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 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 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—anyone suspected?”
Poirot 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 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 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 run back now. Maman will miss me.”
And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like
