Staring at him like one in a dream, Mrs. Renauld repeated: “So you did not sail?” And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she murmured as though to herself, “After all, it does not matter—now.”
“Sit down, M. Renauld, I beg of you,” said M. Hautet, indicating a chair. “My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible shock to you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that you were prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us just the information we need to clear up this mystery.”
“I am at your disposal, M. le juge. Ask me any questions you please.”
“To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at your father’s request?”
“Quite so, M. le juge. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed without delay to Buenos Aires, and from thence via the Andes to Valparaiso and on to Santiago.”
“Ah. And the object of this journey?”
“I have no idea, M. le juge.”
“What?”
“No. See, here is the telegram.”
The magistrate took it and read it aloud.
“ ‘Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark Anzora sailing tonight Buenos Aires. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will await you Buenos Aires. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance. Renauld.’ And there had been no previous correspondence on the matter?”
Jack Renauld shook his head.
“That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my father, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in South America. But he had never mooted any suggestion of sending me out.”
“You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M. Renauld?”
“I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of my holidays in that country, so I really know far less of South America than might be supposed. You see, the war broke out when I was seventeen.”
“You served in the English Flying Corps, did you not?”
“Yes, M. le juge.”
M. Hautet nodded his head, and proceeded with his inquiries along the, by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the city of Santiago, or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had noticed no change in his father’s manner of late, and that he had never heard him refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as connected with business interests.
As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in.
“I should like to put a few questions on my own account, M. le juge.”
“By all means, M. Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly.
Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.
“Were you on good terms with your father, M. Renauld?”
“Certainly I was,” returned the lad haughtily.
“You assert that positively?”
“Yes.”
“No little disputes, eh?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone may have a difference of opinion now and then.”
“Quite so, quite so. But if anyone were to assert that you had a violent quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person, without doubt, would be lying?”
I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast “I know everything” had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by the question.
“We—we did have an argument,” he admitted.
“Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument did you use this phrase: ‘When you are dead, I can do as I please?’ ”
“I may have done,” muttered the other. “I don’t know.”
“In response to that, did your father say: ‘But I am not dead yet!’ To which you responded: ‘I wish you were!’ ”
The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the table in front of him.
“I must request an answer, please, M. Renauld,” said Giraud sharply.
With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper-knife on to the floor.
“What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his chair, flushed and defiant.
Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:
“That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, M. le juge.”
“Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject of your quarrel?”
“I decline to state.”
M. Hautet sat up in his chair.
“M. Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?”
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot.
“I will inform you, if you like, M. le juge.”
“You know?”
“Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.”
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
“Is this so, monsieur.”
Jack Renauld bowed his head.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact, he flew at once into a violent rage. Naturally I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.”
M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld.
“You were aware of this—attachment, madame.”
“I feared it,” she replied simply.
“Mother,” cried the boy. “You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful. What can you have against her?”
“I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!”
Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.
Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:
“I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I hoped that it was
