We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the
gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted
us, and we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down
the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little
conversation.
Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.
Léonie shook her head.
“She is terribly upset, _la pauvre dame!___ She will eat nothing—but
nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her.
Ah, _par exemple___, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man
who had deceived me with another woman!”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
“What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who
loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been
many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?”
Again Léonie shook her head.
“Never, monsieur. Never have I heard Madame utter a word of protest—of
reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite
different to Monsieur.”
“Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”
“Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The
day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—_ma foi!___ they might have been
heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!”
“Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?”
“Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his
train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had
left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to
run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and
his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was
angry!”
Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.
“And the dispute, what was it about?”
“Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they
shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so
fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have
comprehended. But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day!
Impossible to please him!”
The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.
“And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy
remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”
“One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”
“They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur
the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night
of the murder.”
“_Quelle idée___,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.
“You will go out and join them?”
“No, I shall await their return in the _salon___. It is cool there on
this hot morning.”
This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.
“If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.
“Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?”
“Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere
about, and see what he’s up to.”
“The human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a
comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au
revoir.”
I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the
path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of
the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but
turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some
hundred yards or so further to the right. If Giraud were still on the
spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he knew of my presence.
But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to
force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was
quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a
young lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.
She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an
exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!
The surprise was mutual.
“You,” we both exclaimed simultaneously.
The young lady recovered herself first.
“My only Aunt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“For the matter of that, what are you?” I retorted.
“When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home
to England like a good little boy. Have they given you a season ticket
to and fro, on the strength of your M.P.?”