“This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her
work, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to
burglars, she looked into the dining-room, but seeing the silver was
safe she thought no more about it, concluding that her master had,
without doubt, risen early, and gone for a stroll.”
“Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of
his?”
“No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the
English—that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable
things at any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a younger
maid, Léonie, was horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and
almost at the same moment news was brought that M. Renauld’s body had
been discovered, stone dead, stabbed in the back.”
“Where?”
“That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. M. Poirot,
the body was lying, face downwards, _in an open grave___.”
“What?”
“Yes. The pit was freshly dug—just a few yards outside the boundary of
the Villa grounds.”
“And he had been dead—how long?”
Dr. Durand answered this.
“I examined the body this morning at ten o’clock. Death must have taken
place at least seven, and possibly ten hours previously.”
“H’m, that fixes it at between midnight and 3 a.m.”
“Exactly, and Madame Renauld’s evidence places it at after 2 a.m. which
narrows the field still further. Death must have been instantaneous,
and naturally could not have been self-inflicted.”
Poirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:
“Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by the
horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost
unconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men
entered the bedroom, gagged and bound her, whilst forcibly abducting
her husband. This we know at second hand from the servants. On hearing
the tragic news, she fell at once into an alarming state of agitation.
On arrival, Dr. Durand immediately prescribed a sedative, and we have
not yet been able to question her. But without doubt she will awake
more calm, and be equal to bearing the strain of the interrogation.”
The commissary paused.
“And the inmates of the house, monsieur?”
“There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with
the former owners of the Villa Geneviève. Then there are two young
girls, sisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville,
and they come of the most respectable parents. Then there is the
chauffeur whom M. Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is
away on a holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, M.
Jack Renauld. He, too, is away from home at present.”
Poirot bowed his head. M. Hautet spoke:
“Marchaud!”
The _sergent de ville___ appeared.
“Bring in the woman Françoise.”
The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two, he returned,
escorting the frightened Françoise.
“You name is Françoise Arrichet?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?”
“Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the Villa
this spring, I consented to remain on with the English milor. Never did
I imagine—”
The magistrate cut her short.
“Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the
front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?”
“Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.”
“And last night?”
“I fastened it as usual.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.”
“What time would that be?”
“The same time as usual, half-past ten, monsieur.”
“What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?”
“Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with
me. Monsieur was still in his study.”
“Then, if any one unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been M.
Renauld himself?”
Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.
“What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every
minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though
he had had to let _cette dame___ out—”
The magistrate interrupted sharply:
“_Cette dame?___ What lady do you mean?”
“Why, the lady who came to see him.”
“Had a lady been to see him that evening?”
“But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.”
“Who was she? Did you know her?”
A rather cunning look spread over the woman’s face. “How should I know
who it was?” she grumbled. “I did not let her in last night.”
“Aha!” roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a
bang on the table. “You would trifle with the police, would you? I
demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to
visit M. Renauld in the evenings.”
“The police—the police,” grumbled Françoise. “Never did I think that I
should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was.
It was Madame Daubreuil.”
The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in
utter astonishment.
“Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?”
“That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one, _cellela!___”
The old woman tossed her head scornfully.
“Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary. “Impossible.”
“_Voilà,___” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the
truth.”
“Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We were
surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld,
they were—” he paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without doubt?”
“How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was _milor
anglais___—_trés riche___—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that
one—and _trés chic___ for all that she lives so quietly with her
daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer
young, but _ma foi!___ I who speak to you have seen the men’s heads
turn after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she has had
more money to spend—all the town knows it. The little economies, they
are at an end.” And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable
certainty.