“Poirot, what have you done about finding Bel—I mean Dulcie?”
“Calm yourself, Hastings. I arrange everything.”
“You’re being a precious long time about it,” I grumbled.
Poirot changed the subject.
“Then the beginning, now the end,” he moralized, as we rang the bell. “And, considered as a case, the end is profoundly unsatisfactory.”
“Yes, indeed,” I sighed.
“You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That was not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt with leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls. I spoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and regular, such as a detective delights in. The mise en scène designed by Georges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the dénouement—ah, no! A man killed by accident in a girl’s fit of anger—ah, indeed, what order or method is there in that?”
And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot’s peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise.
Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time before Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.
“Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre, but there are squalls ahead!”
“What do you mean?” I cried.
“I would hardly have credited it,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “but women are very unexpected.”
“Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,” I exclaimed, looking out of the window.
Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps outside.
“Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.”
“I know, I know,” said Jack Renauld. “I must go up to her at once.”
“But no, I tell you. It is better not.”
“But Marthe and I—”
“In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must, but you would be wise to be guided by me.”
A voice on the stairs behind made us all start.
“I thank you for your good offices, M. Poirot, but I will make my own wishes clear.”
We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon Léonie’s arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.
“Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor’s orders!”
But Mrs. Renauld came on.
“Mother,” cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she drove him back.
“I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour I renounce you.”
“Mother,” cried the lad, stupefied.
For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself.
“Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest enemy!”
And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs.
We were all dumbfounded—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.
“He is overdone,” murmured Poirot to Marthe. “Where can we take him?”
“But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I. My poor Jack!”
We got the lad to the Villa, where he dropped limply on to a chair in a semi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands.
“He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top of it. Get him to bed, and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.”
A doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as his opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and quiet, the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there was a chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for some one to sit up all night with him.
Finally, having done all we could, we left him in the charge of Marthe and her mother, and set out for the town. It was past our usual hour of dining, and we were both famished. The first restaurant we came to assuaged the pangs of hunger with an excellent omelette, and an equally excellent entrecôte to follow.
“And now for quarters for the night,” said Poirot, when at length café noir had completed the meal. “Shall we try our old friend, the Hôtel des Bains?”
We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be accommodated with two good rooms overlooking the sea. Then Poirot asked a question which surprised me.
“Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?”
“Yes, monsieur. She is in the little salon.”
“Ah!”
“Poirot,” I cried, keeping pace with him as he walked along the corridor, “who on earth is Miss Robinson?”
Poirot beamed kindly on me.
“It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.”
“But, I say—”
“Bah!” said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the door. “Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of Duveen?”
It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hands in both of mine. My eyes said the rest.
Poirot cleared his throat.
“Mes enfants,” he said, “for the moment we have no time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked you?”
In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in paper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start—for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the sea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most compromising of objects and documents!
“Très bien, mon enfant,” said Poirot. “I am pleased with you. Go now and rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” asked the girl, her eyes widening.
“You shall hear all about it tomorrow.”
“Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.”
“But mademoiselle—”
“I’m coming too, I tell you.”
Poirot realized that it was futile to argue further. He gave in.
“Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability nothing will happen.”
The girl made no reply.
Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close, oppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite