“And Madame Renauld?” he asked at length. “How did she take
this—friendship.”
Françoise shrugged her shoulders.
“She was always most amiable—most polite. One would say that she
suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers,
monsieur? Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She
was not the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has
changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the
brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair
conducted such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. _Style
anglais___, without doubt!”
I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was
continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.
“You say that M. Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she
left, then?”
“Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door.
Monsieur said good night, and shut the door after her.”
“What time was that?”
“About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.”
“Do you know when M. Renauld went to bed?”
“I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks
so that one hears every one who goes up and down.”
“And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?”
“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”
“Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?”
“I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.”
“What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?”
“Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place
anywhere.”
“Good, Françoise, you can go.”
The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked
back.
“I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a
bad one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one,
remember that.” And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.
“Léonie Oulard,” called the magistrate.
Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M.
Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with
the discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave
rather an exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing
during the night.
Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had
changed greatly of late.
“Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always
depressed.” But Denise had her own theory. “Without doubt it was the
Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A
terrible society that!”
“It is, of course, possible,” said the magistrate smoothly. “Now, my
girl, was it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last
night?”
“Not _last___ night, monsieur, the night before.”
“But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last
night?”
“No, monsieur. A lady _did___ come to see M. Renauld last night, but it
was not Madame Daubreuil.”
Surprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew
Madame Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but
shorter, and much younger. Nothing could shake her statement.
“Had you ever seen this lady before?”
“Never, monsieur.” And then the girl added diffidently: “But I think
she was English.”
“English?”
“Yes, monsieur. She asked for M. Renauld in quite good French, but the
accent—one can always tell it, _n’est-ce pas?___ Besides when they came
out of the study they were speaking in English.”
“Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?”
“Me, I speak the English very well,” said Denise with pride. “The lady
was speaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I heard
Monsieur’s last words as he opened the door for her.” She paused, and
then repeated carefully and laboriously:
“‘Yeas—yeas—butt for Gaud’s saike go nauw!’”
“Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now!” repeated the magistrate.
He dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration,
recalled Françoise. To her he propounded the question as to whether she
had not made a mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil’s visit.
Françoise, however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night
that Madame Daubreuil had come. Without a doubt it was she. Denise
wished to make herself interesting, _voilà tout!___ So she had cooked
up this fine tale about a strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English
too! Probably Monsieur had never spoken that sentence in English at
all, and even if he had, it proved nothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke
English perfectly, and generally used that language when talking to M.
and Madame Renauld. “You see, M. Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually
here, and he spoke the French very badly.”
The magistrate did not insist. Instead he inquired about the chauffeur,
and learned that only yesterday, M. Renauld had declared that he was
not likely to use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a
holiday.
A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s eyes.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:
“Pardon, M. Bex, but without doubt M. Renauld could drive the car
himself?”
The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied
promptly:
“No, Monsieur did not drive himself.”
Poirot’s frown deepened.
“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said impatiently.
“See you not? In his letter M. Renauld speaks of sending the car for me
to Calais.”
“Perhaps he meant a hired car,” I suggested.
“Doubtless that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your
own. Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a
holiday—suddenly, at a moment’s notice? Was it that for some reason he
wanted him out of the way before we arrived?”