The doctor’s words were so surprising that we were all momentarily
taken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have
been stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr. Durand
asserted positively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours!
The whole thing was fantastic to the last extreme.
We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor’s
announcement, when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up
from the hotel to the Villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and
announced his return by the train arriving at Merlinville at 12:28.
I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to
the station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost
importance that he should know at once of the new and startling
developments in the case.
Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he
wanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved that. Very few
hours had sufficed. I wondered how he would take the exciting news I
had to impart.
The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down
the platform, until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by
asking a few questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train
on the evening of the tragedy.
I approached the chief porter, an intelligent looking man, and had
little difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a
disgrace to the Police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands of
assassins should be allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there
was some possibility they might have left by the midnight train, but he
negatived the idea decidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners—he
was sure of it. Only about twenty people had left by the train, and he
could not have failed to observe them.
I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep
anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly:
“Young M. Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?”
“Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour,
it would not be amusing, that!”
I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me.
Then I saw.…
“You mean,” I said, my heart beating a little, “that M. Jack Renauld
arrived at Merlinville that evening?”
“But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the
11:40.”
My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant
anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the
crime! But why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us
to believe that he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank
boyish countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that he had
any connection with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about
so vital a matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along.
Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot to know whether
any one were suspected.
My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in
another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He
beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced
me warmly on the platform.
“_Mon cher ami___, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!”
“Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?”
“How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some
developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even
arrests perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But
where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is
necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from
the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat.
And my tie, that I must rearrange.”