I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.
“You say that Monsieur 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 goodnight, and shut the door after her.”
“What time was that?”
“About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.”
“Do you know when Monsieur Renauld went to bed?”
“I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so that one hears everyone 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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur Renauld in quite good French, but the accent—however slight one can always tell it. 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—but 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 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 Monsieur and Madame Renauld. “You see, Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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, Monsieur Bex, but without doubt Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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?”
Four
THE LETTER SIGNED “BELLA”
Françoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully on the table.
“Monsieur 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 Monsieur Poirot of that.” He searched among the papers on the table, and finally handed the one he was in search of to my friend. “This letter, Monsieur Poirot, we found in the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat.”
Poirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumpled, 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—?”
The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“Obviously Monsieur 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. Monsieur Poirot, at first sight the case seemed simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur Renauld, who had 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—”