Chapter VII: Part 7

“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.