Part 5

During this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the fork in the road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in another moment I realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the mysterious Madame Daubreuil, was the small house from which the beautiful girl had emerged.

“She has lived here for many years,” said the commissary, nodding his head towards the house. “Very quietly, very unobtrusively. She seems to have no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she has made in Merlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not even know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you comprehend.” I nodded, my interest growing.

“And—the daughter?” I ventured.

“A truly beautiful young girl—modest, devout, all that she should be. One pities her, for, though she may know nothing of the past, a man who wants to ask her hand in marriage must necessarily inform himself, and then—” The commissary shrugged his shoulders cynically.

“But it would not be her fault!” I cried, with rising indignation.

“No. But what will you? A man is particular about his wife’s antecedents.”

I was prevented from further argument by our arrival at the door. M. Hautet rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed, and then we heard a footfall within, and the door was opened. On the threshold stood my young goddess of that afternoon. When she saw us, the colour left her cheeks, leaving her deathly white, and her eyes widened with apprehension. There was no doubt about it, she was afraid!

“Mademoiselle Daubreuil,” said M. Hautet, sweeping off his hat, “we regret infinitely to disturb you, but the exigencies of the Law—you comprehend? My compliments to Madame your mother, and will she have the goodness to grant me a few moments’ interview.”

For a moment the girl stood motionless. Her left hand was pressed to her side, as though to still the sudden unconquerable agitation of her heart. But she mastered herself, and said in a low voice:

“I will go and see. Please come inside.”

She entered a room on the left of the hall, and we heard the low murmur of her voice. And then another voice, much the same in timbre, but with a slightly harder inflection behind its mellow roundness said:

“But certainly. Ask them to enter.”

In another minute we were face to face with the mysterious Madame Daubreuil.

She was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her figure had all the grace of full maturity. Her hair, again unlike her daughter’s, was dark, and parted in the middle in the madonna style. Her eyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. There was a dimple in the round chin, and the half parted lips seemed always to hover on the verge of a mysterious smile. There was something almost exaggeratedly feminine about her, at once yielding and seductive. Though very well preserved, she was certainly no longer young, but her charm was of the quality which is independent of age.

Standing there, in her black dress with the fresh white collar and cuffs, her hands clasped together, she looked subtly appealing and helpless.

“You wished to see me, monsieur?” she asked.

“Yes, madame.” M. Hautet cleared his throat. “I am investigating the death of M. Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?”

She bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change.

“We came to ask you whether you can—er—throw any light upon the circumstances surrounding it?”

“I?” The surprise of her tone was excellent.

“Yes, madame. It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you alone.” He looked meaningly in the direction of the girl.

Madame Daubreuil turned to her.

“Marthe, dear—”

But the girl shook her head.

“No, _maman___, I will not go. I am not a child. I am twenty-two. I shall not go.”

Madame Daubreuil turned back to the examining magistrate.

“You see, monsieur.”

“I should prefer not to speak before Mademoiselle Daubreuil.”

“As my daughter says, she is not a child.”

For a moment the magistrate hesitated, baffled.

“Very well, madame,” he said at last. “Have it your own way. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man at his Villa in the evenings. Is that so?”

The colour rose in the lady’s pale cheeks, but she replied quietly:

“I deny your right to ask me such a question!”

“Madame, we are investigating a murder.”

“Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder.”

“Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?”

“Never.”

“Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have made there?”

“No.”

“Then you can give us no help at all?”

“I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his wife tell you what you want to know?” Her voice held a slender inflection of irony.

“Madame 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 M. Renauld confided nothing in 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 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, M. Hautet.”

With mutual civilities, we parted company, Poirot and I going towards Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.

“The French police system is very marvellous,” said Poirot, looking after them. “The information they possess about every one’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 M. 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 M. 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 Amélie,” 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 girl hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked:

“Is—any one suspected?”

Poirot eyed her keenly.

Then he replied evasively:

“Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, I know—but—any one 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 recurred to me. The “girl with the anxious eyes!”

“M. 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 Chilians 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 run back now. _Maman___ 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. Any one might be excused for being bowled over by her.”

Poirot groaned.

“_Mon Dieu!___ But it is that you have the susceptible heart!”

“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember after the Styles Case when—”

“When you were in love with two charming women at once, and neither of them were for you? Yes, I remember.”

“You consoled me by saying that perhaps some day we should hunt together again, and that then—”

“_Eh bien?___”

“Well, we are hunting together again, and—” I paused, and laughed rather self-consciously.

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!”

“Why,” I cried, “the commissary assured me that she was as good as she is beautiful! A perfect angel!”

“Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,” remarked Poirot cheerfully. “A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a madonna.”

“Poirot,” I cried, horrified, “you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent child like this!”

“Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her. But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat unusual.”

“For once, I see further than you do,” I said. “Her anxiety is not for herself—but for her mother.”

“My friend,” said Poirot, “as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. _Sacré!___ if only I could remember where I had seen that face!”

“What face?” I asked, surprised. “The daughter’s?”

“No. The mother’s.”

Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically.

“But yes—it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. I rather fancy—”

“Yes?”

“I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!”

8 An Unexpected Meeting

We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.

Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.

Léonie shook her head.

“She is terribly upset, _la pauvre dame!___ She will eat nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, _par exemple___, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman!”

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

“What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?”

Again Léonie shook her head.

“Never, monsieur. Never have I heard Madame utter a word of protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to Monsieur.”

“Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”

“Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—_ma foi!___ they might have been heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!”

“Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?”

“Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!”

Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.

“And the dispute, what was it about?”

“Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!”

The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.

“And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”

“One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”

“They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder.”

“_Quelle idée___,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.

“You will go out and join them?”

“No, I shall await their return in the _salon___. It is cool there on this hot morning.”

This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.

“If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.

“Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?”

“Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”

“The human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au revoir.”

I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so further to the right. If Giraud were still on the spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he knew of my presence. But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.

She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!

The surprise was mutual.

“You,” we both exclaimed simultaneously.

The young lady recovered herself first.

“My only Aunt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“For the matter of that, what are you?” I retorted.

“When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home to England like a good little boy. Have they given you a season ticket to and fro, on the strength of your M.P.?”

I ignored the end of the speech.

“When last I saw you,” I said, “you were trotting home with your sister, like a good little girl. By the way, how is your sister?”

A flash of white teeth rewarded me.

“How kind of you to ask! My sister is well, I thank you.”

“She is here with you?”

“She remained in town,” said the minx with dignity.

“I don’t believe you’ve got a sister,” I laughed. “If you have, her name is Harris!”

“Do you remember mine?” she asked, with a smile.

“Cinderella. But you’re going to tell me the real one now, aren’t you?”

She shook her head with a wicked look.

“Not even why you’re here?”

“Oh, that! I suppose you’ve heard of members of my profession ‘resting.’”

“At expensive French watering-places?”

“Dirt cheap if you know where to go.”

I eyed her keenly.

“Still, you’d no intention of coming here when I met you two days ago?”

“We all have our disappointments,” said Miss Cinderella sententiously. “There now, I’ve told you quite as much as is good for you. Little boys should not be inquisitive. You’ve not yet told me what you’re doing here? Got the M.P. in tow, I suppose, doing the gay boy on the beach.”

I shook my head. “Guess again. You remember my telling you that my great friend was a detective?”

“Yes?”

“And perhaps you’ve heard about this crime—at the Villa Geneviève—?”

She stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.

“You don’t mean—that you’re in on _that?___”

I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as she regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds, she remained silent, staring at me. Then she nodded her head emphatically.

“Well, if that doesn’t beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see all the horrors.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. Bless the boy, didn’t I tell you I doted on crimes? What do you think I’m imperilling my ankles for in high-heeled shoes over this stubble? I’ve been nosing round for hours. Tried the front way in, but that old stick-in-the-mud of a French gendarme wasn’t taking any. I guess Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra, and Mary, Queen of Scots, rolled in one wouldn’t cut ice with him! It’s a real piece of luck happening on you this way. Come on, show me all the sights.”

“But look here—wait a minute—I can’t. Nobody’s allowed in. They’re awfully strict.”

“Aren’t you and your friend the big bugs?”

I was loath to relinquish my position of importance.

“Why are you so keen?” I asked weakly. “And what is it you want to see.”

“Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the body, and any finger-prints or interesting things like that. I’ve never had a chance of being right in on a murder like this before. It’ll last me all my life?”

I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The girl’s ghoulish excitement nauseated me. I had read of the mobs of women who besieged the law courts when some wretched man was being tried for his life on the capital charge. I had sometimes wondered who these women were. Now I knew. They were of the likeness of Cinderella, young, yet obsessed with a yearning for morbid excitement, for sensation at any price, without regard to any decency or good feeling. The vividness of the girl’s beauty had attracted me in spite of myself, yet at heart I retained my first impression of disapproval and dislike. I thought of my mother, long since dead. What would she have said of this strange modern product of girlhood? The pretty face with the paint and powder, and the ghoulish mind behind!

“Come off your high horse,” said the lady suddenly. “And don’t give yourself airs. When you got called to this job, did you put your nose in the air and say it was a nasty business, and you wouldn’t be mixed up in it?”

“No, but—”

“If you’d been here on a holiday, wouldn’t you be nosing round just the same as I am? Of course you would.”

“I’m a man. You’re a woman.”

“Your idea of a woman is some one who gets on a chair and shrieks if she sees a mouse. That’s all prehistoric. But you _will___ show me round, won’t you? You see, it might make a big difference to me.”

“In what way?”

“They’re keeping all the reporters out. I might make a big scoop with one of the papers. You don’t know how much they pay for a bit of inside stuff.”

I hesitated. She slipped a small soft hand into mine.

“_Please___—there’s a dear.”

I capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of showman. After all, the moral attitude displayed by the girl was none of my business. I was a little nervous as to what the examining magistrate might say, but I reassured myself by the reflection that no harm could possibly be done.

We repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A man was on guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight, and raised no question as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as vouched for by me. I explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had been made, and she listened attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent question. Then we turned our steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded rather cautiously, for, truth to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet any one. I took the girl through the shrubbery round to the back of the house where the small shed was. I recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the door, M. Bex had left the key with the _sergent de ville___ Marchaud, “in case M. Giraud should require it while we are upstairs.” I thought it quite likely that the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud again. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house. Marchaud was on duty outside the door of the _salon___. From within came the murmur of voices.

“Monsieur desires Hautet? He is within. He is again interrogating Françoise.”

“No,” I said hastily, “I don’t want him. But I should very much like the key of the shed outside if it is not against regulations.”

“But certainly, monsieur.” He produced it. “Here it is. M. le juge gave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You will return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.”

“Of course.”

I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud’s eyes, at least, I ranked equally in importance with Poirot. The girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she saw the key in my hand.

“You’ve got it then?”

“Of course,” I said coolly. “All the same, you know, what I’m doing is highly irregular.”

“You’ve been a perfect duck, and I shan’t forget it. Come along. They can’t see us from the house, can they?”

“Wait a minute.” I arrested her eager advance. “I won’t stop you if you really wish to go in. But do you? You’ve seen the grave, and the grounds, and you’ve heard all the details of the affair. Isn’t that enough for you? This is going to be gruesome, you know, and—unpleasant.”

She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite fathom. Then she laughed.

“Me for the horrors,” she said. “Come along.”