‘Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest enemy!’
And slowly painfully she retraced her way upstairs.
We were all dumbfounded—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.
‘He is overdone,’ murmured Poirot to Marthe. ‘Where can we take him?’
‘But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him my mother and I. My poor Jack!’
We got the lad to the Villa where he dropped limply onto a chair in a semi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands.
‘He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top of it. Get him to bed and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.’
A doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as his opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and quiet the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there was a chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for someone to sit up all night with him.
Finally, having done all we could we left him in the charge of Marthe and her mother, and set out for the town.
It was past our usual hour of dining, and we were both famished.
The first restaurant we came to assuaged the pangs of hunger with an excellent omelette and an equally excellent entrée to follow.
‘And now for quarters for the night.’ Said Poirot, when at length we had completed the meal. ‘Shall we try our old friend, the Hotel des Bains?’
We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be accommodated with two good rooms overlooking the sea. Then Poirot asked a question which surprised me: ‘Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?’
‘Yes, monsieur. She is in the little salon.’
‘Ah!’
‘Poirot,’ I cried, keeping pace with him, as he walked along the corridor, ‘who on earth is Miss Robinson?’
Poirot beamed kindly on me. ‘It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.’
‘But I say—’
‘Bah!’ said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the door. ‘Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of Duveen?’
It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hand in both of mine. My eyes said the rest.
Poirot cleared his throat.
‘Mes enfants,’ he said, ‘for the moment we have no time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked you?’
In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in paper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start—for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the sea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most compromising of objects and documents!
‘Tres bien, mon enfant,’ said Poirot. ‘I am pleased with you. Go now and rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him tomorrow.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked the girl, her eyes widening.
‘You shall hear all about it tomorrow.’
‘Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.’
‘But, mademoiselle—’
‘I’m coming too, I tell you.’
Poirot realized that it was futile to argue. He gave in. ‘Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability nothing will happen.’
The girl made no reply.
Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close oppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of the Villa Genevieve. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused.