‘She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there is slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he will have to wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a week.’
Denise and Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head down, frowning thoughtfully. For some time I did not speak, but at last I ventured to put a question to him: ‘Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that Jack Renauld may not be guilty?’
Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely: ‘I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud is all wrong—wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it is in spite of Giraud’s arguments, not because of them. And the gravest indictment against him is known only to me.’
‘What is that?’ I asked, impressed.
‘If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I do, you too would perceive it, my friend.’
This was what I called one of Poirot’s irritating answers.
He went on, without waiting for me to speak: ‘Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there, overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know, but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts—not by my leading you by the hand.’
We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested, looking out to sea.
‘That is all, my friend,’ said Poirot’s voice encouragingly. ‘Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.’
I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of the case. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot into my brain. Tremblingly I built up my hypothesis.
‘You have a little idea, I see, mon ami. Capital. We proceed.’
I sat up, and lit a pipe. ‘Poirot,’ I said, ‘it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say we—although I dare say I would be nearer the mark. But you must pay the penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been strangely remiss. There is someone we have forgotten.’
‘And who is that?’ inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.
‘Georges Conneau!’
CHAPTER 20
AN AMAZING STATEMENT
The next moment Poirot embraced me warmly on the cheek.
‘Enfin! You have arrived! And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue your reasoning. You are right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget Georges Conneau.’
I was so flattered by the little man’s approval that I could hardly continue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on.
‘Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason to believe that he is dead.’
‘Exactement,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Proceed.’
‘Therefore we will assume that he is alive.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Or that he was alive until recently.’
‘De mieux en mieux!’
‘We will presume,’ I continued, my enthusiasm rising, ‘that he has fallen on evil days. He has become a criminal, an apache, a tramp—a what you will. He chances to come to Merlinville. There he finds the woman he has never ceased to love.’
‘Eh! The sentimentality,’ warned Poirot.
‘Where one hates one also loves,’ I quoted or misquoted. ‘At any rate he finds her there, living under an assumed name. But she has a new lover, the Englishman, Renauld. Georges Conneau, the memory of old wrongs rising in him, quarrels with this Renauld. He lies in wait for him as he comes to visit his mistress, and stabs him in the back. Then, terrified at what he has done, he starts to dig a grave. I imagine it likely that Madame Daubreuil comes out to look for her lover. She and Conneau have a terrible scene. He drags her into the shed, and there suddenly falls down in an epileptic fit. Now supposing Jack Renauld to appear. Madame Daubreuil tells him all, points out to him the dreadful consequences to her daughter if this scandal of the past is revived.’