‘Mrs. Renauld has told us all she can.’
‘Ah!’ said Madame Daubreuil. ‘I wonder—’
‘You wonder what madame?’
‘Nothing.’
The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.
‘You persist in your statement that Monsieur Renauld confided nothing to you?’
‘Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?’
‘Because, madame,’ said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality, ‘a man tells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his wife.’
‘Ah!’ She sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. ‘Monsieur, you insult me! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to leave my house!’
The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa Marguerite like a shamefaced pack of schoolboys.
The magistrate muttered angry ejaculations to himself.
Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he came out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a good hotel near at hand.
‘There is a small place, the Hotel des Bains, on this side of the town. A few hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations. We shall see you in the morning, then, I presume?’
‘Yes, I thank you, Monsieur Hautet.’
With mutual civilities we parted company, Poirot and I going towards Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Genevieve.
‘The French police system is very marvellous,’ said Poirot, looking after them. ‘The information they possess about everyone’s life, down to the most commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with Monsieur Renauld’s tastes and pursuits, and at a moment’s notice they can produce information as to Madame Daubreuil’s banking account, and the sums that have lately been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is that?’ He turned sharply.
A figure was running hatless down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. ‘I—I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that Monsieur Renauld called in a detective before he died, and—and that you are he?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot gently. ‘It is quite true. But how did you learn it?’
‘Françoise told our Amelie,’ Explained Marthe with a blush.
Poirot made a grimace. ‘The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?’
The gift hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked: ‘Is—anyone suspected?’
Poiret eyed her keenly. Then he replied evasively: ‘Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.’
‘Yes, I know—but—anyone in particular?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot’s words about her earlier in the day occurred to me. The ‘girl with the anxious eyes’.
‘Monsieur Renauld was always very kind to me,’ she replied at last. ‘It is natural that I should be interested.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering round two persons.’
‘Two?’
I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.
‘Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chileans from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!’
The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.
‘I must go back now. Mama will miss me.’
And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I stared after her.
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, ‘is it that we are to remain planted here all night—just because you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl.’
I laughed and apologized.
‘But she is beautiful, Poirot. Anyone might be excused for being bowled over by her.’
But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly. ‘Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!’