‘What is it?’
‘The hands of the watch point to seven o’clock!’
‘What?’ cried the examining magistrate, astonished.
But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.
‘The glass is broken, yes but the watch itself is still going.’
The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the magistrate bethought him of another point.
‘But surely it is not seven o’clock now?’
‘No,’ said Poirot gently, ‘it is a few minutes after five. Possibly the watch gains, is that so, madame?’
Mrs. Renauld was frowning perplexedly. ‘It does gain,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve never known it gain quite so much as that.’
With a gesture of impatience the magistrate left the matter of the watch and proceeded with his interrogatory.
‘Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you suggest any explanation?’
‘Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to latch it when he came in.’
‘Is that a likely thing to happen?’
‘Very. My husband was the most absentminded of men.’
There was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke as though this trait in the dead man’s character had at times vexed her.
‘There is one inference I think we might draw,’ remarked the commissary suddenly. ‘Since the men insisted on Monsieur Renauld dressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the place where “the secret” was concealed, lay some distance away.’
The magistrate nodded.
‘Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.’
‘What time does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?’ asked Poirot.
‘[unreadable] one way, and [unreadable] the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.
‘Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,’ continued the magistrate, brightening. ‘A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, Monsieur Bex.’
He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld: ‘There is another question. Do you know anyone of the name of “Duveen”?’
‘Duveen?’ Mrs. Renauld repeated thoughtfully. ‘No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.’
‘You have never heard your husband mention anyone of that name.’
‘Never.’
‘Do you know anyone whose Christian name is Bella?’
He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions.
‘Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?’
Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly: ‘No, who was that?’
‘A lady.’
‘Indeed?’
But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connexion with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary.
He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this he took the dagger.
‘Madame,’ he said gently, ‘do you recognize this?’
She gave a little cry. ‘Yes, that is my little dagger.’ Then she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror.
‘Is that—blood?’
‘Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.’ He removed it hastily from sight. ‘You are quite sure about it being the one that was on your dressing table last night?’
‘Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.’ There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice.
‘This was made from a streamline aeroplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.’
‘I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.’