“M. Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this Bella
to M. Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have
further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an
intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the
adjoining Villa. And this is the man who, according to you, never
looked at a petticoat!”
The secretary’s eyes narrowed.
“Hold on, M. le juge. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul
Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is utterly impossible. There’s
some other explanation.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“What other explanation could there be?”
“What leads you to think it was a love affair?”
“Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the
evenings. Also, since M. Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame
Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all,
the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Stonor quietly. “I transmitted him those
sums at his request. But it wasn’t an intrigue.”
“Eh! _mon Dieu!___ What else could it be?”
“_Blackmail___,” said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a
slam on the table. “That’s what it was.”
“Ah! Voilà une idée!” cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.
“Blackmail,” repeated Stonor. “The old man was being bled—and at a good
rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just
now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame Daubreuil
knew enough of it to put the screws on.”
“It is possible,” the commissary cried excitedly. “Decidedly, it is
possible.”
“Possible?” roared Stonor. “It’s certain! Tell me, have you asked Mrs.
Renauld about this love affair stunt of yours?”
“No, monsieur. We did not wish to occasion her any distress if it could
reasonably be avoided.”
“Distress? Why, she’d laugh in your face. I tell you, she and Renauld
were a couple in a hundred.”
“Ah, that reminds me of another point,” said M. Hautet. “Did M. Renauld
take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his
will?”
“I know all about it—took it to the lawyer for him after he’d drawn it
out. I can give you the name of his solicitors if you want to see it.
They’ve got it there. Quite simple. Half in trust to his wife for her
lifetime, the other half to his son. A few legacies. I rather think he
left me a thousand.”
“When was this will drawn up?”
“Oh, about a year and a half ago.”
“Would it surprise you very much, M. Stonor, to hear that M. Renauld
had made another will, less than a fortnight ago?”
Stonor was obviously very much surprised.
“I’d no idea of it. What’s it like?”
“The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There
is no mention of his son.”
Mr. Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle.
“I call that rather rough on the lad. His mother adores him, of course,
but to the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on
his father’s part. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it
all goes to prove what I told you, that Renauld and his wife were on
first rate terms.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said M. Hautet. “It is possible we shall have to
revise our ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to
Santiago, and are expecting a reply from there any minute. In all
possibility, everything will then be perfectly clear and
straightforward. On the other hand, if your suggestion of blackmail is
true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to give us valuable
information.”
Poirot interjected a remark:
“M. Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with M.
Renauld?”
“Over a year?”
“Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?”
“I’m quite sure he hasn’t. Before coming to Mr. Renauld, he had been
for many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.”
“In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?”
“Absolutely.”
Poirot seemed somewhat crest-fallen.
Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.
“My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to her
for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her
upstairs.”
Marchaud saluted and disappeared.
We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and
Mrs. Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.
M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and
she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in
his with an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld
turned to M. Hautet.
“You wished to ask me something, M. le juge.”
“With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French
Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth, or
upbringing?”
She shook her head.
“My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came
from the North West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy
childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived
entirely in the present and the future.”
“Was there any mystery in his past life?”
Mrs. Renauld smiled a little, and shook her head.
“Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.”