“But of course! Don’t you?”
Poirot walked to the end of the room, absentmindedly straightened a
chair, and then said thoughtfully.
“Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no ‘of course’ about it, my
friend. Technically speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.”
“Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.”
Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked
than ever.
“So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil
murdered M. Renauld?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.
“Why?” I stammered. “Why? Oh, because—” I came to a stop.
Poirot nodded his head at me.
“You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame
Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness sake) murder M. Renauld?
We can find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his death;
considered as either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You
cannot have a murder without a motive. The first crime was different,
there we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband’s shoes.”
“Money is not the only motive for murder,” I objected.
“True,” agreed Poirot placidly. “There are two others, the _crime
passionnel___ is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an
idea which implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the
murderer. Homicidal mania, and religious fanaticism belong to that
class. We can rule it out here.”
“But what about the _crime passionnel?___ Can you rule that out? If
Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, if she found that his
affection was cooling, or if her jealousy was aroused in any way, might
she not have struck him down in a moment of anger?”
Poirot shook his head.
“If—I say _if___, you note—Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, he
had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her
character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She
is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life
disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she had been
cold-blooded and calculating in her motives and actions. It was not to
link her life with that of her young lover that she connived at her
husband’s murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care
a button, was her objective. If she committed a crime, she would always
do so for gain. Here there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for
the digging of the grave? That was a man’s work.”
“She might have had an accomplice,” I suggested, unwilling to
relinquish my belief.
“I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between
the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?”