jack Renauld
took up his hat and cane and departed. In a trice Poirot jumped to his feet.

“Quick, Hastings. We will go after him.”

Keeping a discreet distance behind our quarry, we followed him through the
streets of Merlinville. But when Poirot saw that he took the turning to the
station, he checked himself.

“All is well. He has taken the bait. He will go to Abbalac, and will
inquire for the mythical valise left by the mythical foreigners. Yes, mon
ami, all that was a little invention of my own.”

“You wanted him out of the way!” I exclaimed.

“Your penetration is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go up
to the Villa Geneviève.”

18
Giraud Acts

“By the way, Poirot,” I said, as we walked along the hot white
road, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you. I dare say you meant well,
but really it was no business of yours to go mouching round to the Hôtel du
Phare without letting me know.”

Poirot shot a quick sidelong glance at me.

“And how did you know I had been there?” he inquired.

Much to my annoyance I felt the colour rising in my cheeks.

“I happened to look in in passing,” I explained with as much
dignity as I could muster.

I rather feared Poirot’s banter, but to my relief, and somewhat to my
surprise, he only shook his head with a rather unusual gravity.

“If I have offended your susceptibilities in any way, I demand pardon of
you. You will understand better soon. But, believe me, I have striven to
concentrate all my energies on the case.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” I said, mollified by the apology.
“I know it’s only that you have my interests at heart. But I can
take care of myself all right.”

Poirot seemed to be about to say something further, but checked himself.

Arrived at the Villa, Poirot led the way up to the shed where the second body
had been discovered. He did not, however, go in, but paused by the bench which
I have mentioned before as being set some few yards away from it. After
contemplating it for a moment or two, he paced carefully from it to the hedge
which marked the boundary between the Villa Geneviève and the Villa Marguerite.
Then he paced back again, nodding his head as he did so. Returning again to the
hedge, he parted the bushes with his hands.

“With good fortune,” he remarked to me over his shoulder,
“Mademoiselle Marthe may find herself in the garden. I desire to speak to
her and would prefer not to call formally at the Villa Marguerite. Ah, all is
well, there she is. Pst, mademoiselle! Pst! Un moment, s’il vous
plaît.”

I joined him at the moment that Marthe Daubreuil, looking slightly startled,
came running up to the hedge at his call.

“A little word with you, mademoiselle, if it is permitted?”

“Certainly, Monsieur Poirot.”

Despite her acquiescence, her eyes looked troubled and afraid.

“Mademoiselle, do you remember running after me on the road the day that
I came to your house with the examining magistrate? You asked me if any one
were suspected of the crime.”

“And you told me two Chilians.” Her voice sounded rather
breathless, and her left hand stole to her breast.

“Will you ask me the same question again, mademoiselle?”

“What do you mean?”

“This. If you were to ask me that question again, I should give you a
different answer. Some one is suspected—but not a Chilian.”

“Who?” The word came faintly between her parted lips.

“M. Jack Renauld.”

“What?” It was a cry. “Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect
him?”

“Giraud.”

“Giraud!” The girl’s face was ashy. “I am afraid of
that man. He is cruel. He will—he will—” She broke off. There
was courage gathering in her face, and determination. I realized in that moment
that she was a fighter. Poirot, too, watched her intently.

“You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?”
he asked.

“Yes,” she replied mechanically. “He told me.”

“It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,” ventured Poirot.

“Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently. “But we cannot waste
time on regrets. We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course,
but that will not help him with a man like Giraud who has his reputation to
think of. He must arrest some one, and that some one will be Jack.”

“The facts will tell against him,” said Poirot. “You realize
that?”

She faced him squarely, and used the words I had heard her say in her
mother’s drawing-room.

“I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face.
He is innocent, and we must save him.”

She spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as she
thought.

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot observing her keenly, “is there
not something that you are keeping back that you could tell us?”

She nodded perplexedly.

“Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe
it—it seems so absurd.”

“At any rate, tell us, mademoiselle.”

“It is this. M. Giraud sent for me, as an afterthought, to see if I could
identify the man in there.” She signed with her head towards the shed.
“I could not. At least I could not at the moment. But since I have been
thinking—”

“Well?”

“It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the
morning of the day M. Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the garden here,
when I heard a sound of men’s voices quarrelling. I pushed aside the
bushes and looked through. One of the men was M. Renauld and the other was a
tramp, a dreadful looking creature in filthy rags. He was alternately whining
and threatening. I gathered he was asking for money, but at that moment
maman called me from the house, and I had to go. That is all,
only—I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead man in the shed are one
and the same.”

Poirot uttered an exclamation.

“But why did you not say so at the time, mademoiselle?”

“Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar in
some way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged to a
superior station in life. But tell me, Monsieur Poirot, is it not possible that
this tramp might have attacked and killed M. Renauld, and taken his clothes and
money?”

“It is an idea, mademoiselle,” said Poirot slowly. “It leaves
a lot unexplained, but it is certainly an idea. I will think of it.”

A voice called from the house.

“Maman,” whispered Marthe, “I must go.” And she
slipped away through the trees.

“Come,” said Poirot, and taking my arm, turned in the direction of
the Villa.

“What do you really think?” I asked, in some curiosity. “Was
that story true, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from
her lover?”

“It is a curious tale,” said Poirot, “but I believe it to be
the absolute truth. Unwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on
another point—and incidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you notice
his hesitation when I asked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on the night of the
crime? He paused and then said ‘Yes.’ I suspected that he was
lying. It was necessary for me to see Mademoiselle Marthe before he could put
her on her guard. Three little words gave me the information I wanted. When I
asked her if she knew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered
‘He told me.’ Now, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing
here on that eventful evening, and if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom
did he see?”

“Surely, Poirot,” I cried, aghast, “you cannot believe that a
boy like that would murder his own father.”

“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “you continue to be of a
sentimentality unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered 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
in to 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
afterwards.”

“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 the 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 amongst 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 doubtfully.

“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 proceeding. Poirot waded on through collars, pajamas and
socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the window. Instantly I became
galvanized into life.

“Poirot!” I cried. “A car has just driven up. Giraud is in
it, and Jack Renauld, and two gendarmes.”

“Sacré tonnerre!” growled Poirot. “That animal of a
Giraud, could he not wait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this
last drawer with the proper method. Let us be quick.”

Unceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and
handkerchiefs. Suddenly with a cry of triumph Poirot pounced on something, a
small square cardboard, evidently a photograph. Thrusting it into his pocket,
he returned the things pell-mell to the drawer, and seizing me by the arm
dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. In the hall stood Giraud,
contemplating his prisoner.

“Good afternoon, M. Giraud,” said Poirot. “What have we
here?”

Giraud nodded his head towards Jack.

“He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He is
under arrest for the murder of his father, M. Paul Renauld.”

Poirot wheeled to confront the boy who leaned limply against the door, his face
ashy pale.

“What do you say to that, jeune homme?”

Jack Renauld stared at him stonily.

“Nothing,” he said.

19
I Use My Grey Cells

I was dumbfounded. Up to the last, I had not been able bring myself to believe
Jack Renauld guilty. I had expected a ringing proclamation of his innocence
when Poirot challenged him. But now, watching him as he stood, white and limp
against the wall, and hearing the damning admission fall from his lips, I
doubted no longer.

But Poirot had turned to Giraud.

“What are your grounds for arresting him?”

“Do you expect me to give them to you?”

“As a matter of courtesy, yes.”

Giraud looked at him doubtfully. He was torn between a desire to refuse rudely
and the pleasure of triumphing over his adversary.

“You think I have made a mistake, I suppose?” he sneered.

“It would not surprise me,” replied Poirot, with a soupçon of
malice.

Giraud’s face took on a deeper tinge of red.

“Eh bien, come in here. You shall judge for yourself.” He
flung open the door of the salon, and we passed in, leaving Jack Renauld
in the care of the two other men.

“Now, M. Poirot,” said Giraud laying his hat on the table, and
speaking with the utmost sarcasm, “I will treat you to a little lecture
on detective work. I will show you how we moderns work.”

“Bien!” said Poirot, composing himself to listen. “I
will show you how admirably the Old Guard can listen,” and he leaned back
and closed his eyes, opening them for a moment to remark. “Do not fear
that I shall sleep. I will attend most carefully.”

“Of course,” began Giraud, “I soon saw through all that
Chilian tomfoolery. Two men were in it—but they were not mysterious
foreigners! All that was a blind.”

“Very creditable so far, my dear Giraud,” murmured Poirot.
“Especially after that clever trick of theirs with the match and
cigarette end.”

Giraud glared, but continued:

“A man must have been connected with the case, in order to dig the grave.
There is no man who actually benefits by the crime, but there was a man who
thought he would benefit. I heard of Jack Renauld’s quarrel with his
father, and of the threats that he had used. The motive was established. Now as
to means. Jack Renauld was in Merlinville that night. He concealed the
fact—which turned suspicion into certainty. Then we found a second
victim—stabbed with the same dagger. We know when that dagger
was stolen. Captain Hastings here can fix the time. Jack Renauld, arriving from
Cherbourg, was the only person who could have taken it. I have accounted for
all the other members of the household.”

Poirot interrupted:

“You are wrong. There is one other person who could have taken the
dagger.”

“You refer to M. Stonor? He arrived at the front door, in an automobile
which had brought him straight from Calais. Ah, believe me, I have looked into
everything. M. Jack Renauld arrived by train. An hour elapsed between his
arrival, and the moment he presented himself at the house. Without doubt, he
saw Captain Hastings and his companion leave the shed, slipped in himself and
took the dagger, stabbed his accomplice in the shed—”

“Who was already dead!”

Giraud shrugged his shoulders.

“Possibly he did not observe that. He may have judged him to be sleeping.
Without doubt they had a rendezvous. In any case he knew this apparent second
murder would greatly complicate the case. It did.”

“But it could not deceive M. Giraud,” murmured Poirot.

“You mock yourself at me. But I will give you one last irrefutable proof.
Madame Renauld’s story was false—a fabrication from beginning to
end. We believe Madame Renauld to have loved her husband—yet she lied
to shield his murderer. For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself,
usually for the man she loves, always for her children. That is the
last—the irrefutable proof. You cannot get round it.”

Giraud paused, flushed and triumphant. Poirot regarded him steadily.

“That is my case,” said Giraud. “What have you to say to
it?”

“Only that there is one thing you have failed to take into
account.”

“What is that?”

“Jack Renauld was presumably acquainted with the planning out of the golf
course. He knew that the body would be discovered almost at once, when they
started to dig the bunker.”

Giraud laughed out loud.

“But it is idiotic what you say there! He wanted the body to be found!
Until it was found, he could not presume death, and would have been unable to
enter into his inheritance.”

I saw a quick flash of green in Poirot’s eyes as he rose to his feet.

“Then why bury it?” he asked softly. “Reflect, Giraud. Since
it was to Jack Renauld’s advantage that the body should be found without
delay, why dig a grave at all?”

Giraud did not reply. The question found him unprepared. He shrugged his
shoulders as though to intimate that it was of no importance.

Poirot moved towards the door. I followed him.

“There is one more thing that you have failed to take into
account,” he said over his shoulder.

“What is that?”

“The piece of lead piping,” said Poirot, and left the room.

Jack Renauld still stood in the hall, with a white dumb face, but as we came
out of the salon, he looked up sharply. At the same moment there was the
sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs. Renauld was descending it. At the
sight of her son, standing between the two myrmidons of the law, she stopped as
though petrified.

“Jack,” she faltered. “Jack, what is this?”

He looked up at her, his face set.

“They have arrested me, mother.”

“What?”

She uttered a piercing cry, and before any one could get to her swayed and fell
heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute Poirot stood up
again.

“She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there
is a slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he will have
to wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a week.”

Denise and Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their charge
Poirot left the house. He walked with his head bent down, frowning thoughtfully
at the ground. For some time I did not speak, but at last I ventured to put a
question to him.

“Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that
Jack Renauld may not be guilty?”

Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely:

“I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud
is all wrong—wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it
is in spite of Giraud’s arguments, not because of them. And the
gravest indictment against him is known only to me.”

“What is that?” I asked, impressed.

“If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I
do, you too would perceive it, my friend.”

This was what I called one of Poirot’s irritating answers. He went on,
without waiting for me to speak.

“Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there,
overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know, but
I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts—not
by my leading you by the hand.”

We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested, looking
out to sea. From farther along the sand, the cries of the bathers reached us
faintly. The sea was of the palest blue, and the halcyon calm reminded me of
the day we had arrived at Merlinville, my own good spirits, and Poirot’s
suggestion that I was “fey.” What a long time seemed to have
elapsed since then. And in reality it was only three days!

“Think, my friend,” said Poirot’s voice encouragingly.
“Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of
success.”

I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of the
case. And reluctantly it seemed to me that the only clear and possible solution
was that of Giraud—which Poirot despised. I reflected anew. If there was
daylight anywhere it was in the direction of Madame Daubreuil. Giraud was
ignorant of her connection with the Beroldy Case. Poirot had declared the
Beroldy Case to be all important. It was there I must seek. I was on the right
track now. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot
into my brain. Trembling I built up my hypothesis.

“You have a little idea, I see, mon ami! Capital. We
progress.”

I sat up, and lit a pipe.

“Poirot,” I said, “it seems to me we have been strangely
remiss. I say we—although I dare say I would be nearer the mark.
But you must pay the penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have
been strangely remiss. There is some one we have forgotten.”

“And who is that?” inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.

“Georges Conneau!”

20
An Amazing Statement

The next moment Poirot embraced me warmly. “Enfin! You have
arrived. And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue your reasoning. You are
right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget Georges Conneau.”

I was so flattered by the little man’s approval that I could hardly
continue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on.

“Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason to
believe that he is dead.”

“Aucunement,” agreed Poirot. “Proceed.”

“Therefore we will assume that he is alive.”

“Exactly.”

“Or that he was alive until recently.”

“De mieux en mieux!”

“We will presume,” I continued, my enthusiasm rising, “that
he has fallen on evil days. He has become a criminal, an apache, a
tramp—a what you will. He chances to come to Merlinville. There he finds
the woman he has never ceased to love.”

“Eh eh! The sentimentality,” warned Poirot.

“Where one hates one also loves,” I quoted or misquoted. “At
any rate he finds her there, living under an assumed name. But she has a new
lover, the Englishman, Renauld. Georges Conneau, the memory of old wrongs
rising in him, quarrels with this Renauld. He lies in wait for him as he comes
to visit his mistress, and stabs him in the back. Then, terrified at what he
has done, he starts to dig a grave. I imagine it likely that Madame Daubreuil
comes out to look for her lover. She and Conneau have a terrible scene. He
drags her into the shed, and there suddenly falls down in an epileptic fit. Now
supposing Jack Renauld to appear. Madame Daubreuil tells him all, points out to
him the dreadful consequences to her daughter if this scandal of the past is
revived. His father’s murderer is dead—let them do their best to
hush it up. Jack Renauld consents—goes to the house and has an interview
with his mother, winning her over to his point of view. Primed with the story
that Madame Daubreuil has suggested to him, she permits herself to be gagged
and bound. There, Poirot, what do you think of that?” I leaned back,
flushed with the pride of successful reconstruction.

Poirot looked at me thoughtfully.

“I think that you should write for the Kinema, mon ami,” he
remarked at last.

“You mean—?”

“It would make a good film, the story that you have recounted to me
there—but it bears no sort of resemblance to everyday life.”

“I admit that I haven’t gone into all the details,
but—”

“You have gone further—you have ignored them magnificently. What
about the way the two men were dressed? Do you suggest that after stabbing his
victim, Conneau removed his suit of clothes, donned it himself, and replaced
the dagger?”

“I don’t see that that matters,” I objected rather huffily.
“He may have obtained clothes and money from Madame Daubreuil by threats
earlier in the day.”

“By threats—eh? You seriously advance that supposition?”

“Certainly. He could have threatened to reveal her identity to the
Renaulds, which would probably have put an end to all hopes of her
daughter’s marriage.”

“You are wrong, Hastings. He could not blackmail her, for she had the
whip hand. Georges Conneau, remember, is still wanted for murder. A word from
her and he is in danger of the guillotine.”

I was forced, rather reluctantly, to admit the truth of this.

“Your theory,” I remarked acidly, “is doubtless
correct as to all the details?”

“My theory is the truth,” said Poirot quietly. “And the truth
is necessarily correct. In your theory you made a fundamental error. You
permitted your imagination to lead you astray with midnight assignations and
passionate love scenes. But in investigating crime we must take our stand upon
the commonplace. Shall I demonstrate my methods to you?”

“Oh, by all means let us have a demonstration!”

Poirot sat very upright and began, wagging his forefinger emphatically to
emphasize his points.

“I will start as you started from the basic fact of Georges Conneau. Now
the story told by Madame Beroldy in court as to the ‘Russians’ was
admittedly a fabrication. If she was innocent of connivance in the crime, it
was concocted by her, and by her only as she stated. If, on the other hand, she
was not innocent, it might have been invented by either her or Georges Conneau.

“Now in this case we are investigating, we meet the same tale. As I
pointed out to you, the facts render it very unlikely that Madame Daubreuil
inspired it. So we turn to the hypothesis that the story had its origin in the
brain of Georges Conneau. Very good. Georges Conneau, therefore, planned the
crime with Madame Renauld as his accomplice. She is in the limelight, and
behind her is a shadowy figure whose alias is unknown to us.

“Now let us go carefully over the Renauld Case from the beginning,
setting down each significant point in its chronological order. You have a
notebook and pencil? Good. Now what is the earliest point to note down?”

“The letter to you?”

“That was the first we knew of it, but it is not the proper beginning of
the case. The first point of any significance, I should say, is the change that
came over M. Renauld shortly after arriving in Merlinville, and which is
attested to by several witnesses. We have also to consider his friendship with
Madame Daubreuil, and the large sums of money paid over to her. From thence we
can come directly to the 23rd May.”

Poirot paused, cleared his throat, and signed to me to write.

“23rd May. M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter’s
wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.

“24th May. M. Renauld alters his will, leaving entire control of
his fortune in his wife’s hands.

“7th June. Quarrel with tramp in garden, witnessed by Marthe
Daubreuil.

“Letter written to M. Hercule Poirot, imploring assistance.

“Telegram sent to Jack Renauld, bidding him proceed by the Anzora
to Buenos Ayres.

“Chauffeur, Masters, sent off on a holiday.

“Visit of a lady, that evening. As he is seeing her out, his words are
‘Yes, yes—but for God’s sake go now. …’ ”

Poirot paused.

“There, Hastings, take each of those facts one by one, consider them
carefully by themselves and in relation to the whole, and see if you do not get
new light on the matter.”

I endeavoured conscientiously to do as he had said. After a moment or two, I
said rather doubtfully:

“As to the first points, the question seems to be whether we adopt the
theory of blackmail, or of an infatuation for this woman.”

“Blackmail, decidedly. You heard what Stonor said as to his character and
habits.”

“Mrs. Renauld did not confirm his view,” I argued.

“We have already seen that Madame Renauld’s testimony cannot be
relied upon in any way. We must trust to Stonor on that point.”

“Still, if Renauld had an affair with a woman called Bella, there seems
no inherent improbability in his having another with Madame Daubreuil.”

“None whatever, I grant you, Hastings. But did he?”

“The letter, Poirot. You forget the letter.”

“No, I do not forget. But what makes you think that letter was written to
M. Renauld?”

“Why it was found in his pocket and—and—”

“And that is all!” cut in Poirot. “There was no mention of
any name to show to whom the letter was addressed. We assumed it was to the
dead man because it was in the pocket of his overcoat. Now, mon ami,
something about that overcoat struck me as unusual. I measured it, and made the
remark that he wore his overcoat very long. That remark should have given you
to think.”

“I thought you were just saying it for the sake of saying
something,” I confessed.

“Ah, quelle idée! Later you observed me measuring the overcoat of
M. Jack Renauld. Eh bien, M. Jack Renauld wears his overcoat very short.
Put those two facts together with a third, namely that M. Jack Renauld flung
out of the house in a hurry on his departure for Paris, and tell me what you
make of it!”

“I see,” I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot’s remarks
bore in upon me. “That letter was written to Jack Renauld—not to
his father. He caught up the wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.”

Poirot nodded.

“Précisement! We can return to this point later. For the moment
let us content ourselves with accepting the letter as having nothing to do with
M. Renauld père, and pass to the next chronological event.”

“May 23rd,” I read, “M. Renauld quarrels with his son over
latter’s wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris. I
don’t see anything much to remark upon there, and the altering of the
will the following day seems straightforward enough. It was the direct result
of the quarrel.”

“We agree, mon ami—at least as to the cause. But what exact
motive underlay this procedure of M. Renauld’s?”

I opened my eyes in surprise.

“Anger against his son of course.”

“Yet he wrote him affectionate letters to Paris?”

“So Jack Renauld says, but he cannot produce them.”

“Well, let us pass from that.”

“Now we come to the day of the tragedy. You have placed the events of the
morning in a certain order. Have you any justification for that?”

“I have ascertained that the letter to me was posted at the same time as
the telegram was despatched. Masters was informed he could take a holiday
shortly afterwards. In my opinion the quarrel with the tramp took place
anterior to these happenings.”

“I do not see that you can fix that definitely—unless you question
Mademoiselle Dabreuil again.”

“There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see
nothing, Hastings!”

I looked at him for a moment.

“Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was after
the stormy interview with him that Mr. Renauld apprehended danger. He sent away
the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the other’s pay, he
wired to his son, and sent for you.”

A faint smile crossed Poirot’s lips.

“You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same
expressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used later in her story? If the
mention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it, and—what
is more—send his son there?”

“It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation
later. We come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious lady. I
confess that that fairly baffles me, unless it was Madame Daubreuil, as
Françoise all along maintained.”

Poirot shook his head.

“My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the
fragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly
familiar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella Duveen is
the full name of Jack’s unknown correspondent, and that it was she who
came to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she intended to see Jack, or
whether she meant all along to appeal to his father we cannot be certain, but I
think we may assume that this is what occurred. She produced her claim upon
Jack, probably showed letters that he had written her, and the older man tried
to buy her off by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore up. The terms of
her letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she would probably
deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of her, and here the
words that he used are significant.”

“ ‘Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now,’ ” I
repeated. “They seem to me a little vehement, perhaps, that is
all.”

“That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why? Not
only because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that was
slipping by, and for some reason time was precious.”

“Why should it be?” I asked, bewildered.

“That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the
incident of the wrist watch—which again shows us that time plays a very
important part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual drama. It
is half-past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the evidence of the wrist
watch we know that the crime was committed, or at any rate that it was staged,
before twelve o’clock. We have reviewed all the events anterior to the
murder, there remains only one unplaced. By the doctor’s evidence, the
tramp, when found, had been dead at least forty-eight hours—with a
possible margin of twenty-four hours more. Now, with no other facts to help me
than those we have discussed, I place the death as having occurred on the
morning of June 7th.”

I stared at him, stupefied.

“But how? Why? How can you possibly know?”

“Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically
explained. Mon ami, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do you
not now see what is so glaringly plain?”

“My dear Poirot, I can’t see anything glaring about it. I did think
I was beginning to see my way before, but I’m now hopelessly
fogged.”

Poirot looked at me sadly, and shook his head. “Mon Dieu! But it
is triste! A good intelligence—and so deplorably lacking in
method. There is an exercise most excellent for the development of the little
grey cells. I will impart it to you—”

“For Heaven’s sake, not now! You really are the most irritating of
fellows, Poirot. For goodness’ sake, get on and tell me who killed M.
Renauld.”

“That is just what I am not sure of as yet.”

“But you said it was glaringly clear?”

“We talk at cross-purposes, my friend. Remember, it is two crimes we are
investigating—for which, as I pointed out to you, we have the necessary
two bodies. There, there, ne vous impatientez pas! I explain all. To
begin with, we apply our psychology. We find three points at which M. Renauld
displays a distinct change of view and action—three psychological points
therefore. The first occurs immediately after arriving in Merlinville, the
second after quarrelling with his son on a certain subject, the third on the
morning of June 7th. Now for the three causes. We can attribute No. 1 to
meeting Madame Daubreuil. No. 2 is indirectly connected with her since it
concerns a marriage between M. Renauld’s son and her daughter. But the
cause of No. 3 is hidden from us. We have to deduce it. Now, mon ami,
let me ask you a question; who do we believe to have planned this crime?”

“Georges Conneau,” I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot warily.

“Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save
herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that was
Georges Conneau who dictated the lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack
Renauld, follows that the third case is put out of court. And, still
attributing the crime to Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are
forced to the second—that Madame Renauld lied for the sake of the man she
loved—or in other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree to
that.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It seems logical enough.”

“Bien! Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges
Conneau?”

“The tramp.”

“Have we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?”

“No, but—”

“Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts no longer support
them. Ask yourself instead who Madame Renauld did love.”

I shook my head perplexed.

“Mais, oui, you know perfectly. Who did Madame Renauld love so
dearly that when she saw his dead body, she fell down in a swoon?”

I stared dumbfounded.

“Her husband?” I gasped.

Poirot nodded.

“Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call
him.”

I rallied myself.

“But it’s impossible.”

“How ‘impossible?’ Did we not agree just now that Madame
Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?”

“Yes, but—”

“And did she not very effectively blackmail M. Renauld?”

“That may be true enough, but—”

“And is it not a fact that we know nothing of M. Renauld’s youth
and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French Canadian
exactly twenty-two years ago?”

“All that is so,” I said more firmly, “but you seem to me to
be overlooking one salient point.”

“What is it, my friend?”

“Why, we have admitted Georges Conneau planned the crime. That brings us
to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!”

“Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot placidly, “that is
just what he did do!”

21
Hercule Poirot on the Case!

In a measured voice, Poirot began his exposition.

“It seems strange to you, mon ami, that a man should plan his own
death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to
revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, M. Renauld
planned his own death, but there is one detail that perhaps escapes
you—he did not intend to die.”

I shook my head, bewildered.

“But no, it is all most simple really,” said Poirot kindly.
“For the crime that M. Renauld proposed a murderer was not necessary, as
I told you, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a
different angle.

“Georges Conneau flies from justice—to Canada. There, under an
assumed name he marries, and finally acquires a vast fortune in South America.
But there is a nostalgia upon him for his own country. Twenty years have
elapsed, he is considerably changed in appearance, besides being a man of such
eminence that no one is likely to connect him with a fugitive from justice many
years ago. He deems it quite safe to return. He takes up his headquarters in
England, but intends to spend the summers in France. And ill fortune, that
obscure justice which shapes men’s ends, and will not allow them to evade
the consequences of their acts, takes him to Merlinville. There, in the whole
of France, is the one person who is capable of recognizing him. It is, of
course, a gold mine to Madame Daubreuil, and a gold mine of which she is not
slow to take advantage. He is helpless, absolutely in her power. And she bleeds
him heavily.

“And then the inevitable happens. Jack Renauld falls in love with the
beautiful girl he sees almost daily, and wishes to marry her. That rouses his
father. At all costs, he will prevent his son marrying the daughter of this
evil woman. Jack Renauld knows nothing of his father’s past, but Madame
Renauld knows everything. She is a woman of great force of character, and
passionately devoted to her husband. They take counsel together. Renauld sees
only one way of escape—death. He must appear to die, in reality escaping
to another country where he will start again under an assumed name, and where
Madame Renauld, having played the widow’s part for a while, can join him.
It is essential that she should have control of the money, so he alters his
will. How they meant to manage the body business originally, I do not
know—possibly an art student’s skeleton—and a fire or
something of the kind, but long before their plans have matured an event occurs
which plays into their hands. A rough tramp, violent and abusive, finds his way
into the garden. There is a struggle, M. Renauld seeks to eject him, and
suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead. M. Renauld
calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed—as we know, the
event had occurred just outside—and they realize the marvellous
opportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no resemblance to M.
Renauld, but he is middle-aged, of a usual French type. That is sufficient.

“I rather fancy that they sat on the bench up there, out of earshot from
the house, discussing matters. Their plan was quickly made. The identification
must rest solely on Madame Renauld’s evidence. Jack Renauld and the
chauffeur (who had been with his master two years) must be got out of the way.
It was unlikely that the French women servants would go near the body, and in
any case Renauld intended to take measures to deceive any one not likely to
appreciate details. Masters was sent off, a telegram despatched to Jack, Buenos
Ayres being selected to give credence to the story that Renauld had decided
upon. Having heard of me, as a rather obscure elderly detective, he wrote his
appeal for help knowing that, when I arrived, the production of the letter
would have a profound effect upon the examining magistrate—which, of
course, it did.

“They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of M. Renauld’s and
left his ragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to take
them into the house. And then, to give credence to the tale Madame Renauld was
to tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night, M.
Renauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a
grave in that particular spot of ground where he knows a—how do you call
it? bunkair?—is to be made. It is essential that the body should be
found—Madame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a
little time elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened. Then,
M. Renauld will don the tramp’s rags, and shuffle off to the station,
where he will leave, unnoticed, by the 12:10 train. Since the crime will be
supposed to have taken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach
to him.

“You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl Bella.
Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he
can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create
the impression that the assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame
Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the looseness of
the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but leaving her primed
with essentially the same story as he had invented before, proving the
unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The night is chilly, and he
slips on an overcoat over his underclothing, intending to cast it into the
grave with the dead man. He goes out by the window, smoothing over the flower
bed carefully, and thereby furnishing the most positive evidence against
himself. He goes out on to the lonely golf links, and he digs—and
then—”

“Yes?”

“And then,” said Poirot gravely, “the justice that he has so
long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. … Now,
Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The
first crime, the crime that M. Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to
investigate (ah, but he made a famous mistake there! He misjudged Hercule
Poirot!) is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will
be difficult—since the criminal in his wisdom, has been content to avail
himself of the devices prepared by M. Renauld. It has been a particularly
perplexing and baffling mystery to solve. A young hand, like Giraud, who does
not place any reliance on the psychology, is almost certain to fail.”

“You’re marvellous, Poirot,” I said, with admiration.
“Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you could have done
it!”

I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life, he looked almost
embarrassed.

“Ah, then you no longer despise poor old Papa Poirot? You shift your
allegiance back from the human foxhound?”

His term for Giraud never failed to make me smile.

“Rather. You’ve scored over him handsomely.”

“That poor Giraud,” said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look
modest. “Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise
chance once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance.
To say the least, it was misleading.”

“To tell you the truth, Poirot,” I said slowly, “even now I
don’t quite see—whose hair was it?”

“Madame Renauld’s of course. That is where la mauvaise
chance came in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered.
It might just as easily have been a grey hair—and then, by no conceivable
effort could Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack
Renauld! But it is all of a piece. Always the facts must be twisted to fit the
theory! Did not Giraud find the traces of two persons, a man and a woman, in
the shed? And how does that fit in with his reconstruction of the case? I will
tell you—it does not fit in, and so we shall hear no more of them! I ask
you, is that a methodical way of working? The great Giraud! The great Giraud is
nothing but a toy balloon—swollen with its own importance. But I, Hercule
Poirot, whom he despises, will be the little pin that pricks the big
balloon—comme ça!” And he made an expressive gesture. Then,
calming down, he resumed:

“Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The
possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How
should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Anzora?
Ah! voilà une femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only
made one slip. On his unexpected return: ‘It does not
matter—now.’ And no one noticed—no one realized the
significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor
woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of
what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed
miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and
her despair, how resolutely she has played her part, and how the anguish of it
must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real
murderers. For her son’s sake, no one must know that Paul Renauld was
Georges Conneau, the criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted
publicly that Madame Daubreuil was her husband’s mistress—for a
hint of blackmail might be fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt with the
examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her
husband’s past life. ‘Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le
juge.’ It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the soupçon of sad
mockery. At once M. Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a
great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally!”

Poirot lost himself in contemplation.

“One thing more, Poirot, what about the piece of lead piping?”

“You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be
unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that
imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not
tell you that a clue of two feet long was quite as good as a clue of two
inches?”

“Well, Giraud will sing small now,” I observed hastily, to lead the
conversation away from my own shortcomings.

“As I said before, will he? If he has arrived at the right person by the
wrong method, he will not permit that to worry him.”

“But surely—” I paused as I saw the new trend of things.

“You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed M. Renauld? Some
one who was near the Villa just before twelve o’clock that night, some
one who would benefit by his death—the description fits Jack Renauld only
too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the
dagger!”

I started, I had not realized that point.

“Of course,” I said. “The second dagger we found in the tramp
was Mrs. Renauld’s. There were two, then.”

“Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that
Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact I
have a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again
psychological—heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like
son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges
Conneau.”

His tone was grave and earnest, and I was impressed in spite of myself.

“What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?” I asked.

For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked:

“What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?”

“About five, I believe.”

“That will do very well. We shall just have time.”

“You are going to England?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“Why?”

“To find a possible—witness.”

“Who?”

With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied:

“Miss Bella Duveen.”

“But how will you find her—what do you know about her?”

“I know nothing about her—but I can guess a good deal. We may take
it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen, and since that name was
faintly familiar to M. Stonor, though evidently not in connection with the
Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a
young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to
have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with M. Renauld’s
attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all
right—especially with the help of this.”

And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld’s
drawer. “With love from Bella,” was scrawled across the corner, but
it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first
rate—but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking,
as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.

It was the face of Cinderella.

22
I Find Love

For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand.
Then, summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same
time, I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my
relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had
certainly escaped him.

He rose briskly to his feet.

“We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all despatch.
All is well—the sea it will be calm!”

In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the
boat, secure from Poirot’s observation (he, as usual, was
“practising the method most excellent of Laverguier”) I pulled
myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot
know? Was he aware that my acquaintance of the train and Bella Duveen were one
and the same? Why had he gone to the Hôtel du Phare? On my behalf as I had
believed? Or had I only fatuously thought so, and was this visit undertaken
with a deeper and more sinister purpose?

But in any case, why was he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of
having seen Jack Renauld commit the crime? Or did he suspect—but that was
impossible! The girl had no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible
motive for wishing his death. What had brought her back to the scene of the
murder? I went over the facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais
where I parted from her that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on
the boat. If she had dined in Calais, and then taken a train out to
Merlinville, she would have arrived at the Villa Geneviève just about the time
that Françoise said. What had she done when she left the house just after ten?
Presumably either gone to an hotel, or returned to Calais. And then? The crime
had been committed on Tuesday night. On Thursday morning, she was once more in
Merlinville. Had she ever left France at all? I doubted it very much. What kept
her there—the hope of seeing Jack Renauld? I had told her (as at the time
we believed) that he was on the high seas en route to Buenos Ayres.
Possibly she was aware that the Anzora had not sailed. But to know that
she must have seen Jack. Was that what Poirot was after? Had Jack Renauld,
returning to see Marthe Daubreuil, come face to face instead with Bella Duveen,
the girl he had heartlessly thrown over?

I began to see daylight. If that were indeed the case, it might furnish Jack
with the alibi he needed. Yet under those circumstances his silence seemed
difficult to explain. Why could he not have spoken out boldly? Did he fear for
this former entanglement of his to come to the ears of Marthe Daubreuil? I
shook my head, dissatisfied. The thing had been harmless enough, a foolish boy
and girl affair, and I reflected cynically that the son of a millionaire was
not likely to be thrown over by a penniless French girl, who moreover loved him
devotedly, without a much graver cause.

Altogether I found the affair puzzling and unsatisfactory. I disliked intensely
being associated with Poirot in hunting this girl down, but I could not see any
way of avoiding it, without revealing everything to him, and this, for some
reason, I was loath to do.

Poirot reappeared brisk and smiling at Dover, and our journey to London was
uneventful. It was past nine o’clock when we arrived, and I supposed that
we should return straight away to our rooms and do nothing till the morning.
But Poirot had other plans.

“We must lose no time, mon ami. The news of the arrest will not be
in the English papers until the day after tomorrow, but still we must lose no
time.”

I did not quite follow his reasoning, but I merely asked how he proposed to
find the girl.

“You remember Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent? No? I assisted him in
a little matter of a Japanese wrestler. A pretty little problem, I must recount
it to you one day. He, without doubt, will be able to put us in the way of
finding out what we want to know.”

It took us some time to run Mr. Aarons to earth, and it was after midnight when
we finally managed it. He greeted Poirot with every evidence of warmth, and
professed himself ready to be of service to us in any way.

“There’s not much about the profession I don’t know,”
he said, beaming genially.

“Eh bien, M. Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella
Duveen.”

“Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for the moment I can’t place
it. What’s her line?”

“That I do not know—but here is her photograph.”

Mr. Aarons studied it for a moment, then his face lighted.

“Got it!” He slapped his thigh. “The Dulcibella Kids, by the
Lord!”

“The Dulcibella Kids?”

“That’s it. They’re sisters. Acrobats, dancers and singers.
Give quite a good little turn. They’re in the provinces somewhere, I
believe—if they’re not resting. They’ve been on in Paris for
the last two or three weeks.”

“Can you find out for me exactly where they are?”

“Easy as a bird. You go home, and I’ll send you round the dope in
the morning.”

With this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word. About
eleven o’clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us.

“The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to
you.”

Without more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at the
theatre, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety performance
that evening.

The show was wearisome beyond words—or perhaps it was only my mood that
made it seem so. Japanese families balanced themselves precariously, would-be
fashionable men, in greenish evening dress and exquisitely slicked hair, reeled
off society patter and danced marvellously, stout prima donnas sang at the top
of the human register, a comic comedian endeavoured to be Mr. George Robey and
failed signally.

At last the number went up which announced the Dulcibella Kids. My heart beat
sickeningly. There she was—there they both were, the pair of them, one
flaxen haired, one dark, matching as to size, with short fluffy skirts and
immense buster brown bows. They looked a pair of extremely piquant children.
They began to sing. Their voices were fresh and true, rather thin and
music-hally, but attractive.

It was quite a pretty little turn. They danced neatly, and did some clever
little acrobatic feats. The words of their songs were crisp and catchy. When
the curtain fell, there was a full meed of applause. Evidently the Dulcibella
Kids were a success.

Suddenly I felt that I could remain no longer. I must get out into the air. I
suggested leaving to Poirot.

“Go by all means, mon ami. I amuse myself, and will stay to the
end. I will rejoin you later.”

It was only a few steps from the theatre to the hotel. I went up to the
sitting-room, ordered a whisky and soda, and sat drinking it, staring
meditatively into the empty grate. I heard the door open, and turned my head,
thinking it was Poirot. Then I jumped to my feet. It was Cinderella who stood
in the doorway. She spoke haltingly, her breath coming in little gasps.

“I saw you in front. You and your friend. When you got up to go, I was
waiting outside and followed you. Why are you here—in Coventry? What were
you doing there to-night? Is the man who was with you the—the
detective?”

She stood there, the cloak she had wrapped round her stage dress slipping from
her shoulders. I saw the whiteness of her cheeks under the rouge, and heard the
terror in her voice. And in that moment I understood
everything—understood why Poirot was seeking her, and what she feared,
and understood at last my own heart. …

“Yes,” I said gently.

“Is he looking for—me?” she half whispered.

Then, as I did not answer for a moment, she slipped down by the big chair, and
burst into violent, bitter weeping.

I knelt down by her, holding her in my arms, and smoothing the hair back from
her face.

“Don’t cry, child, don’t cry, for God’s sake.
You’re safe here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t cry, darling.
Don’t cry. I know—I know everything.”

“Oh, but you don’t!”

“I think I do.” And after a moment, as her sobs grew quieter, I
asked: “It was you who took the dagger, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That was why you wanted me to show you round? And why you pretended to
faint?”

Again she nodded. It was a strange thought to come to me at the moment, but it
shot into my mind that I was glad her motive was what it had been—rather
than the idle and morbid curiosity I had accused her of at the time. How
gallantly she had played her part that day, inwardly racked with fear and
trepidation as she must have been. Poor little soul, bearing the burden of a
moment’s impetuous action.

“Why did you take the dagger?” I asked presently.

She replied as simply as a child:

“I was afraid there might be finger-marks on it.”

“But didn’t you remember that you had worn gloves?”

She shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:

“Are you going to give me up to—to the Police?”

“Good God! no.”

Her eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little quiet
voice that sounded afraid of itself:

“Why not?”

It seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of
love—and God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming
to me in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:

“Because I love you, Cinderella.”

She bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken voice:

“You can’t—you can’t—not if you
knew—” And then, as though rallying herself, she faced me squarely,
and asked:

“What do you know, then?”

“I know that you came to see Mr. Renauld that night. He offered you a
cheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house—” I
paused.

“Go on—what next?”

“I don’t know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming
that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him, but
you did wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable, and walked
aimlessly—but at any rate just before twelve you were still near there,
and you saw a man on the golf links—”

Again I paused. I had leapt to the truth in a flash as she entered the room,
but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw vividly the
peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr. Renauld, and I
remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into believing for one
instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when his son burst into our
conclave in the salon.

“Go on,” repeated the girl steadily.

“I fancy his back was to you—but you recognized him, or thought you
recognized him. The gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the pattern
of his overcoat.” I paused. “You told me in the train on the way
from Paris that you had Italian blood in your veins, and that you had nearly
got into trouble once with it. You used a threat in one of your letters to Jack
Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you
mad—and you struck! I don’t believe for a minute that you meant to
kill him. But you did kill him, Cinderella.”

She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she said:

“You’re right … you’re right … I can see it all as you tell
it.” Then she turned on me almost savagely. “And you love me?
Knowing what you do, how can you love me?”

“I don’t know,” I said a little wearily. “I think love
is like that—a thing one cannot help. I have tried, I know—ever
since the first day I met you. And love has been too strong for me.”

And then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again, casting
herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.

“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “I don’t know what to
do. I don’t know which way to turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, some one, and
tell me what to do!”

Again I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Bella. For God’s sake don’t be
afraid of me. I love you, that’s true—but I don’t want
anything in return. Only let me help you. Love him still if you have to, but
let me help you as he can’t.”

It was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised her head
from her hands and stared at me.

“You think that?” she whispered. “You think that I love Jack
Renauld?”

Then, half laughing, half crying, she flung her arms passionately round my
neck, and pressed her sweet wet face to mine.

“Not as I love you,” she whispered. “Never as I love
you!”

Her lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me again and
again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it—and the
wonder, I shall not forget—no, not as long as I live!

It was a sound in the doorway that made us look up. Poirot was standing there
looking at us.

I did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to his
sides.

“Quick,” I said to the girl. “Get out of here. As fast as you
can. I’ll hold him.”

With one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a grip
of iron.

“Mon ami,” observed the latter mildly, “you do this
sort of thing very well. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless
as a child. But all this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit
down and be calm.”

“You won’t pursue her?”

“Mon Dieu! no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.”

Keeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of knowing
that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and he sank into
an arm-chair, feeling his arms tenderly.

“It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused,
Hastings! Eh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old
friend? I show you the girl’s photograph and you recognize it, but you
never say a word.”

“There was no need if you knew that I recognized it,” I said rather
bitterly. So Poirot had known all along! I had not deceived him for an instant.

“Ta-ta! You did not know that I knew that. And tonight you help the girl
to escape when we have found her with so much trouble! Eh bien! it comes
to this—are you going to work with me or against me, Hastings?”

For a moment or two I did not answer. To break with my old friend gave me great
pain. Yet I must definitely range myself against him. Would he ever forgive me,
I wondered? He had been strangely calm so far, but I knew him to possess
marvellous self-command.

“Poirot,” I said, “I’m sorry. I admit I’ve
behaved badly to you over this. But sometimes one has no choice. And in future
I must take my own line.”

Poirot nodded his head several times.

“I understand,” he said. The mocking light had quite died out of
his eyes, and he spoke with a sincerity and kindness that surprised me.
“It is that, my friend, is it not? It is love that has come—not as
you imagined it, all cock a hoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding
feet. Well, well—I warned you. When I realized that this girl must have
taken the dagger, I warned you. Perhaps you remember. But already it was too
late. But, tell me, how much do you know?”

I met his eyes squarely.

“Nothing that you could tell me would be any surprise to me, Poirot.
Understand that. But in case you think of resuming your search for Miss Duveen,
I should like you to know one thing clearly. If you have any idea that she was
concerned in the crime, or was the mysterious lady who called upon Mr. Renauld
that night, you are wrong. I travelled home from France with her that day, and
parted from her at Victoria that evening so that it is clearly impossible for
her to have been in Merlinville.”

“Ah!” Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. “And you would swear
to that in a court of law?”

“Most certainly I would.”

Poirot rose and bowed.

“Mon ami! Vive l’amour! It can perform miracles. It is
decidedly ingenious what you have thought of there. It defeats even Hercule
Poirot!”

23
Difficulties Ahead

After a moment of stress, such as I have just described, reaction is bound to
set in. I retired to rest that night on a note of triumph, but I awoke to
realize that I was by no means out of the wood. True, I could see no flaw in
the alibi I had so suddenly conceived. I had but to stick to my story, and I
failed to see how Bella could be convicted in face of it. It was not as though
there was any old friendship between us that could be raked up, and which might
lead them to suspect that I was committing perjury. It could be proved that in
actual fact I had only seen the girl on three occasions. No, I was still
satisfied with my idea—had not even Poirot admitted that it defeated him?

But there I felt the need of treading warily. All very well for my little
friend to admit himself momentarily nonplussed. I had far too much respect for
his abilities to conceive of him as being content to remain in that position. I
had a very humble opinion of my wits when it came to matching them against his.
Poirot would not take defeat lying down. Somehow or other, he would endeavour
to turn the tables on me, and that in the way, and at the moment, when I least
expected it.

We met at breakfast the following morning as though nothing had happened.
Poirot’s good temper was imperturbable, yet I thought I detected a film
of reserve in his manner which was new. After breakfast, I announced my
intention of going out for a stroll. A malicious gleam shot through
Poirot’s eyes.

“If it is information you seek, you need not be at the pains of deranging
yourself. I can tell you all you wish to know. The Dulcibella Sisters have
cancelled their contract, and have left Coventry for an unknown
destination.”

“Is that really so, Poirot?”

“You can take it from me, Hastings. I made inquiries the first thing this
morning. After all, what else did you expect?”

True enough, nothing else could be expected under the circumstances. Cinderella
had profited by the slight start I had been able to assure her, and would
certainly not lose a moment in removing herself from the reach of the pursuer.
It was what I had intended and planned. Nevertheless, I was aware of being
plunged into a network of fresh difficulties.

I had absolutely no means of communicating with the girl, and it was vital that
she should know the line of defence that had occurred to me, and which I was
prepared to carry out. Of course it was possible that she might try to send
word to me in some way or another, but I hardly thought it likely. She would
know the risk she ran of a message being intercepted by Poirot, thus setting
him on her track once more. Clearly her only course was to disappear utterly
for the time being.

But, in the meantime, what was Poirot doing? I studied him attentively. He was
wearing his most innocent air, and staring meditatively into the far distance.
He looked altogether too placid and supine to give me reassurance. I had
learned, with Poirot, that the less dangerous he looked, the more dangerous he
was. His quiescence alarmed me. Observing a troubled quality in my glance, he
smiled benignantly.

“You are puzzled, Hastings? You ask yourself why I do not launch myself
in pursuit?”

“Well—something of the kind.”

“It is what you would do, were you in my place. I understand that. But I
am not of those who enjoy rushing up and down a country seeking a needle in a
haystack, as you English say. No—let Mademoiselle Bella Duveen go.
Without doubt, I shall be able to find her when the time comes. Until then, I
am content to wait.”

I stared at him doubtfully. Was he seeking to mislead me? I had an irritating
feeling that, even now, he was master of the situation. My sense of superiority
was gradually waning. I had contrived the girl’s escape, and evolved a
brilliant scheme for saving her from the consequences of her rash act—but
I could not rest easy in my mind. Poirot’s perfect calm awakened a
thousand apprehensions.

“I suppose, Poirot,” I said rather diffidently, “I
mustn’t ask what your plans are? I’ve forfeited the right.”

“But not at all. There is no secret about them. We return to France
without delay.”

“We?”

“Precisely—‘we!’ You know very well that you
cannot afford to let Papa Poirot out of your sight. Eh, is it not so, my
friend? But remain in England by all means if you wish—”

I shook my head. He had hit the nail on the head. I could not afford to let him
out of my sight. Although I could not expect his confidence after what had
happened, I could still check his actions. The only danger to Bella lay with
him. Giraud and the French police were indifferent to her existence. At all
costs I must keep near Poirot.

Poirot observed me attentively as these reflections passed through my mind, and
gave a nod of satisfaction.

“I am right, am I not? And as you are quite capable of trying to follow
me, disguised with some absurdity such as a false beard—which every one
would perceive, bien entendu—I much prefer that we should voyage
together. It would annoy me greatly that any one should mock themselves at
you.”

“Very well, then. But it’s only fair to warn you—”

“I know—I know all. You are my enemy! Be my enemy then. It does not
worry me at all.”

“So long as it’s all fair and above-board, I don’t
mind.”

“You have to the full the English passion for ‘fair-play!’
Now your scruples are satisfied, let us depart immediately. There is no time to
be lost. Our stay in England has been short but sufficient. I know—what I
wanted to know.”

The tone was light, but I read a veiled menace into the words.

“Still—” I began, and stopped.

“Still—as you say! Without doubt you are satisfied with the part
you are playing. Me, I preoccupy myself with Jack Renauld.”

Jack Renauld! The words gave me a start. I had completely forgotten that aspect
of the case. Jack Renauld, in prison, with the shadow of the guillotine looming
over him! I saw the part I was playing in a more sinister light. I could save
Bella—yes, but in doing so I ran the risk of sending an innocent man to
his death.

I pushed the thought from me with horror. It could not be. He would be
acquitted. Certainly he would be acquitted! But the cold fear came back.
Suppose he were not? What then? Could I have it on my conscience—horrible
thought! Would it come to that in the end? A decision. Bella or Jack Renauld?
The promptings of my heart were to save the girl I loved at any cost to myself.
But, if the cost were to another, the problem was altered.

What would the girl herself say? I remembered that no word of Jack
Renauld’s arrest had passed my lips. As yet she was in total ignorance of
the fact that her former lover was in prison charged with a hideous crime which
he had not committed. When she knew, how would she act? Would she permit her
life to be saved at the expense of his? Certainly she must do nothing rash.
Jack Renauld might, and probably would, be acquitted without any intervention
on her part. If so, good. But if he was not. … That was the terrible, the
unanswerable problem. I fancied that she ran no risk of the extreme penalty.
The circumstances of the crime were quite different in her case. She could
plead jealousy and extreme provocation, and her youth and beauty would go for
much. The fact that by a tragic mistake it was old Mr. Renauld, and not his
son, who paid the penalty would not alter the motive of the crime. But in any
case, however lenient the sentence of the Court, it must mean a long term of
imprisonment.

No, Bella must be protected. And, at the same time, Jack Renauld must be saved.
How this was to be accomplished I did not see clearly. But I pinned my faith to
Poirot. He knew. Come what might, he would manage to save an innocent man. He
must find some pretext other than the real one. It might be difficult, but he
would manage it somehow. And with Bella unsuspected, and Jack Renauld
acquitted, all would end satisfactorily.

So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still remained
a cold fear.

24
“Save Him!”

We crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following morning saw us
in Saint-Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot lost no time in
visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any objections to my
accompanying him, I bore him company.

After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the examining
magistrate’s room. He greeted us cordially.

“I was told that you had returned to England, M. Poirot. I am glad to
find that such is not the case.”

“It is true that I went there, M. le juge, but it was only for a flying
visit. A side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.”

“And it did—eh?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.

“We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are
abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one making a
mistake.”

“You think not, M. le juge?”

It was the examining magistrate’s turn to shrug his shoulders.

“Eh bien, speaking frankly—in confidence, c’est
entendu—can you come to any other conclusion?”

“Frankly, M. le juge, there seem to me to be many points that are
obscure.”

“Such as—?”

But Poirot was not to be drawn.

“I have not yet tabulated them,” he remarked. “It was a
general reflection that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be
sorry to believe him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to
say for himself on the matter?”

The magistrate frowned.

“I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of
defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He contents
himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a most obstinate
silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow; perhaps you would like to be
present?”

We accepted the invitation with empressement.

“A distressing case,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “My
sympathy for Madame Renauld is profound.”

“How is Madame Renauld?”

“She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor
woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger, but
that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It was, I
understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused her present state.
It would be terrible if her brain became unhinged; but I should not wonder at
all—no, really, not at all.”

M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful enjoyment, as
he envisaged the gloomy prospect.

He roused himself at length, and observed with a start.

“That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, M. Poirot. Let me see,
where did I put it?”

He proceeded to rummage amongst his papers. At last he found the missive, and
handed it to Poirot.

“It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to
you,” he explained. “But as you left no address I could not do
so.”

Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping,
foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman’s. Poirot did not
open it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.

“A demain then, M. le juge. Many thanks for your courtesy and
amiability.”

“But not at all. I am always at your service. These young detectives of
the school of Giraud, they are all alike—rude, sneering fellows. They do
not realize that an examining magistrate of my—er—experience is
bound to have a certain discernment, a certain—flair.
Enfin! the politeness of the old school is infinitely more to my taste.
Therefore, my dear friend, command me in any way you will. We know a thing or
two, you and I—eh?”

And laughing heartily, enchanted with himself and with us, M. Hautet bade us
adieu. I am sorry to have to record that Poirot’s first remark to me as
we traversed the corridor was:

“A famous old imbecile, that one! Of a stupidity to make pity!”

We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with Giraud,
looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Aha! M. Poirot,” he cried airily. “You have returned from
England then?”

“As you see,” said Poirot.

“The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.”

“I agree with you, M. Giraud.”

Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crest-fallen manner seemed to delight the
other.

“Of all the milk and water criminals! Not an idea of defending himself.
It is extraordinary!”

“So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?”
suggested Poirot mildly.

But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.

“Well, good day, M. Poirot. I am glad you’re satisfied of young
Renauld’s guilt at last.”

“Pardon! But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is
innocent.”

Giraud stared for a moment—then burst out laughing, tapping his head
significantly with the brief remark: “Toqué!”

Poirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.

“M. Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been deliberately
insulting! You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager you 500 francs
that I find the murderer of M. Renauld before you do. Is it agreed?”

Giraud stared helplessly at him, and murmured again:

“Toqué!”

“Come now,” urged Poirot, “is it agreed?”

“I have no wish to take your money from you.”

“Make your mind easy—you will not!”

“Oh, well then, I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting.
Eh bien, once or twice, your manner has annoyed
me.”

“I am enchanted to hear it,” said Poirot. “Good morning, M.
Giraud. Come, Hastings.”

I said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy. Poirot had
displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than ever my powers
of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This unlucky encounter with
Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle.

Suddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel Stonor.
We stopped and greeted him, and he proposed strolling with us back to our
hotel.

“And what are you doing here, M. Stonor?” inquired Poirot.

“One must stand by one’s friends,” replied the other dryly.
“Especially when they are unjustly accused.”

“Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?” I
asked eagerly.

“Certainly I don’t. I know the lad. I admit that there have been
one or two things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none
the less, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I’ll never believe that
Jack Renauld is a murderer.”

My heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret weight from
my heart.

“I have no doubt that many people feel as you do,” I exclaimed.
“There is really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that
there was no doubt of his acquittal—no doubt whatever.”

But Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished.

“I’d give a lot to think as you do,” he said gravely. He
turned to Poirot. “What’s your opinion, monsieur?”

“I think that things look very black against him,” said Poirot
quietly.

“You believe him guilty?” said Stonor sharply.

“No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.”

“He’s behaving so damned queerly,” muttered Stonor. “Of
course I realize that there’s a lot more in this affair than meets the
eye. Giraud’s not wise to that because he’s an outsider, but the
whole thing has been damned odd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs.
Renauld wants to hush anything up, I’ll take my cue from her. It’s
her show, and I’ve too much respect for her judgment to shove my oar in,
but I can’t get behind this attitude of Jack’s. Any one would think
he wanted to be thought guilty.”

“But it’s absurd,” I cried, bursting in. “For one
thing, the dagger—” I paused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would
wish me to reveal. I continued, choosing my words carefully, “We know
that the dagger could not have been in Jack Renauld’s possession that
evening. Mrs. Renauld knows that.”

“True,” said Stonor. “When she recovers, she will doubtless
say all this and more. Well, I must be leaving you.”

“One moment.” Poirot’s hand arrested his departure.
“Can you arrange for word to be sent to me at once should Madame Renauld
recover consciousness?”

“Certainly. That’s easily done.”

“That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,” I urged as we went
upstairs. “I couldn’t speak very plainly before Stonor.”

“That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to
ourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack
Renauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before we
started from London?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed to
convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult. Eh bien, Hastings,
they made to his order not two paper-knives, but
three.”

“So that—?”

“So that, after giving one to his mother, and one to Bella Duveen, there
was a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear
the dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.”

“It won’t come to that,” I cried, stung.

Poirot shook his head uncertainly.

“You will save him,” I cried positively.

Poirot glanced at me dryly.

“Have you not rendered it impossible, mon ami?”

“Some other way,” I muttered.

“Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No—say no
more. Let us instead see what is in this letter.”

And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket.

His face contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.

“There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.”

The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great
agitation:

“Dear M. Poirot:
“If you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. I have no one to turn
to, and at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help
us.

“MARTHE DAUBREUIL.”

I handed it back, moved.

“You will go?”

“At once. We will command an auto.”

Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the door to
meet us, and led Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.

“Ah, you have come—it is good of you. I have been in despair, not
knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I suffer
horribly, I am nearly mad. Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the
crime? But that is madness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never
for one minute will I believe it.”

“Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently.

“But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.”

“Perhaps because he is screening some one,” suggested Poirot,
watching her.

Marthe frowned.

“Screening some one? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning I
have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy to
wear widow’s weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he was
arrested she fell down—like that.” She made a dramatic
gesture. “And without doubt, M. Stonor, the secretary, he helped her.
They are thick as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he—but
what do men care—if a woman is rich!”

There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.

“Stonor was in England,” I put in.

“He says so—but who knows?”

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly, “if we are to work
together, you and I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a
question.”

“Yes, monsieur?”

“Are you aware of your mother’s real name?”

Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on her
arms, she burst into tears.

“There, there,” said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder.
“Calm yourself, petite, I see that you know. Now a second
question, did you know who M. Renauld was?”

“M. Renauld,” she raised her head from her hands and gazed at him
wonderingly.

“Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.”

Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the day of
our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had finished,
she drew a long breath.

“But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective
in the world.”

With a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him with an
abandonment that was wholly French.

“Save him, monsieur,” she cried. “I love him so. Oh, save
him, save him—save him!”

25
An Unexpected Dénouement

We were present the following morning at the examination of Jack Renauld. Short
as the time had been, I was shocked at the change that had taken place in the
young prisoner. His cheeks had fallen in, there were deep black circles round
his eyes, and he looked haggard and distraught, as one who had wooed sleep in
vain for several nights. He betrayed no emotion at seeing us.

The prisoner and his counsel, Maître Grosíer, were accommodated with chairs. A
formidable guard with resplendent sabre stood before the door. The patient
greffier sat at his desk. The examination began.

“Renauld,” began the magistrate, “do you deny that you were
in Merlinville on the night of the crime?”

Jack did not reply at once, then he said with a hesitancy of manner which was
piteous:

“I—I—told you that I was in Cherbourg.”

Maître Grosíer frowned and sighed. I realized at once that Jack Renauld was
obstinately bent on conducting his own case as he wished, to the despair of his
legal representative.

The magistrate turned sharply.

“Send in the station witnesses.”

In a moment or two the door opened to admit a man whom I recognized as being a
porter at Merlinville station.

“You were on duty on the night of June 7th?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You witnessed the arrival of the 11:40 train?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Look at the prisoner. Do you recognize him as having been one of the
passengers to alight?”

“Yes, Monsieur le juge.”

“There is no possibility of your being mistaken?”

“No, monsieur. I knew M. Jack Renauld well.”

“Nor of your being mistaken as to the date?”

“No, monsieur. Because it was the following morning, June 8th, that we
heard of the murder.”

Another railway official was brought in, and confirmed the first one’s
evidence. The magistrate looked at Jack Renauld.

“These men have identified you positively. What have you to say?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing.”

M. Hautet exchanged a glance with the greffier, as the scratching of the
latter’s pen recorded the answer.

“Renauld,” continued the magistrate, “do you recognize
this?”

He took something from the table by his side, and held it out to the prisoner.
I shuddered as I recognized the aeroplane dagger.

“Pardon,” cried Maître Grosíer. “I demand to speak to my
client before he answers that question.”

But Jack Renauld had no consideration for the feelings of the wretched Grosíer.
He waved him aside, and replied quietly:

“Certainly I recognize it. It is a present given by me to my mother, as a
souvenir of the War.”

“Is there, as far as you know, any duplicate of that dagger in
existence?”

Again Maître Grosíer burst out, and again Jack overrode him.

“Not that I know of. The setting was my own design.”

Even the magistrate almost gasped at the boldness of the reply. It did, in very
truth, seem as though Jack was rushing on his fate. I realized, of course, the
vital necessity he was under of concealing, for Bella’s sake, the fact
that there was a duplicate dagger in the case. So long as there was supposed to
be only one weapon, no suspicion was likely to attach to the girl who had had
the second paper-knife in her possession. He was valiantly shielding the woman
he had once loved—but at what a cost to himself! I began to realize the
magnitude of the task I had so lightly set Poirot. It would not be easy to
secure the acquittal of Jack Renauld, by anything short of the truth.

M. Hautet spoke again, with a peculiarly biting inflection:

“Madame Renauld told us that this dagger was on her dressing table on the
night of the crime. But Madame Renauld is a mother! It will doubtless astonish
you, Renauld, but I consider it highly likely that Madame Renauld was mistaken,
and that, by inadvertence perhaps, you had taken it with you to Paris.
Doubtless you will contradict me—”

I saw the lad’s handcuffed hands clench themselves. The perspiration
stood out in beads upon his brow, as with a supreme effort he interrupted M.
Hautet in a hoarse voice:

“I shall not contradict you. It is possible.”

It was a stupefying moment. Maître Grosíer rose to his feet, protesting:

“My client has undergone a considerable nervous strain. I should wish it
put on record that I do not consider him answerable for what he says.”

The magistrate quelled him angrily. For a moment a doubt seemed to arise in his
own mind. Jack Renauld had almost overdone his part. He leaned forward, and
gazed at the prisoner searchingly.

“Do you fully understand, Renauld, that on the answers you have given me
I shall have no alternative but to commit you for trial?”

Jack’s pale face flushed. He looked steadily back.

“M. Hautet, I swear that I did not kill my father.”

But the magistrate’s brief moment of doubt was over. He laughed a short,
unpleasant laugh.

“Without doubt, without doubt—they are always innocent, our
prisoners! By your own mouth you are condemned. You can offer no defence, no
alibi—only a mere assertion which would not deceive a babe!—that
you are not guilty. You killed your father, Renauld—cruel and cowardly
murder—for the sake of money which you believed would come to you at his
death. Your mother was an accessory after the fact. Doubtless, in view of the
fact that she acted as a mother, the courts will extend an indulgence to her
that they will not accord to you. And rightly so! Your crime was a horrible
one—to be held in abhorrence by gods and men!” M. Hautet was
enjoying himself, working up his period, steeped in the solemnity of the
moment, and his own role as representative of justice. “You
killed—and you must pay the consequences of your action. I speak to you,
not as a man, but as Justice, eternal Justice, which—”

M. Hautet was interrupted—to his intense annoyance. The door was pushed
open.

“M. le juge, M. le juge,” stammered the attendant, “there is
a lady who says—who says—”

“Who says what?” cried the justly incensed magistrate. “This
is highly irregular. I forbid it—I absolutely forbid it.”

But a slender figure pushed the stammering gendarme aside. Dressed all in
black, with a long veil that hid her face, she advanced into the room.

My heart gave a sickening throb. She had come then! All my efforts were in
vain. Yet I could not but admire the courage that had led her to take this step
so unfalteringly.

She raised her veil—and I gasped. For, though as like her as two peas,
this girl was not Cinderella! On the other hand, now that I saw her without the
fair wig she had worn on the stage, I recognized her as the girl of the
photograph in Jack Renauld’s room.

“You are the Juge d’Instruction, M. Hautet?” she queried.

“Yes, but I forbid—”

“My name is Bella Duveen. I wish to give myself up for the murder of Mr.
Renauld.”

26
I Receive a Letter

“My Friend:
    “You will know all when you get this. Nothing that I can say will move
Bella. She has gone out to give herself up. I am tired out with struggling.
    “You will know now that I deceived you, that where you gave me trust I
repaid you with lies. It will seem, perhaps, indefensible to you, but I should
like, before I go out of your life for ever, to show you just how it all came
about. If I knew that you forgave me, it would make life easier for me. It
wasn’t for myself I did it—that’s the only thing I can put
forward to say for myself.
    “I’ll begin from the day I met you in the boat train from Paris. I
was uneasy then about Bella. She was just desperate about Jack Renauld,
she’d have lain down on the ground for him to walk on, and when he began
to change, and to stop writing so often, she began getting in a state. She got
it into her head that he was keen on another girl—and of course, as it
turned out afterwards, she was quite right there. She’d made up her mind
to go to their Villa at Merlinville, and try and see Jack. She knew I was
against it, and tried to give me the slip. I found she was not on the train at
Calais, and determined I would not go on to England without her. I’d an
uneasy feeling that something awful was going to happen if I couldn’t
prevent it.
    “I met the next train from Paris. She was on it, and set upon going out
then and there to Merlinville. I argued with her for all I was worth, but it
wasn’t any good. She was all strung up and set upon having her own way.
Well, I washed my hands of it. I’d done all I could! It was getting late.
I went to an hotel, and Bella started for Merlinville. I still couldn’t
shake off my feeling of what the books call ‘impending disaster.’
    “The next day came—but no Bella. She’d made a date with me to
meet at the hotel, but she didn’t keep it. No sign of her all day. I got
more and more anxious. Then came an evening paper with the news.
    “It was awful! I couldn’t be sure, of course—but I was
terribly afraid. I figured it out that Bella had met Papa Renauld and told him
about her and Jack, and that he’d insulted her or something like that.
We’ve both got terribly quick tempers.
    “Then all the masked foreigner business came out, and I began to feel
more at ease. But it still worried me that Bella hadn’t kept her date
with me.
    “By the next morning, I was so rattled that I’d just got to go and
see what I could. First thing, I ran up against you. You know all that … When I
saw the dead man, looking so like Jack, and wearing Jack’s fancy
overcoat, I knew! And there was the identical paper-knife—wicked little
thing!—that Jack had given Bella! Ten to one it had her finger-marks on
it. I can’t hope to explain to you the sort of helpless horror of that
moment. I only saw one thing clearly—I must get hold of that dagger, and
get right away with it before they found out it was gone. I pretended to faint,
and whilst you were away getting water I took the thing and hid it away in my
dress.
    “I told you that I was staying at the Hôtel du Phare, but of course
really I made a bee line back to Calais, and then on to England by the first
boat. When we were in mid-Channel, I dropped that little devil of a dagger into
the sea. Then I felt I could breathe again.
    “Bella was at our digs in London. She looked like nothing on God’s
earth. I told her what I’d done, and that she was pretty safe for the
time being. She stared at me, and then began laughing … laughing … laughing …
it was horrible to hear her! I felt that the best thing to do was to keep busy.
She’d go mad if she had time to brood on what she’d done. Luckily
we got an engagement at once.
    “And then, I saw you and your friend, watching us that night … I was
frantic. You must suspect, or you wouldn’t have tracked us down. I had to
know the worst, so I followed you. I was desperate. And then, before I’d
had time to say anything, I tumbled to it that it was me you
suspected, not Bella! Or at least that you thought I was Bella since
I’d stolen the dagger.
    “I wish, honey, that you could see back into my mind at that moment …
you’d forgive me, perhaps … I was so frightened, and muddled, and
desperate. … All I could get clearly was that you would try and save me. I
didn’t know whether you’d be willing to save her … I thought very
likely not—it wasn’t the same thing! And I couldn’t risk it!
Bella’s my twin—I’d got to do the best for her. So I went on
lying. … I felt mean—I feel mean still. … That’s all—enough
too, you’ll say, I expect. I ought to have trusted you. … If I had—
    “As soon as the news was in the paper that Jack Renauld had been
arrested, it was all up. Bella wouldn’t even wait to see how things
went. …
    “I’m very tired. … I can’t write any more. …”

She had begun to sign herself Cinderella, but had crossed that out and written
instead “Dulcie Duveen.”

It was an ill-written, blurred epistle but I have kept it to this day.

Poirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I looked
across at him.

“Did you know all the time that it was—the other?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could make
such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very alike, but by
no means incapable of distinguishment.”

“But the fair hair?”

“A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it
conceivable that with twins one should be fair and one dark?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?”

“You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,” said
Poirot dryly. “You did not give me a chance.”

“But afterwards?”

“Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in
me. And then, I wanted to see whether your—feelings would stand the test
of time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan, with you. I
should not have left you long in your error.”

I nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I looked
down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the floor, and
pushed them across to him.

“Read that,” I said. “I’d like you to.”

He read it through in silence, then he looked up at me.

“What is it that worries you, Hastings?”

This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid quite
aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.

“She doesn’t say—she doesn’t say—well, not
whether she cares for me or not!”

Poirot turned back the pages.

“I think you are mistaken, Hastings.”

“Where?” I cried, leaning forward eagerly.

Poirot smiled.

“She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.”

“But where am I to find her? There’s no address on the letter.
There’s a French stamp, that’s all.”

“Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as
soon as I have five little minutes!”

27
Jack Renauld’s Story

“Congratulations, M. Jack,” said Poirot, wringing the lad warmly by
the hand.

Young Renauld had come to us as soon as he was liberated—before starting
for Merlinville to rejoin Marthe and his mother. Stonor accompanied him. His
heartiness was in strong contrast to the lad’s wan looks. It was plain
that the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Although delivered from
the immediate peril that was hanging over him, the circumstances of his release
were too painful to let him feel full relief. He smiled mournfully at Poirot,
and said in a low voice:

“I went through it to protect her, and now it’s all no use!”

“You could hardly expect the girl to accept the price of your
life,” remarked Stonor dryly. “She was bound to come forward when
she saw you heading straight for the guillotine.”

“Eh ma foi! and you were heading for it too!” added Poirot,
with a slight twinkle. “You would have had Maître Grosíer’s death
from rage on your conscience if you had gone on.”

“He was a well meaning ass, I suppose,” said Jack. “But he
worried me horribly. You see, I couldn’t very well take him into my
confidence. But, my God! what’s going to happen about Bella?”

“If I were you,” said Poirot frankly, “I should not distress
myself unduly. The French Courts are very lenient to youth and beauty, and the
crime passionnel. A clever lawyer will make out a great case of
extenuating circumstances. It will not be pleasant for you—”

“I don’t care about that. You see, M. Poirot, in a way I
do feel guilty of my father’s murder. But for me, and my
entanglement with this girl, he would be alive and well today. And then my
cursed carelessness in taking away the wrong overcoat. I can’t help
feeling responsible for his death. It will haunt me for ever!”

“No, no,” I said soothingly.

“Of course it’s horrible to me to think that Bella killed my
father,” resumed Jack, “but I’d treated her shamefully. After
I met Marthe, and realized I’d made a mistake, I ought to have written
and told her so honestly. But I was so terrified of a row, and of its coming to
Marthe’s ears, and her thinking there was more in it than there ever had
been, that—well, I was a coward, and went on hoping the thing would die
down of itself. I just drifted, in fact—not realizing that I was driving
the poor kid desperate. If she’d really knifed me, as she meant to, I
should have got no more than my deserts. And the way she’s come forward
now is downright plucky. I’d have stood the racket, you know—up to
the end.”

He was silent for a moment or two, and then burst out on another tack:

“What gets me is why the Governor should be wandering about in
underclothes and my overcoat at that time of night. I suppose he’d just
given the foreign johnnies the slip, and my mother must have made a mistake
about its being 2 o’clock when they came. Or—or, it wasn’t
all a frame up, was it? I mean, my mother didn’t
think—couldn’t think—that—that it was
me?”

Poirot reassured him quickly.

“No, no, M. Jack. Have no fears on that score. As for the rest, I will
explain it to you one of these days. It is rather curious. But will you recount
to us exactly what did occur on that terrible evening?”

“There’s very little to tell. I came from Cherbourg, as I told you,
in order to see Marthe before going to the other end of the world. The train
was late, and I decided to take the short cut across the golf links. I could
easily get into the grounds of the Villa Marguerite from there. I had nearly
reached the place when—”

He paused and swallowed.

“Yes?”

“I heard a terrible cry. It wasn’t loud—a sort of choke and
gasp—but it frightened me. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot. Then
I came round the corner of a bush. There was moonlight. I saw the grave, and a
figure lying face downwards, with a dagger sticking in the back. And
then—and then—I looked up and saw her. She was looking at
me as though she saw a ghost—it’s what she must have thought me at
first—all expression seemed frozen out of her face by horror. And then
she gave a cry, and turned and ran.”

He stopped, trying to master his emotion.

“And afterwards?” asked Poirot gently.

“I really don’t know. I stayed there for a time, dazed. And then I
realized I’d better get away as fast as I could. It didn’t occur to
me that they would suspect me, but I was afraid of being called upon to give
evidence against her. I walked to St. Beauvais as I told you, and got a car
from there back to Cherbourg.”

A knock came at the door, and a page entered with a telegram which he delivered
to Stonor. He tore it open. Then he got up from his seat.

“Mrs. Renauld has regained consciousness,” he said.

“Ah!” Poirot sprang to his feet. “Let us all go to
Merlinville at once!”

A hurried departure was made forthwith. Stonor, at Jack’s instance,
agreed to stay behind and do all that could be done for Bella Duveen. Poirot,
Jack Renauld and I set off in the Renauld car.

The run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of the Villa
Marguerite, Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot.

“How would it be if you went on first—to break the news to my
mother that I am free—”

“While you break it in person to Mademoiselle Marthe, eh?” finished
Poirot, with a twinkle. “But yes, by all means, I was about to propose
such an arrangement myself.”

Jack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself out, and
ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa
Geneviève.

“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember how we arrived here that
first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauld’s murder?”

“Ah! yes, truly. Not so long ago, either. But what a lot of things have
happened since then—especially for you, mon ami!”

“Poirot, what have you done about finding Bel—I mean Dulcie?”

“Calm yourself, Hastings. I arrange everything.”

“You’re being a precious long time about it,” I grumbled.

Poirot changed the subject.

“Then the beginning, now the end,” he moralized, as we rang the
bell. “And, considered as a case, the end is profoundly
unsatisfactory.”

“Yes, indeed,” I sighed.

“You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That was
not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt with
leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls. I spoke from
a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and regular, such
as a detective delights in. The mise en scène designed by Georges
Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the dénouement—ah, no! A man
killed by accident in a girl’s fit of anger—ah, indeed, what order
or method is there in that?”

And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot’s
peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise.

Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman
conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time before
Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.

“Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre, but there are
squalls ahead!”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

“I would hardly have credited it,” said Poirot thoughtfully,
“but women are very unexpected.”

“Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,” I exclaimed, looking out of
the window.

Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps outside.

“Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.”

“I know, I know,” said Jack Renauld. “I must go up to her at
once.”

“But no, I tell you. It is better not.”

“But Marthe and I—”

“In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must, but
you would be wise to be guided by me.”

A voice on the stairs behind made us all start.

“I thank you for your good offices, M. Poirot, but I will make my own
wishes clear.”

We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon Léonie’s
arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping,
and imploring her mistress to return to bed.

“Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor’s
orders!”

But Mrs. Renauld came on.

“Mother,” cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she
drove him back.

“I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour
I renounce you.”

“Mother,” cried the lad, stupefied.

For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice.
Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself.

“Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his
death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless
treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house.
Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall
never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can
with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest
enemy!”

And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs.

We were all dumbfounded—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack
Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell.
Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.

“He is overdone,” murmured Poirot to Marthe. “Where can we
take him?”

“But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I.
My poor Jack!”

We got the lad to the Villa, where he dropped limply on to a chair in a
semi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands.

“He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top
of it. Get him to bed, and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.”

A doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as his
opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and quiet,
the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there was a
chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for some one to sit up all night
with him.

Finally, having done all we could, we left him in the charge of Marthe and her
mother, and set out for the town. It was past our usual hour of dining, and we
were both famished. The first restaurant we came to assuaged the pangs of
hunger with an excellent omelette, and an equally excellent
entrecôte to follow.

“And now for quarters for the night,” said Poirot, when at length
café noir had completed the meal. “Shall we try our old friend,
the Hôtel des Bains?”

We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be
accommodated with two good rooms overlooking the sea. Then Poirot asked a
question which surprised me.

“Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?”

“Yes, monsieur. She is in the little salon.”

“Ah!”

“Poirot,” I cried, keeping pace with him as he walked along the
corridor, “who on earth is Miss Robinson?”

Poirot beamed kindly on me.

“It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.”

“But, I say—”

“Bah!” said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of
the door. “Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name
of Duveen?”

It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hands in both of
mine. My eyes said the rest.

Poirot cleared his throat.

“Mes enfants,” he said, “for the moment we have no
time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to
do what I asked you?”

In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in paper, and
handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start—for
it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the sea.
Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most compromising of
objects and documents!

“Très bien, mon enfant,” said Poirot. “I am pleased
with you. Go now and rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You
shall see him tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?” asked the girl, her eyes widening.

“You shall hear all about it tomorrow.”

“Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.”

“But mademoiselle—”

“I’m coming too, I tell you.”

Poirot realized that it was futile to argue further. He gave in.

“Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability
nothing will happen.”

The girl made no reply.

Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close, oppressive
evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of the Villa
Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused.

“I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld.
Come with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside. Madame
Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.”

We unlatched the gate, and walked up the path. As we went round to the side of
the house, I drew Poirot’s attention to a window on the first floor.
Thrown sharply on the blind was the profile of Marthe Daubreuil.

“Ah!” said Poirot. “I figure to myself that that is the room
where we shall find Jack Renauld.”

Madame Daubreuil opened the door to us. She explained that Jack was much the
same, but perhaps we would like to see for ourselves. She led us upstairs and
into the bedroom. Marthe Daubreuil was embroidering by a table with a lamp on
it. She put her finger to her lips as we entered.

Jack Renauld was sleeping an uneasy fitful sleep, his head turning from side to
side, and his face still unduly flushed.

“Is the doctor coming again?” asked Poirot in a whisper.

“Not unless we send. He is sleeping—that is the great thing.
Maman made him a tisane.”

She sat down again with her embroidery as we left the room. Madame Daubreuil
accompanied us down the stairs. Since I had learned of her past history, I
viewed this woman with increased interest. She stood there with her eyes cast
down, the same very faint enigmatical smile that I remembered on her lips. And
suddenly I felt afraid of her, as one might feel afraid of a beautiful
poisonous snake.

“I hope we have not deranged you, madame,” said Poirot politely as
she opened the door for us to pass out.

“Not at all, monsieur.”

“By the way,” said Poirot, as though struck by an afterthought,
“M. Stonor has not been in Merlinville today, has he?”

I could not at all fathom the point of this question which I well knew to be
meaningless as far as Poirot was concerned.

Madame Daubreuil replied quite composedly:

“Not that I know of.”

“He has not had an interview with Mrs. Renauld?”

“How should I know that, monsieur?”

“True,” said Poirot. “I thought you might have seen him
coming or going, that is all. Good night, madame.”

“Why—” I began.

“No ‘whys,’ Hastings. There will be time for that
later.”

We rejoined Cinderella and made our way rapidly in the direction of the Villa
Geneviève. Poirot looked over his shoulder once at the lighted window and the
profile of Marthe as she bent over her work.

“He is being guarded at all events,” he muttered.

Arrived at the Villa Geneviève, Poirot took up his stand behind some bushes to
the left of the drive, where, whilst enjoying a good view ourselves, we were
completely hidden from sight. The Villa itself was in total darkness, everybody
was without doubt in bed and asleep. We were almost immediately under the
window of Mrs. Renauld’s bedroom, which window, I noticed, was open. It
seemed to me that it was upon this spot that Poirot’s eyes were fixed.

“What are we going to do?” I whispered.

“Watch.”

“But—”

“I do not expect anything to happen for at least an hour, probably two
hours, but the—”

But his words were interrupted by a long thin drawn cry:

“Help!”

A light flashed up in the second floor room on the right hand side of the
house. The cry came from there. And even as we watched there came a shadow on
the blind as of two people struggling.

“Mille tonnerres!” cried Poirot. “She must have
changed her room!”

Dashing forward, he battered wildly on the front door. Then rushing to the tree
in the flower-bed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I followed him,
as with a bound he sprang in through the open window. Looking over my shoulder,
I saw Dulcie reaching the branch behind me.

“Take care,” I exclaimed.

“Take care of your grandmother!” retorted the girl. “This is
child’s play to me.”

Poirot had rushed through the empty room and was pounding on the door leading
into the corridor.

“Locked and bolted on the outside,” he growled. “And it will
take time to burst it open.”

The cries for help were getting noticeably fainter. I saw despair in
Poirot’s eyes. He and I together put our shoulders to the door.

Cinderella’s voice, calm and dispassionate, came from the window:

“You’ll be too late, I guess I’m the only one who can do
anything.”

Before I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap upward into space.
I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her hanging by her hands from the
roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the direction of the lighted window.

“Good heavens! She’ll be killed,” I cried.

“You forget. She’s a professional acrobat, Hastings. It was the
providence of the good God that made her insist on coming with us tonight. I
only pray that she may be in time. Ah!”

A cry of absolute terror floated out on to the night as the girl disappeared
through the right-hand window; then in Cinderella’s clear tones came the
words:

“No, you don’t! I’ve got you—and my wrists are just
like steel.”

At the same moment the door of our prison was opened cautiously by Françoise.
Poirot brushed her aside unceremoniously and rushed down the passage to where
the other maids were grouped round the further door.

“It’s locked on the inside, monsieur.”

There was the sound of a heavy fall within. After a moment or two the key
turned and the door swung slowly open. Cinderella, very pale, beckoned us in.

“She is safe?” demanded Poirot.

“Yes, I was just in time. She was exhausted.”

Mrs. Renauld was half sitting, half lying on the bed. She was gasping for
breath.

“Nearly strangled me,” she murmured painfully. The girl picked up
something from the floor and handed it to Poirot. It was a rolled up ladder of
silk rope, very fine but quite strong.

“A getaway,” said Poirot. “By the window, whilst we were
battering at the door. Where is—the other?”

The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the ground lay a figure wrapped
in some dark material a fold of which hid the face.

“Dead?”

She nodded.

“I think so.”

“Head must have struck the marble fender.”

“But who is it?” I cried.

“The murderer of M. Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of
Madame Renauld.”

Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down, and lifting the fold of cloth,
looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!

28
Journey’s End

I have confused memories of the further events of that night. Poirot seemed
deaf to my repeated questions. He was engaged in overwhelming Françoise with
reproaches for not having told him of Mrs. Renauld’s change of sleeping
quarters.

I caught him by the shoulder, determined to attract his attention, and make
myself heard.

“But you must have known,” I expostulated. “You were
taken up to see her this afternoon.”

Poirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment.

“She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room—her
boudoir,” he explained.

“But, monsieur,” cried Françoise, “Madame changed her room
almost immediately after the crime! The associations—they were too
distressing!”

“Then why was I not told,” vociferated Poirot, striking the table,
and working himself into a first-class passion. “I demand
you—why—was—I—not—told? You are an old woman
completely imbecile! And Léonie and Denise are no better. All of you are triple
idiots! Your stupidity has nearly caused the death of your mistress. But for
this courageous child—”

He broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was bending over
ministering to Mrs. Renauld, he embraced her with Gallic fervour—slightly
to my annoyance.

I was aroused from my condition of mental fog by a sharp command from Poirot to
fetch the doctor immediately on Mrs. Renauld’s behalf. After that, I
might summon the police. And he added, to complete my dudgeon:

“It will hardly be worth your while to return here. I shall be too busy
to attend to you, and of Mademoiselle here I make a garde-malad.”

I retired with what dignity I could command. Having done my errands, I returned
to the hotel. I understood next to nothing of what had occurred. The events of
the night seemed fantastic and impossible. Nobody would answer my questions.
Nobody had seemed to hear them. Angrily, I flung myself into bed, and slept the
sleep of the bewildered and utterly exhausted.

I awoke to find the sun pouring in through the open windows and Poirot, neat
and smiling, sitting beside the bed.

“Enfin you wake! But it is that you are a famous sleeper,
Hastings! Do you know that it is nearly eleven o’clock?”

I groaned and put a hand to my head.

“I must have been dreaming,” I said. “Do you know, I actually
dreamt that we found Marthe Daubreuil’s body in Mrs. Renauld’s
room, and that you declared her to have murdered Mr. Renauld?”

“You were not dreaming. All that is quite true.”

“But Bella Duveen killed Mr. Renauld?”

“Oh, no, Hastings, she did not! She said she did—yes—but that
was to save the man she loved from the guillotine.”

“What?”

“Remember Jack Renauld’s story. They both arrived on the scene at
the same instant, and each took the other to be the perpetrator of the crime.
The girl stares at him in horror, and then with a cry rushes away. But, when
she hears that the crime has been brought home to him, she cannot bear it, and
comes forward to accuse herself and save him from certain death.”

Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers together
in familiar style.

“The case was not quite satisfactory to me,” he observed
judicially. “All along I was strongly under the impression that we were
dealing with a cold-blooded and premeditated crime committed by some one who
had been contented (very cleverly) with using M. Renauld’s own plans for
throwing the police off the track. The great criminal (as you may remember my
remarking to you once) is always supremely simple.”

I nodded.

“Now, to support this theory, the criminal must have been fully cognizant
of Mr. Renauld’s plans. That leads us to Madame Renauld. But facts fail
to support any theory of her guilt. Is there any one else who might have known
of them? Yes. From Marthe Daubreuil’s own lips we have the admission that
she overheard M. Renauld’s quarrel with the tramp. If she could overhear
that, there is no reason why she should not have heard everything else,
especially if M. and Madame Renauld were imprudent enough to discuss their
plans sitting on the bench. Remember how easily you overheard Marthe’s
conversation with Jack Renauld from that spot.”

“But what possible motive could Marthe have for murdering Mr.
Renauld?” I argued.

“What motive? Money! M. Renauld was a millionaire several times over, and
at his death (or so she and Jack believed) half that vast fortune would pass to
his son. Let us reconstruct the scene from the standpoint of Marthe Daubreuil.

“Marthe Daubreuil overhears what passes between Renauld and his wife. So
far he has been a nice little source of income to the Daubreuil mother and
daughter, but now he proposes to escape from their toils. At first, possibly,
her idea is to prevent that escape. But a bolder idea takes its place, and one
that fails to horrify the daughter of Jeanne Beroldy! At present M. Renauld
stands inexorably in the way of her marriage with Jack. If the latter defies
his father, he will be a pauper—which is not at all to the mind of
Mademoiselle Marthe. In fact, I doubt if she has ever cared a straw for Jack
Renauld. She can simulate emotion, but in reality she is of the same cold,
calculating type as her mother. I doubt, too, whether she was really very sure
of her hold over the boy’s affections. She had dazzled and captivated
him, but separated from her, as his father could so easily manage to separate
him, she might lose him. But with M. Renauld dead, and Jack the heir to half
his millions, the marriage can take place at once, and at a stroke she will
attain wealth—not the beggarly thousands that have been extracted from
him so far. And her clever brain takes in the simplicity of the thing. It is
all so easy. M. Renauld is planning all the circumstances of his
death—she has only to step in at the right moment and turn the farce into
a grim reality. And here comes in the second point which led me infallibly to
Marthe Daubreuil—the dagger! Jack Renauld had three souvenirs
made. One he gave to his mother, one to Bella Duveen; was it not highly
probable that he had given the third one to Marthe Daubreuil?

“So then, to sum up, there were four points of note against Marthe
Daubreuil:

“(1) Marthe Daubreuil could have overheard M. Renauld’s plans.

“(2) Marthe Daubreuil had a direct interest in causing M. Renauld’s
death.

“(3) Marthe Daubreuil was the daughter of the notorious Madame Beroldy
who in my opinion was morally and virtually the murderess of her husband,
although it may have been Georges Conneau’s hand which struck the actual
blow.

“(4) Marthe Daubreuil was the only person, besides Jack Renauld, likely
to have the third dagger in her possession.”

Poirot paused and cleared his throat.

“Of course, when I learned of the existence of the other girl, Bella
Duveen, I realized that it was quite possible that she might have
killed M. Renauld. The solution did not commend itself to me, because, as I
pointed out to you, Hastings, an expert, such as I am, likes to meet a foeman
worthy of his steel. Still one must take crimes as one finds them, not as one
would like them to be. It did not seem very likely that Bella Duveen would be
wandering about carrying a souvenir paper-knife in her hand, but of course she
might have had some idea all the time of revenging herself on Jack Renauld.
When she actually came forward and confessed to the murder, it seemed that all
was over. And yet—I was not satisfied, mon ami. I was not
satisfied. …

“I went over the case again minutely, and I came to the same conclusion
as before. If it was not Bella Duveen, the only other person who could
have committed the crime was Marthe Daubreuil. But I had not one single proof
against her!

“And then you showed me that letter from Mademoiselle Dulcie, and I saw a
chance of settling the matter once for all. The original dagger was stolen by
Dulcie Duveen and thrown into the sea—since, as she thought, it belonged
to her sister. But if, by any chance, it was not her sister’s,
but the one given by Jack to Marthe Daubreuil—why then, Bella
Duveen’s dagger would be still intact! I said no word to you, Hastings
(it was no time for romance) but I sought out Mademoiselle Dulcie, told her as
much as I deemed needful, and set her to search amongst the effects of her
sister. Imagine my elation, when she sought me out (according to my
instructions) as Miss Robinson with the precious souvenir in her possession!

“In the meantime I had taken steps to force Mademoiselle Marthe into the
open. By my orders, Mrs. Renauld repulsed her son, and declared her intention
of making a will on the morrow which should cut him off from ever enjoying even
a portion of his father’s fortune. It was a desperate step, but a
necessary one, and Madame Renauld was fully prepared to take the
risk—though unfortunately she also never thought of mentioning her change
of room. I suppose she took it for granted that I knew. All happened as I
thought. Marthe Daubreuil made a last bold bid for the Renauld
millions—and failed!”

“What absolutely bewilders me,” I said, “is how she ever got
into the house without our seeing her. It seems an absolute miracle. We left
her behind at the Villa Marguerite, we go straight to the Villa
Geneviève—and yet she is there before us!”

“Ah, but we did not leave her behind. She was out of the Villa Marguerite
by the back way whilst we were talking to her mother in the hall. That is
where, as the Americans say, she ‘put it over’ on Hercule
Poirot!”

“But the shadow on the blind? We saw it from the road.”

“Eh bien, when we looked up, Madame Daubreuil had just had time to
run upstairs and take her place.”

“Madame Daubreuil?”

“Yes. One is old, and one is young, one dark, and one fair, but, for the
purpose of a silhouette on a blind, their profiles are singularly alike. Even I
did not suspect—triple imbecile that I was! I thought I had plenty of
time before me—that she would not try to gain admission to the Villa
until much later. She had brains, that beautiful Mademoiselle Marthe.”

“And her object was to murder Mrs. Renauld?”

“Yes. The whole fortune would then pass to her son. But it would have
been suicide, mon ami! On the floor by Marthe Daubreuil’s body, I
found a pad and a little bottle of chloroform and a hypodermic syringe
containing a fatal dose of morphine. You understand? The chloroform
first—then when the victim is unconscious the prick of the needle. By the
morning the smell of the chloroform has quite disappeared, and the syringe lies
where it has fallen from Madame Renauld’s hand. What would he say, the
excellent M. Hautet? ‘Poor woman! What did I tell you? The shock of joy,
it was too much on top of the rest! Did I not say that I should not be
surprised if her brain became unhinged. Altogether a most tragic case, the
Renauld Case!’

“However, Hastings, things did not go quite as Mademoiselle Marthe had
planned. To begin with, Madame Renauld was awake and waiting for her. There is
a struggle. But Madame Renauld is terribly weak still. There is a last chance
for Marthe Daubreuil. The idea of suicide is at an end, but if she can silence
Madame Renauld with her strong hands, make a getaway with her little silk
ladder whilst we are still battering on the inside of the further door, and be
back at the Villa Marguerite before we return there, it will be hard to prove
anything against her. But she was checkmated—not by Hercule
Poirot—but by la petite acrobate with her wrists of steel.”

I mused over the whole story.

“When did you first begin to suspect Marthe Daubreuil, Poirot? When she
told us she had overheard the quarrel in the garden?”

Poirot smiled.

“My friend, do you remember when we drove into Merlinville that first
day? And the beautiful girl we saw standing at the gate? You asked me if I had
not noticed a young goddess, and I replied to you that I had seen only a girl
with anxious eyes. That is how I have thought of Marthe Daubreuil from the
beginning. The girl with the anxious eyes! Why was she anxious? Not on
Jack Renauld’s behalf, for she did not know then that he had been in
Merlinville the previous evening.”

“By the way,” I exclaimed, “how is Jack Renauld?”

“Much better. He is still at the Villa Marguerite. But Madame Daubreuil
has disappeared. The police are looking for her.”

“Was she in with her daughter, do you think?”

“We shall never know. Madame is a lady who can keep her secrets. And I
doubt very much if the police will ever find her.”

“Has Jack Renauld been—told?”

“Not yet.”

“It will be a terrible shock to him.”

“Naturally. And yet, do you know, Hastings, I doubt if his heart was ever
seriously engaged. So far we have looked upon Bella Duveen as a siren, and
Marthe Daubreuil as the girl he really loved. But I think that if we reversed
the terms we should come nearer to the truth. Marthe Daubreuil was very
beautiful. She set herself to fascinate Jack, and she succeeded, but remember
his curious reluctance to break with the other girl. And see how he was willing
to go to the guillotine rather than implicate her. I have a little idea that
when he learns the truth he will be horrified—revolted, and his false
love will wither away.”

“What about Giraud?”

“He has a crise of the nerves, that one! He has been obliged to
return to Paris.”

We both smiled.

Poirot proved a fairly true prophet. When at length the doctor pronounced Jack
Renauld strong enough to hear the truth, it was Poirot who broke it to him. The
shock was indeed terrific. Yet Jack rallied better than I could have supposed
possible. His mother’s devotion helped him to live through those
difficult days. The mother and son were inseparable now.

There was a further revelation to come. Poirot had acquainted Mrs. Renauld with
the fact that he knew her secret, and had represented to her that Jack should
not be left in ignorance of his father’s past.

“To hide the truth, never does it avail, madame! Be brave and tell him
everything.”

With a heavy heart Mrs. Renauld consented, and her son learned that the father
he had loved had been in actual fact a fugitive from justice. A halting
question was promptly answered by Poirot.

“Reassure yourself, M. Jack. The world knows nothing. As far as I can
see, there is no obligation for me to take the police into my confidence.
Throughout the case I have acted, not for them, but for your father. Justice
overtook him at last, but no one need ever know that he and Georges Conneau
were one and the same.”

There were, of course, various points in the case that remained puzzling to the
police, but Poirot explained things in so plausible a fashion that all query
about them was gradually stilled.

Shortly after we got back to London, I noticed a magnificent model of a
foxhound adorning Poirot’s mantelpiece. In answer to my inquiring glance,
Poirot nodded.

“Mais, oui! I got my 500 francs! Is he not a splendid fellow? I
call him Giraud!”

A few days later Jack Renauld came to see us with a resolute expression on his
face.

“M. Poirot, I’ve come to say good-bye. I’m sailing for South
America almost immediately. My father had large interests over the continent,
and I mean to start a new life out there.”

“You go alone, M. Jack?”

“My mother comes with me—and I shall keep Stonor on as my
secretary. He likes out of-the-way parts of the world.”

“No one else goes with you?”

Jack flushed.

“You mean—?”

“A girl who loves you very dearly—who has been willing to lay down
her life for you.”

“How could I ask her?” muttered the boy. “After all that has
happened, could I go to her and—oh, what sort of a lame story could I
tell?”

“Les femmes—they have a wonderful genius for manufacturing
crutches for stories like that.”

“Yes, but—I’ve been such a damned fool!”

“So have all of us, at one time and another,” observed Poirot
philosophically.

But Jack’s face had hardened.

“There’s something else. I’m my father’s son. Would any
one marry me, knowing that?”

“You are your father’s son, you say. Hastings here will tell you
that I believe in heredity—”

“Well, then—”

“Wait. I know a woman, a woman of courage and endurance, capable of great
love, of supreme self-sacrifice—”

The boy looked up. His eyes softened.

“My mother!”

“Yes. You are your mother’s son as well as your father’s. Go
then to Mademoiselle Bella. Tell her everything. Keep nothing back—and
see what she will say!”

Jack looked irresolute.

“Go to her as a boy no longer, but a man—a man bowed by the fate of
the Past, and the fate of Today, but looking forward to a new and wonderful
life. Ask her to share it with you. You may not realize it, but your love for
each other has been tested in the fire and not found wanting. You have both
been willing to lay down your lives for each other.”

And what of Captain Arthur Hastings, humble chronicler of these pages?

There is some talk of his joining the Renaulds on a ranch across the seas, but
for the end of this story I prefer to go back to a morning in the garden of the
Villa Geneviève.

“I can’t call you Bella,” I said, “since it isn’t
your name. And Dulcie seems so unfamiliar. So it’s got to be Cinderella.
Cinderella married the Prince, you remember. I’m not a Prince,
but—”

She interrupted me.

“Cinderella warned him, I’m sure! You see, she couldn’t
promise to turn into a princess. She was only a little scullion after
all—”

“It’s the Prince’s turn to interrupt,” I interpolated.
“Do you know what he said?”

“No?”

“ ‘Hell!’ said the Prince—and kissed her!”

And I suited the action to the word.