Jack Renauld’s face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.
“You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg, as I told the examining magistrate this morning.”
Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed, cat-like, until they only showed a gleam of green.
“Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there—for it is shared by the station staff. They say you arrived by the 11:40 train.”
For a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.
“And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating in my father’s murder?” He asked the question haughtily, his head thrown back.
“I should like an explanation of the reason that brought you here.”
“That is simple enough. I came to see my fiancée, Mademoiselle Daubreuil. I was on the eve of a long voyage, uncertain as to when I should return. I wished to see her before I went, to assure her of my unchanging devotion.”
“And you did see her?” Poirot’s eyes never left the other’s face.
There was an appreciable pause before Renauld replied. Then he said:
“Yes.”
“And afterwards?”
“I found I had missed the last train. I walked to St. Beauvais where I knocked up a garage and got a car to take me back to Cherbourg.”
“St. Beauvais? That is fifteen kilometres. A long walk, M. Renauld.”
“I—I felt like walking.”
Poirot bowed his head as a sign that he accepted the explanation. Jack Renauld took up his hat and cane and departed. In a trice Poirot jumped to his feet.
“Quick, Hastings. We will go after him.”
Keeping a discreet distance behind our quarry, we followed him through the streets of Merlinville. But when Poirot saw that he took the turning to the station, he checked himself.
“All is well. He has taken the bait. He will go to Abbalac, and will inquire for the mythical valise left by the mythical foreigners. Yes, mon ami, all that was a little invention of my own.”
“You wanted him out of the way!” I exclaimed.
“Your penetration is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go up to the Villa Geneviève.”
XVIII
Giraud Acts
“By the way, Poirot,” I said, as we walked along the hot white road, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you. I dare say you meant well, but really it was no business of yours to go mouching round to the Hôtel du Phare without letting me know.”
Poirot shot a quick sidelong glance at me.
“And how did you know I had been there?” he inquired.
Much to my annoyance I felt the colour rising in my cheeks.
“I happened to look in in passing,” I explained with as much dignity as I could muster.
I rather feared Poirot’s banter, but to my relief, and somewhat to my surprise, he only shook his head with a rather unusual gravity.
“If I have offended your susceptibilities in any way, I demand pardon of you. You will understand better soon. But, believe me, I have striven to concentrate all my energies on the case.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” I said, mollified by the apology. “I know it’s only that you have my interests at heart. But I can take care of myself all right.”
Poirot seemed to be about to say something further, but checked himself.
Arrived at the Villa, Poirot led the way up to the shed where the second body had been discovered. He did not, however, go in, but paused by the bench which I have mentioned before as being set some few yards away from it. After contemplating it for a moment or two, he paced carefully from it to the hedge which marked the boundary between the Villa Geneviève and the Villa Marguerite. Then he paced back again, nodding his head as he did so. Returning again to the hedge, he parted the bushes with his hands.
“With good fortune,” he remarked to me over his shoulder, “Mademoiselle Marthe may find herself in the garden. I desire to speak to her and would prefer not to call formally at the Villa Marguerite. Ah, all is well, there she is. Pst, mademoiselle! Pst! Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
I joined him at the moment that Marthe Daubreuil, looking slightly startled, came running up to the hedge at his call.
“A little word with you, mademoiselle, if it is permitted?”
“Certainly, Monsieur Poirot.”
Despite her acquiescence, her eyes looked troubled and afraid.
“Mademoiselle, do you remember running after me on the road the day that I came to your house with the examining magistrate? You asked me if anyone were suspected of the crime.”
“And you told me two Chileans.” Her voice sounded rather breathless, and her left hand stole to her breast.
“Will you ask me the same question again, mademoiselle?”
“What do you mean?”
“This. If you were to ask me that question again, I should give you a different answer. Someone is suspected—but not a Chilean.”
“Who?” The word came faintly between her parted lips.
“M. Jack Renauld.”
“What?” It was a cry. “Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?”
“Giraud.”
“Giraud!” The girl’s face was ashy. “I am afraid of that man. He is cruel. He will—he will—” She broke off. There was courage gathering in her face, and determination. I realized in that moment that she was a fighter. Poirot, too, watched her intently.
“You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied mechanically. “He told me.”
“It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,” ventured Poirot.
“Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently. “But we cannot waste time on regrets. We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course, but that will not help him with a man like Giraud who has his reputation to think of. He must arrest someone, and that someone will be Jack.”
“The facts will tell against him,” said Poirot. “You realize that?”
She faced him squarely, and used the words I had heard her say in her mother’s drawing-room.
“I
