“Frankly, M. le juge, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.”
“Such as—?”
But Poirot was not to be drawn.
“I have not yet tabulated them,” he remarked. “It was a general reflection that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for himself on the matter?”
The magistrate frowned.
“I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He contents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a most obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow; perhaps you would like to be present?”
We accepted the invitation with empressement.
“A distressing case,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “My sympathy for Madame Renauld is profound.”
“How is Madame Renauld?”
“She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger, but that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It was, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused her present state. It would be terrible if her brain became unhinged; but I should not wonder at all—no, really, not at all.”
M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful enjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect.
He roused himself at length, and observed with a start.
“That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, M. Poirot. Let me see, where did I put it?”
He proceeded to rummage amongst his papers. At last he found the missive, and handed it to Poirot.
“It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,” he explained. “But as you left no address I could not do so.”
Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping, foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman’s. Poirot did not open it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.
“À demain then, M. le juge. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.”
“But not at all. I am always at your service. These young detectives of the school of Giraud, they are all alike—rude, sneering fellows. They do not realize that an examining magistrate of my—er—experience is bound to have a certain discernment, a certain—flair. Enfin! the politeness of the old school is infinitely more to my taste. Therefore, my dear friend, command me in any way you will. We know a thing or two, you and I—eh?”
And laughing heartily, enchanted with himself and with us, M. Hautet bade us adieu. I am sorry to have to record that Poirot’s first remark to me as we traversed the corridor was:
“A famous old imbecile, that one! Of a stupidity to make pity!”
We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with Giraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Aha! M. Poirot,” he cried airily. “You have returned from England then?”
“As you see,” said Poirot.
“The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.”
“I agree with you, M. Giraud.”
Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crestfallen manner seemed to delight the other.
“Of all the milk and water criminals! Not an idea of defending himself. It is extraordinary!”
“So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?” suggested Poirot mildly.
But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.
“Well, good day, M. Poirot. I am glad you’re satisfied of young Renauld’s guilt at last.”
“Pardon! But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is innocent.”
Giraud stared for a moment—then burst out laughing, tapping his head significantly with the brief remark: “Toqué!”
Poirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.
“M. Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been deliberately insulting! You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager you 500 francs that I find the murderer of M. Renauld before you do. Is it agreed?”
Giraud stared helplessly at him, and murmured again:
“Toqué!”
“Come now,” urged Poirot, “is it agreed?”
“I have no wish to take your money from you.”
“Make your mind easy—you will not!”
“Oh, well then, I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting. Eh bien, once or twice, your manner has annoyed me.”
“I am enchanted to hear it,” said Poirot. “Good morning, M. Giraud. Come, Hastings.”
I said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy. Poirot had displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than ever my powers of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This unlucky encounter with Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle.
Suddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel Stonor. We stopped and greeted him, and he proposed strolling with us back to our hotel.
“And what are you doing here, M. Stonor?” inquired Poirot.
“One must stand by one’s friends,” replied the other dryly. “Especially when they are unjustly accused.”
“Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?” I asked eagerly.
“Certainly I don’t. I know the lad. I admit that there have been one or two things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none the less, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I’ll never believe that Jack Renauld is a murderer.”
My heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret weight from my heart.
“I have no doubt that many people feel as you do,” I exclaimed. “There is really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that there was no doubt of his acquittal—no doubt whatever.”
But Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished.
“I’d give a lot to think as you do,” he said gravely. He turned to Poirot. “What’s your opinion,
