Françoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully on the table.
“M. Bex,” he said at length, “here we have directly conflicting testimony. Which are we to believe, Françoise or Denise?”
“Denise,” said the commissary decidedly. “It was she who let the visitor in. Françoise is old and obstinate, and has evidently taken a dislike to Madame Daubreuil. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that Renauld was entangled with another woman.”
“Tiens!” cried M. Hautet. “We have forgotten to inform M. Poirot of that.” He searched amongst the papers on the table, and finally handed the one he was in search of to my friend. “This letter, M. Poirot, we found in the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat.”
Poirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumbled, and was written in English in a rather unformed hand:
“My dearest one:”
Why have you not written for so long? You do love me still, don’t you? Your letters lately have been so different, cold and strange, and now this long silence. It makes me afraid. If you were to stop loving me! But that’s impossible—what a silly kid I am—always imagining things! But if you did stop loving me, I don’t know what I should do—kill myself perhaps! I couldn’t live without you. Sometimes I fancy another woman is coming between us. Let her look out, that’s all—and you too! I’d as soon kill you as let her have you! I mean it.
“But there, I’m writing high-flown nonsense. You love me, and I love you—yes, love you, love you, love you!
“Your own adoring
“Bella.”
There was no address or date. Poirot handed it back with a grave face.
“And the assumption is, M. le juge—?”
The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“Obviously M. Renauld was entangled with this Englishwoman—Bella. He comes over here, meets Madame Daubreuil, and starts an intrigue with her. He cools off to the other, and she instantly suspects something. This letter contains a distinct threat. M. Poirot, at first sight the case seemed simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that M. Renauld was stabbed in the back seemed to point distinctly to its being a woman’s crime.”
Poirot nodded.
“The stab in the back, yes—but not the grave! That was laborious work, hard work—no woman dug that grave, monsieur. That was a man’s doing.”
The commissary exclaimed excitedly: “Yes, yes, you are right. We did not think of that.”
“As I said,” continued M. Hautet, “at first sight the case seemed simple, but the masked men, and the letter you received from M. Renauld complicate matters. Here we seem to have an entirely different set of circumstances, with no relationship between the two. As regards the letter written to yourself, do you think it is possible that it referred in any way to this ‘Bella,’ and her threats?”
Poirot shook his head.
“Hardly. A man like M. Renauld, who has led an adventurous life in out-of-the-way places, would not be likely to ask for protection against a woman.”
The examining magistrate nodded his head emphatically.
“My view exactly. Then we must look for the explanation of the letter—”
“In Santiago,” finished the commissary. “I shall cable without delay to the police in that city, requesting full details of the murdered man’s life out there, his love affairs, his business transactions, his friendships, and any enmities he may have incurred. It will be strange if, after that, we do not hold a clue to his mysterious murder.”
The commissary looked round for approval.
“Excellent,” said Poirot appreciatively.
“His wife, too, may be able to give us a pointer,” added the magistrate.
“You have found no other letters from this Bella amongst M. Renauld’s effects?” asked Poirot.
“No. Of course one of our first proceedings was to search through his private papers in the study. We found nothing of interest, however. All seemed square and above-board. The only thing at all out of the ordinary was his will. Here it is.”
Poirot ran through the document.
“So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr. Stonor—who is he, by the way?”
“M. Renauld’s secretary. He remained in England, but was over here once or twice for a week-end.”
“And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise. Simply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants, Denise and Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.” He handed it back.
“Perhaps,” began Bex, “you did not notice—”
“The date?” twinkled Poirot. “But yes, I noticed it. A fortnight ago. Possibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men die intestate through never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it is dangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his having a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous intrigues.”
“Yes,” said M. Hautet doubtfully. “But it is possibly a little unfair on his son, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother. If she were to marry again, and her second husband obtained an ascendancy over her, this boy might never touch a penny of his father’s money.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Man is a vain animal. M. Renauld figured to himself, without doubt, that his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have been a wise precaution to leave the money in his mother’s hands. The sons of rich men are proverbially wild.”
“It may be as you say. Now, M. Poirot, you would without doubt like to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been removed, but of course photographs have been taken from every conceivable angle, and will be at your disposal as soon as they are available.”
“I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.”
The commissary rose.
“Come with me, monsieurs.”
He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him. Poirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.
“Monsieur.”
“Monsieur.”
At last they got out into the hall.
“That room there, it is the study, hein?” asked Poirot suddenly, nodding towards the door opposite.
“Yes. You would like to see it?” He threw the door open as he spoke, and we entered.
The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was small, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A businesslike writing desk, with many pigeon holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-covered armchairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books and magazines. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the window there was a handsome oak sideboard with a tantalus on top. The curtains and portière were of a soft dull green, and the carpet matched them in tone.
Poirot stood a moment talking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.
“No dust?” I asked, with a smile.
He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.
“Not