The cries for help were getting noticeably fainter. I saw despair in Poirot’s eyes. He and I together put our shoulders to the door.
Cinderella’s voice, calm and dispassionate, came from the window: ‘You’ll be too late. I guess I’m the only one who can do anything.’
Before I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap from the window into space. I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her hanging by her hands from the roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the direction of the lighted window.
‘Good heavens. She’ll be killed,’ I cried.
‘You forget. She’s a professional acrobat, Hastings. It was the providence of the good God that made her insist on coming with us tonight. I only pray that she may be in time. All!’
A cry of absolute terror floated out on to the night, as the girl disappeared through the window and then in Cinderella’s clear tones came the words: ‘No, you don’t! I’ve got you—and my wrists are just like steel.’
At the same moment the door of our prison was opened cautiously by Françoise. Poirot brushed her aside unceremoniously and rushed down the passage to where the other maids were grouped round the farther door.
‘It’s locked on the inside, monsieur.’
There was the sound of a heavy fall within. After a moment or two the key turned and the door swung slowly open. Cinderella, very pale, beckoned us in.
‘She is safe?’ demanded Poirot.
‘Yes, I was just in time. She was exhausted.’
Mrs. Renauld was half sitting, half lying on the bed. She was gasping for breath.
‘Nearly strangled me,’ she murmured painfully.
The girl picked up something from the floor and handed it to Poirot. It was a rolled-up ladder of silk rope, very fine but quite strong.
‘A getaway,’ said Poirot. ‘By the window, while we were battering at the door. Where is—the other?’
The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the ground lay a figure wrapped in some dark material, a fold of which hid the face.
‘Dead?’
She nodded. ‘I think so. Head must have struck the marble fender.’
‘But who is it?’ I cried.
‘The murderer of Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of Madame Renauld.’
Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down, and lifting the fold of cloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!
CHAPTER 28
JOURNEY’S END
[Garbled] confused memories of the further events of that night. Poirot seemed deaf to my repeated questions. He was engaged in overwhelming Françoise with reproaches for not having told him of Mrs. Renauld’s change of sleeping quarters.
I caught him by the shoulder, determined to attract his attention, and make myself heard.
‘But you must have known,’ I expostulated. ‘You were taken up to see her this afternoon.’
Poirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment. ‘She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room—her boudoir,’ he explained.
‘But, monsieur,’ cried Françoise, ‘Madame changed her room almost immediately after the crime: The associations they were too distressing!’
‘Then why was I not told?’ vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and working himself into a first-class passion. ‘I demand of you—why—was—I—not—told? You are an old woman completely imbecile! And Léonie and Denise are no better. All of you are triple idiots! Your stupidity has nearly caused the death of your mistress. But for this courageous child—’
He broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was bending over ministering to Mrs. Renauld, he embraced her with Gallic fervour—slightly to my annoyance.
I was aroused from my condition of mental fog by a sharp command from Poirot to fetch the doctor immediately on Mrs. Renauld’s behalf. After that, I might summon the police.
And he added to complete my dudgeon: ‘It will hardly be worth your while to return here. I shall be too busy to attend to you, and of Mademoiselle here I make a garde malade.’
I retired with what dignity I could command; Having done my errands, I returned to the hotel. I understood next to nothing of what had occurred. The events of the night seemed fantastic and impossible. Nobody would answer my questions. Nobody had seemed to hear them. Angrily, I flung myself into bed, and slept the sleep of the bewildered and utterly exhausted.