“I think that things look very black against him,” said Poirot quietly.
“You believe him guilty?” said Stonor sharply.
“No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.”
“He’s behaving so damned queerly,” muttered Stonor. “Of course I realize that there’s a lot more in this affair than meets the eye. Giraud’s not wise to that because he’s an outsider, but the whole thing has been damned odd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs. Renauld wants to hush anything up, I’ll take my cue from her. It’s her show, and I’ve too much respect for her judgment to shove my oar in, but I can’t get behind this attitude of Jack’s. Anyone would think he wanted to be thought guilty.”
“But it’s absurd,” I cried, bursting in. “For one thing, the dagger—” I paused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would wish me to reveal. I continued, choosing my words carefully, “We know that the dagger could not have been in Jack Renauld’s possession that evening. Mrs. Renauld knows that.”
“True,” said Stonor. “When she recovers, she will doubtless say all this and more. Well, I must be leaving you.”
“One moment.” Poirot’s hand arrested his departure. “Can you arrange for word to be sent to me at once should Madame Renauld recover consciousness?”
“Certainly. That’s easily done.”
“That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,” I urged as we went upstairs. “I couldn’t speak very plainly before Stonor.”
“That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to ourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack Renauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before we started from London?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed to convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult. Eh bien, Hastings, they made to his order not two paper-knives, but three.”
“So that—?”
“So that, after giving one to his mother, and one to Bella Duveen, there was a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear the dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.”
“It won’t come to that,” I cried, stung.
Poirot shook his head uncertainly.
“You will save him,” I cried positively.
Poirot glanced at me dryly.
“Have you not rendered it impossible, mon ami?”
“Some other way,” I muttered.
“Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No—say no more. Let us instead see what is in this letter.”
And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket.
His face contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.
“There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.”
The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great agitation:
“Dear M. Poirot:
“If you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. I have no one to turn to, and at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help us.
I handed it back, moved.
“You will go?”
“At once. We will command an auto.”
Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the door to meet us, and led Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.
“Ah, you have come—it is good of you. I have been in despair, not knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I suffer horribly, I am nearly mad. Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the crime? But that is madness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never for one minute will I believe it.”
“Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently.
“But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.”
“Perhaps because he is screening someone,” suggested Poirot, watching her.
Marthe frowned.
“Screening someone? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning I have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy to wear widow’s weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he was arrested she fell down—like that.” She made a dramatic gesture. “And without doubt, M. Stonor, the secretary, he helped her. They are thick as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he—but what do men care—if a woman is rich!”
There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.
“Stonor was in England,” I put in.
“He says so—but who knows?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly, “if we are to work together, you and I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.”
“Yes, monsieur?”
“Are you aware of your mother’s real name?”
Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on her arms, she burst into tears.
“There, there,” said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, petite, I see that you know. Now a second question, did you know who M. Renauld was?”
“M. Renauld,” she raised her head from her hands and gazed at him wonderingly.
“Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.”
Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the day of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had finished, she drew a long breath.
“But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective in the world.”
With a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him with an abandonment that was wholly French.
“Save him, monsieur,” she cried. “I love him so. Oh, save him, save him—save him!”
XXV
An Unexpected Denouement
We were present the following morning at the examination of Jack Renauld. Short as the time had been, I was shocked at the change that had taken place in the young prisoner. His cheeks had fallen in, there were deep black circles round his eyes, and he looked haggard and distraught, as one who had wooed sleep in vain for several nights. He betrayed no
