“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. Anyone 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!”
VIII
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
