‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘A woman’s hair? What woman’s, I wonder?’
‘I wonder also,’ said Giraud. Then with a bow he left us.
‘He was insistent the good Giraud,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked towards the hotel. ‘I wonder in what direction he hopes to mislead me? A woman’s hair—hm!’
We lunched heartily, but I found Poirot somewhat distracted and inattentive. Afterwards we went up to our sitting room and there I begged him to tell me something of his mysterious journey to Paris.
‘Willingly, my friend. I went to Paris to find this,’ and he took from his pocket a small faded newspaper cutting.
It was the reproduction of a woman’s photograph, He handed it to me. I uttered an exclamation.
‘You recognize it my friend?’
I nodded. Although the photo obviously dated from very many years hack, and the hair was dressed in a different style, the likeness was unmistakable.
‘Madame Daubreuil!’ I exclaimed.
Poirot shook his head with a smile. ‘Not quite correct my friend. She did not call herself by that name in those days. That is a picture of the notorious Madame Beroldy!’
Madame Beroldy! In a flash the whole thing came back to me. The murder trial that had evoked such worldwide interest.
The Beroldy Case.
CHAPTER 16
THE BEROLDY CASE
SOME twenty years or so before the opening of the present story, Monsieur Arnold Beroldy, a native of Lyons, arrived in Paris accompanied by his pretty wife and their little daughter, a mere babe. Monsieur Beroldy was a junior partner in a firm of wine merchants, a stout middle-aged man, fond of the good things of life, devoted to his charming wife, and altogether unremarkable in every way. The firm in which Monsieur Beroldy was a partner was a small one and, although doing well, it did not yield a large income to the junior partner. The Beroldys had a small apartment and lived in a very modest fashion to begin with. But, unremarkable though Monsieur Beroldy might be, his wife was plentifully gilded with the brush of Romance.
Young and good-looking, and gifted with a singular charm of manner, Madame Beroldy at once created a stir in the quarter, especially when it began to be whispered that some interesting mystery surrounded her birth. It was rumoured that she was the illegitimate daughter of a Russian Grand Duke. Others asserted that it was an Austrian Archduke, and that the union was legal, though morganatic. But all stories agreed upon one point, that Jeanne Beroldy was the centre of an interesting mystery.
Among the friends and acquaintances of the Beroldys was a young lawyer, Georges Conneau. It was soon evident that the fascinating Jeanne had completely enslaved his heart. Madame Beroldy encouraged the young man in a discreet fashion, but always being careful to affirm her complete devotion to her middle-aged husband. Nevertheless many spiteful persons did not hesitate to declare that young Conneau was her lover—and not the only one!
When the Beroldys had been in Paris about three months another personage came upon the scene. This was Mr. Hiram P. Trapp, a native of the United States, and extremely wealthy. Introduced to the charming and mysterious Madame Beroldy, he fell a prompt victim to her fascinations. His admiration was obvious, though strictly respectful.
About this time, Madame Beroldy became more outspoken in her confidences. To several friends, she declared herself greatly worried on her husband’s behalf. She explained that he had been drawn into several schemes of a political nature, and also referred, to some important papers that had been entrusted to him for safekeeping and which concerned a ‘secret’ of far-reaching European importance.
They had been entrusted to his custody to throw pursuers off the track, but Madame Beroldy was nervous, having recognized several important members of the Revolutionary Circle in Paris.
On the 28th day of November the blow fell. The woman who came daily to clean and cook for the Beroldys was surprised to find the door of the apartment standing wide open.
Hearing faint moans issuing from the bedroom, she went in.
A terrible sight met her eyes. Madame Beroldy lay on the floor bound hand and foot, uttering feeble moans, having managed to free her mouth from a gag. On the bed was Monsieur Beroldy, lying in a pool of blood, with a knife driven through his heart.