Poirot shook his head.
‘If—I say if, you note—Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, he had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she has been cold-blooded and calculating in her motives and actions. It was not to link her life with that of her young lover that she connived at her husband’s murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective.’
‘If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That was a man’s work.’
‘She might have had an accomplice,’ I suggested, unwilling to relinquish my belief.
‘I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?’
I stared at him in astonishment.
‘Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked men, the “secret” the papers!’
Poirot smiled a little. ‘Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale—if it were, all would indeed be plain sailing—it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?’
‘I can’t believe that,’ I said slowly. ‘If she is, she must be the most consummate actress the world has ever known.’
‘Ta-ta-ta!’ said Poirot impatiently. ‘Again you have the sentiment and not the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Mrs. Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons,
[missing]
night of the crime. I had hoped to catch ay astute little friend napping, but as usual he was omniscient, he, too had inquired at the station.
‘And without doubt we are not original in the idea Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made the same inquiries.’
‘You don’t think—’ I said and then stopped. ‘Ah no, it would be too horrible!’
Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me that though there were seven men, directly and indirectly connected with the case—Mrs. Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor and the three servants—there was, with the exception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man—Jack Renauld.
I had no time to develop farther the appalling idea that had occurred to me, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.
Poirot greeted him in a businesslike manner.
‘Take a seat monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the villa is not too congenial to me. Monsieur Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me has not been striking, and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.’
‘Exactly, Monsieur Poirot,’ said the lad. ‘That fellow Giraud is an unconditioned brute, and I’d be delighted to see someone score at his expense.’
‘Then I may ask a little favour of you?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask at the cloakroom whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder, it is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?’
‘Of course I will.’ said the boy mystified though ready for the task.
‘I and my friend you comprehend have business elsewhere,’ explained Poirot. ‘There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to return to the villa as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your errand.’