‘To tell you the truth, Poirot,’ I said slowly, ‘even now I don’t quite see—whose hair was it?’
‘Madame Renauld’s, of course. That is where la mauvaise chance came in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as easily have been a grey hair—and then, by no conceivable effort could Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But it is all of a piece; Always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory!’
‘Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Aurora? Quelle femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only made one slip. On his unexpected return: “It does not matter—now.” And no one noticed—no one realized the significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how resolutely she has played her part and how the anguish of it must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her son’s sake no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame Daubreuil was her husband’s mistress—for a hint of blackmail might be fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt will the examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband’s past life. “Nothing so romantic, I am sure, monsieur.” It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the soupcon of sad mockery. At once Monsieur Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally?’
Poirot lost himself in contemplation.
‘One thing more Poirot. What about the piece of lead-piping?’
‘You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be unrecognisable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two inches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur Renauld? Someone who was near the villa just before twelve o’clock that night someone who would benefit by his death—the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!’
I started, I had not realized that point. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Mrs. Renauld’s dagger was the second one we found in the tramp. There were two, then?’
‘Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I had a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological—heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.’
His tone was grave and earnest and I was impressed in spite of myself.
‘What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?’ I asked.
For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked: ‘What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?’
‘About five, I believe.’
‘That will do very well. We shall just have time.’
‘You are going to England?’
‘Yes, my friend.’
‘Why?’
‘To find a possible witness.’
‘Who?’
With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied: ‘Miss Bella Duveen.’
‘But how will you find her—what do you know about her?’
‘I know nothing about her—but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen and since that name was faintly familiar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connexion with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur Renauld’s attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all right—especially with the help—’ And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld’s drawer. ‘With love from Bella’ was scrawled across the corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first rate—but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.