He rose briskly to his feet.
“We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all dispatch. 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, I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know, and 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 Aires. 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.
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, Monsieur Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella Duveen.”
“Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for a 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 tonight? 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?”