“Of course,” I said. “The second dagger we found in the tramp was Mrs.
Renauld’s. There _were___ two, then.”
“Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that
Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In
fact I have a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against
him is again psychological—heredity, _mon ami___, heredity! Like
father, like son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of
Georges Conneau.”
His tone was grave and earnest, and I was impressed in spite of myself.
“What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?” I asked.
For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked:
“What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?”
“About five, I believe.”
“That will do very well. We shall just have time.”
“You are going to England?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“Why?”
“To find a possible—witness.”
“Who?”
With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied:
“Miss Bella Duveen.”
“But how will you find her—what do you know about her?”
“I know nothing about her—but I can guess a good deal. We may take it
for granted that her name _is___ Bella Duveen, and since that name was
faintly familiar to M. Stonor, though evidently not in connection with
the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack
Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age.
The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies,
too, with M. Renauld’s attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I
shall find her all right—especially with the help of _this___.”
And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack
Renauld’s drawer. “With love from Bella,” was scrawled across the
corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness
was not first rate—but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a
cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.
It was the face of Cinderella.