The man who entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall, with a
well knit athletic frame, and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he
dominated the assembly. Even Giraud seemed anaemic beside him. When I
knew him better I realized that Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual
personality. English by birth, he had knocked about all over the world.
He had shot big game in Africa, travelled in Korea, ranched in
California, and traded in the South Sea Islands. He had been secretary
to a New York railway magnate, and had spent a year encamped in the
desert with a friendly tribe of Arabs.
His unerring eye picked out M. Hautet.
“The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you,
M. le juge. This is a terrible business. How’s Mrs. Renauld? Is she
bearing up fairly well? It must have been an awful shock to her.”
“Terrible, terrible,” said M. Hautet. “Permit me to introduce M.
Bex—our commissary of police, M. Giraud of the Sûreté. This gentleman
is M. Hercule Poirot. M. Renauld sent for him, but he arrived too late
to do anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of M. Poirot’s, Captain
Hastings.”
Stonor looked at Poirot with some interest.
“Sent for you, did he?”
“You did not know, then, that M. Renauld contemplated calling in a
detective?” interposed M. Bex.
“No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me a bit.”
“Why?”
“Because the old man was rattled! I don’t know what it was all about.
He didn’t confide in me. We weren’t on those terms. But rattled he
was—and badly!”
“H’m!” said M. Hautet. “But you have no notion of the cause?”
“That’s what I said, sir.”
“You will pardon me, M. Stonor, but we must begin with a few
formalities. Your name?”
“Gabriel Stonor.”
“How long ago was it that you became secretary to M. Renauld?”
“About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met
him through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering
good boss he was too.”
“Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?”
“Yes, a good bit.”
“Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?”
“Several times, I believe.”
“He never mentioned any special incident that occurred there—anything
that might have provoked some vendetta against him?”
“Never.”
“Did he speak of any secret that he had acquired whilst sojourning
there?”
“No.”
“Did he ever say anything at all about a secret?”
“Not that I can remember. But, for all that, there _was___ a mystery
about him. I’ve never heard him speak of his boyhood for instance, or
of any incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French
Canadian by birth, I believe, but I’ve never heard him speak of his
life in Canada. He could shut up like a clam if he liked.”
“So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue
as to any secret to obtain possession of which he might have been
murdered?”
“That’s so.”
“M. Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in connection with
M. Renauld?”
“Duveen. Duveen.” He tried the name over thoughtfully. “I don’t think I
have. And yet it seems familiar.”
“Do you know a lady, a friend of M. Renauld’s whose Christian name is
Bella?”
Again Mr. Stonor shook his head.
“Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It’s curious! I’m sure I know it.
But for the moment I can’t remember in what connection.”
The magistrate coughed.
“You understand, M. Stonor—the case is like this. _There must be no
reservations.___ You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration
for Madame Renauld—for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and
affection, you might—_enfin!___” said M. Hautet getting rather tied up
in his sentence, “there must absolutely be no reservations.”
Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.
“I don’t quite get you,” he said gently. “Where does Mrs. Renauld come
in? I’ve an immense respect and affection for that lady; she’s a very
wonderful and unusual type, but I don’t quite see how my reservations,
or otherwise, could affect her?”
“Not if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more than
a friend to her husband?”
“Ah!” said Stonor. “I get you now. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar that
you’re wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He
just adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.”