“I know—I know all. You are my enemy! Be my enemy then. It does not worry me at all.”
“So long as it’s all fair and above-board, I don’t mind.”
“You have to the full the English passion for ‘fair-play!’ Now your scruples are satisfied, let us depart immediately. There is no time to be lost. Our stay in England has been short but sufficient. I know—what I wanted to know.”
The tone was light, but I read a veiled menace into the words.
“Still—” I began, and stopped.
“Still—as you say! Without doubt you are satisfied with the part you are playing. Me, I preoccupy myself with Jack Renauld.”
Jack Renauld! The words gave me a start. I had completely forgotten that aspect of the case. Jack Renauld, in prison, with the shadow of the guillotine looming over him! I saw the part I was playing in a more sinister light. I could save Bella—yes, but in doing so I ran the risk of sending an innocent man to his death.
I pushed the thought from me with horror. It could not be. He would be acquitted. Certainly he would be acquitted! But the cold fear came back. Suppose he were not? What then? Could I have it on my conscience—horrible thought! Would it come to that in the end? A decision. Bella or Jack Renauld? The promptings of my heart were to save the girl I loved at any cost to myself. But, if the cost were to another, the problem was altered.
What would the girl herself say? I remembered that no word of Jack Renauld’s arrest had passed my lips. As yet she was in total ignorance of the fact that her former lover was in prison charged with a hideous crime which he had not committed. When she knew, how would she act? Would she permit her life to be saved at the expense of his? Certainly she must do nothing rash. Jack Renauld might, and probably would, be acquitted without any intervention on her part. If so, good. But if he was not. … That was the terrible, the unanswerable problem. I fancied that she ran no risk of the extreme penalty. The circumstances of the crime were quite different in her case. She could plead jealousy and extreme provocation, and her youth and beauty would go for much. The fact that by a tragic mistake it was old Mr. Renauld, and not his son, who paid the penalty would not alter the motive of the crime. But in any case, however lenient the sentence of the Court, it must mean a long term of imprisonment.
No, Bella must be protected. And, at the same time, Jack Renauld must be saved. How this was to be accomplished I did not see clearly. But I pinned my faith to Poirot. He knew. Come what might, he would manage to save an innocent man. He must find some pretext other than the real one. It might be difficult, but he would manage it somehow. And with Bella unsuspected, and Jack Renauld acquitted, all would end satisfactorily.
So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still remained a cold fear.
24. “Save Him!”
We crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following morning saw us in Saint-Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot lost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any objections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.
After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the examining magistrate’s room. He greeted us cordially.
“I was told that you had returned to England, M. Poirot. I am glad to find that such is not the case.”
“It is true that I went there, M. le juge, but it was only for a flying visit. A side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.”
“And it did—eh?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.
“We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one making a mistake.”
“You think not, M. le juge?”
It was the examining magistrate’s turn to shrug his shoulders.
“Eh bien, speaking frankly—in confidence, c’est entendu—can you come to any other conclusion?”
“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.
“A 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