Agatha Christie: The Collection

Chapter 27 – Jack Renauld’s Story

“Congratulations, Monsieur 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. 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 Grosier’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, Monsieur 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 two 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 —”

Poirot reassured him quickly.

“No, no, Monsieur 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 insistence, 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 Mr. 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!”

“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, Monsieur Poirot, but I will make my own wishes clear.”

We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning on 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 someone 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 de 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 hand 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. 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 sitting by a table with a lamp on it, working. 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, “Monsieur 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 Madame Renauld?”

“How should I know that, monsieur?”

“True,” said Poirot. “I thought you might have seen him coming or going, that is all. Goodnight, 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, while 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 —”

His words were interrupted by a long, thin drawn cry:

“Help!”

A light flashed up in the first-floor room on the right-hand side of the front door. 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.

“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 from the window 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 window, and 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 farther 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, while 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 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!

Chapter 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 crimes. 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 of 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-malade.”

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 on 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 someone who had contented themselves (very cleverly) with using Monsieur 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 Monsieur Renauld’s plans. That leads us to Mrs. Renauld. But facts fail to support any theory of her guilt. Is there anyone else who might have known of them? Yes. From Marthe Daubreuil’s own lips we have the admission that she overheard Mr. 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 Mr. 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! 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 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 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. 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 Renauld’s plans.

2. Marthe Daubreuil had a direct interest in causing 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 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 among 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, Madame 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 while 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 Monsieur Hautet? ‘Poor woman! What did I tell you? The shock ofjoy, 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 while we are still battering on the inside of the farther 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 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.”