Part 8

The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I was right. Mrs. Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if not the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very powerful considerations must keep her silent.

“You think profoundly, my friend,” remarked Poirot, breaking in upon my reflections. “What is it that intrigues you so?”

I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would ridicule my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.

“You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring, at least of conniving at the crime.”

“You suspected _her?___” I cried.

“But certainly! She benefits enormously—in fact, by this new will, she is the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of examining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that she had gagged and bound herself. _Eh bien___, I saw at once that there was no fake, the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut into the flesh. That ruled out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed. But it was still possible for her to have connived at it, or to have been the instigator with an accomplice. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was singularly familiar to me—the masked men that she could not recognize, the mention of ‘the secret’—I had heard, or read, all these things before. Another little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the truth. _The wrist watch, Hastings, the wrist watch!___”

Again that wrist watch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.

“You see, _mon ami?___ You comprehend?”

“No,” I replied with some ill humour. “I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries, and it’s useless asking you to explain. You always like keeping everything up your sleeve to the last minute.”

“Do not enrage yourself, my friend,” said Poirot with a smile. “I will explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, _c’est entendu?___ He treats me as an old one of no importance! _We shall see!___ In common fairness I gave him a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that is his own look out.”

I assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion.

“_C’est bien!___ Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell me, my friend, at what time, according to you, did the tragedy take place?”

“Why, at two o’clock or thereabouts,” I said, astonished. “You remember, Mrs. Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while the men were in the room.”

“Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate, Bex, and every one else, accept the time without further question. But I, Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. _The crime took place at least two hours earlier.___”

“But the doctors—”

“They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously. _Mon ami___, for some reason, it was imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Mrs. Renauld’s testimony alone, some one moved on the hands of that wrist watch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying: secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time.”

“But what reason could there be?”

“Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connection.”

“And that is?”

“The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.”

I followed it out slowly.

“So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, any one leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!”

“Perfect, Hastings! You have it!”

I sprang up.

“But we must inquire at the station. Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!”

“You think so, Hastings?”

“Of course. Let us go there now.”

Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.

“Go by all means if you wish, _mon ami___—but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners.”

I stared, and he said rather impatiently:

“Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of _cette histoire-là!___”

His words took me so much aback that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on serenely:

“You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? _Eh bien___, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read of a _cause célèbre___ unconsciously remained in our assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after—” he broke off.

I was revolving sundry matters in my mind.

“But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago?”

“Undoubtedly there was a secret in M. Renauld’s life—there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring, dragged continually across the track to put us off the scent. It is possible that it was used in the same way on M. Renauld, to keep him from directing his suspicions into a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured, Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at hand, in France.”

He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be convinced. But I essayed one final objection:

“And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them.”

A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot’s face.

“Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his stomach. ‘See what I have found,’ he says. And then again to me: ‘What do you see here?’ Me, I answer, with profound and deep truth, ‘Nothing.’ And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself, ‘Oh, that he is imbecile, this old one!’ _But we shall see.…___”

But my mind had reverted to the main facts.

“Then all this story of the masked men—?”

“Is false.”

“What really happened?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“One person could tell us—Madame Renauld. But she will not speak. Threats and entreaties would not move her. A remarkable woman that, Hastings. I recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman of unusual character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of being concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.”

“What made you do that?”

“Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband’s body. I could swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully, “one cannot mistake these things.”

“I beg your pardon, my friend—one can always be mistaken. Regard a great actress, does not her acting of grief carry you away and impress you with its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I needed other evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great criminal can be a great actor. I base my certainty in this case, not upon my own impression, but upon the undeniable fact that Mrs. Renauld actually fainted. I turned up her eyelids and felt her pulse. There was no deception—the swoon was genuine. Therefore I was satisfied that her anguish was real and not assumed. Besides, a small additional point not without interest, it was unnecessary for Mrs. Renauld to exhibit unrestrained grief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of her husband’s death, and there would be no need for her to simulate another such a violent one on beholding his body. No, Mrs. Renauld was not her husband’s murderess. But why has she lied? She lied about the wrist watch, she lied about the masked men—she lied about a third thing. Tell me, Hastings, what is your explanation of the open door?”

“Well,” I said, rather embarrassed, “I suppose it was an oversight. They forgot to shut it.”

Poirot shook his head, and sighed.

“That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a meaning behind that open door which for a moment I cannot fathom.”

“I have an idea,” I cried suddenly.

“_A la bonne heure!___ Let us hear it.”

“Listen. We are agreed that Mrs. Renauld’s story is a fabrication. Is it not possible, then, that Mr. Renauld left the house to keep an appointment—possibly with the murderer—leaving the front door open for his return. But he did not return, and the next morning he is found, stabbed in the back.”

“An admirable theory, Hastings, but for two facts which you have characteristically overlooked. In the first place, who gagged and bound Madame Renauld? And why on earth should they return to the house to do so? In the second place, no man on earth would go out to keep an appointment wearing his underclothes and an overcoat. There are circumstances in which a man might wear pajamas and an overcoat—but the other, never!”

“True,” I said, rather crest-fallen.

“No,” continued Poirot, “we must look elsewhere for a solution of the open door mystery. One thing I am fairly sure of—they did not leave through the door. They left by the window.”

“What?”

“Precisely.”

“But there were no footmarks in the flower bed underneath.”

“No—_and there ought to have been.___ Listen, Hastings. The gardener, Auguste, as you heard him say, planted both those beds the preceding afternoon. In the one there are plentiful impressions of his big hobnailed boots—in the other, _none!___ You see? Some one had passed that way, some one who, to obliterate their footprints, smoothed over the surface of the bed with a rake.”

“Where did they get a rake?”

“Where they got the spade and the gardening gloves,” said Poirot impatiently. “There is no difficulty about that.”

“What makes you think that they left that way, though? Surely it is more probable that they entered by the window, and left by the door.”

“That is possible of course. Yet I have a strong idea that they left by the window.”

“I think you are wrong.”

“Perhaps, _mon ami___.”

I mused, thinking over the new field of conjecture that Poirot’s deductions had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic allusions to the flower bed and the wrist watch. His remarks had seemed so meaningless at the moment and now, for the first time, I realized how remarkably, from a few slight incidents, he had unravelled much of the mystery that surrounded the case. I paid a belated homage to my friend. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded sagely.

“Method, you comprehend! Method! Arrange your facts. Arrange your ideas. And if some little fact will not fit in—do not reject it but consider it closely. Though its significance escapes you, be sure that it is significant.”

“In the meantime,” I said, considering, “although we know a great deal more than we did, we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who killed Mr. Renauld.”

“No,” said Poirot cheerfully. “In fact we are a great deal further off.”

The fact seemed to afford him such peculiar satisfaction that I gazed at him in wonder. He met my eye and smiled.

“But yes, it is better so. Before, there was at all events a clear theory as to how and by whose hands he met his death. Now that is all gone. We are in darkness. A hundred conflicting points confuse and worry us. That is well. That is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth order. But if you find order to start with, if a crime seems simple and above-board, _eh bien, méfiez vous!___ It is, how do you say it?—_cooked!___ The great criminal is simple—but very few criminals _are___ great. In trying to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, _mon ami___, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.”

But I had not followed his words. A light had burst upon me.

“Poirot! Mrs. Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.”

From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could see that the idea had already occurred to him.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Shielding some one—or screening some one. One of the two.”

I saw very little difference between the two words, but I developed my theme with a good deal of earnestness. Poirot maintained a strictly non-committal attitude, repeating:

“It may be—yes, it may be. But as yet I do not know! There is something very deep underneath all this. You will see. Something very deep.”

Then, as we entered our hotel, he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.

13 The Girl with the Anxious Eyes

We lunched with an excellent appetite. I understood well enough that Poirot did not wish to discuss the tragedy where we could so easily be overheard. But, as is usual when one topic fills the mind to the exclusion of everything else, no other subject of interest seemed to present itself. For a while we ate in silence, and then Poirot observed maliciously:

“_Eh bien!___ And your indiscretions! You recount them not?”

I felt myself blushing.

“Oh, you mean this morning?” I endeavoured to adopt a tone of absolute nonchalance.

But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.

“_Tiens!___ A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming young lady?”

I had to confess that I did not know.

“Still more romantic! The first _rencontre___ in the train from Paris, the second here. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, is not that the saying?”

“Don’t be an ass, Poirot.”

“Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle—Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should establish a harem!”

“It’s all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely—I don’t mind admitting it. The other’s nothing—don’t suppose I shall ever see her again. She was quite amusing to talk to just for a railway journey, but she’s not the kind of girl I should ever get keen on.”

“Why?”

“Well—it sounds snobbish perhaps—but she’s not a lady, not in any sense of the word.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. There was less raillery in his voice as he asked:

“You believe, then, in birth and breeding?”

“I may be old-fashioned, but I certainly don’t believe in marrying out of one’s class. It never answers.”

“I agree with you, _mon ami___. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is as you say. But there is always the hundredth time! Still, that does not arise, as you do not propose to see the lady again.”

His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness with which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, writ large in letters of fire, I saw the words “Hôtel du Phare,” and I heard again her voice saying “Come and look me up” and my own answering with _empressement___: “I will.”

Well, what of it? I had meant to go at the time. But since then, I had had time to reflect. I did not like the girl. Thinking it over in cold blood, I came definitely to the conclusion that I disliked her intensely. I had got hauled over the coals for foolishly gratifying her morbid curiosity, and I had not the least wish to see her again.

I answered Poirot lightly enough.

“She asked me to look her up, but of course I shan’t.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Well—I don’t want to.”

“I see.” He studied me attentively for some minutes. “Yes. I see very well. And you are wise. Stick to what you have said.”

“That seems to be your invariable advice,” I remarked, rather piqued.

“Ah, my friend, have faith in Papa Poirot. Some day, if you permit, I will arrange you a marriage of great suitability.”

“Thank you,” I said laughing, “but the prospect leaves me cold.”

Poirot sighed and shook his head.

“_Les Anglais!___” he murmured. “No method—absolutely none whatever. They leave all to chance!” He frowned, and altered the position of the salt cellar.

“Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d’Angleterre you told me, did you not?”

“No. Hôtel du Phare.”

“True, I forgot.”

A moment’s misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never mentioned any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him, and felt reassured. He was cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his task. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.

We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny cigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket.

“The train to Paris leaves at 2:25,” he observed. “I should be starting.”

“Paris?” I cried.

“That is what I said, _mon ami___.”

“You are going to Paris? But why?”

He replied very seriously.

“To look for the murderer of M. Renauld.”

“You think he is in Paris?”

“I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must look for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good time. Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long. In all probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should accompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the society of M. Renauld _fils___. And thirdly, if you wish, endeavour to cut him out with Mademoiselle Marthe. But I fear you will not have great success.”

I did not quite relish the last remark.

“That reminds me,” I said. “I meant to ask you how you knew about those two?”

“_Mon ami___—I know human nature. Throw together a boy young Renauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe, and the result is almost inevitable. Then, the quarrel! It was money or a woman and, remembering Léonie’s description of the lad’s anger, I decided on the latter. So I made my guess—and I was right.”

“And that was why you warned me against setting my heart on the lady? You already suspected that she loved young Renauld?”

Poirot smiled.

“At any rate—_I saw that she had anxious eyes.___ That is how always think of Mademoiselle Daubreuil _as the girl with the anxious eyes.…___”

His voice was so grave that it impressed me uncomfortably.

“What do you mean by that, Poirot?”

“I fancy, my friend, that we shall see before very long. But I must start.”

“You’ve oceans of time.”

“Perhaps—perhaps. But I like plenty of leisure at the station. I do not wish to rush, to hurry, to excite myself.”

“At all events,” I said, rising, “I will come and see you off.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. I forbid it.”

He was so peremptory that I stared at him in surprise. He nodded emphatically.

“I mean it, _mon ami___. Au revoir! You permit that I embrace you? Ah, no, I forget that it is not the English custom. Une poignee de main, alors.”

I felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down the beach, and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join them. I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself amongst them in some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled aimlessly along the sands towards the further end of the town. It occurred to me that, after all, it would only be decent feeling on my part to inquire after the girl. And it would save trouble in the end. The matter would then be finished with. There would be no need for me to trouble about her any further. But, if I did not go at all, she might quite possibly come and look me up at the Villa. And that would be annoying in every way. Decidedly it would be better to pay a short call, in the course of which I could make it quite clear that I could do nothing further for her in my capacity of showman.

Accordingly I left the beach, and walked inland. I soon found the Hôtel du Phare, a very unpretentious building. It was annoying in the extreme not to know the lady’s name and, to save my dignity, I decided to stroll inside and look around. Probably I should find her in the lounge. Merlinville was a small place, you left your hotel to go to the beach, and you left the beach to return to the hotel. There were no other attractions. There was a Casino being built, but it was not yet completed.

I had walked the length of the beach without seeing her, therefore she must be in the hotel. I went in. Several people were sitting in the tiny lounge, but my quarry was not amongst them. I looked into some other rooms, but there was no sign of her. I waited for some time, till my impatience got the better of me. I took the concierge aside, and slipped five francs into his hand.

“I wish to see a lady who is staying here. A young English lady, small and dark. I am not sure of her name.”

The man shook his head, and seemed to be suppressing a grin.

“There is no such lady as you describe staying here.”

“She is American possibly,” I suggested. These fellows are so stupid.

But the man continued to shake his head.

“No, monsieur. There are only six or seven English and American ladies altogether, and they are all much older than the lady you are seeking. It is not here that you will find her, monsieur.”

He was so positive that I felt doubts.

“But the lady told me she was staying here.”

“Monsieur must have made a mistake—or it is more likely the lady did, since there has been another gentleman here inquiring for her.”

“What is that you say?” I cried, surprised.

“But yes, monsieur. A gentleman who described her just as you have done.”

“What was he like?”

“He was a small gentleman, well dressed, very neat, very spotless, the moustache very stiff, the head of a peculiar shape, and the eyes green.”