“You will go?”
“At once. We will command an auto.”
Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the
door to meet us, and led Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of
his.
“Ah, you have come—it is good of you. I have been in despair, not
knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even.
I suffer horribly, I am nearly mad. Is it true what they say, that he
does not deny the crime? But that is madness. It is impossible that he
should have done it! Never for one minute will I believe it.”
“Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently.
“But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.”
“Perhaps because he is screening some one,” suggested Poirot, watching
her.
Marthe frowned.
“Screening some one? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning I
have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is
easy to wear widow’s weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that
when he was arrested she fell down—like _that___.” She made a dramatic
gesture. “And without doubt, M. Stonor, the secretary, he helped her.
They are thick as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than
he—but what do men care—if a woman is rich!”
There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.
“Stonor was in England,” I put in.
“He says so—but who knows?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly, “if we are to work together, you
and I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.”
“Yes, monsieur?”
“Are you aware of your mother’s real name?”
Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward
on her arms, she burst into tears.
“There, there,” said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. “Calm
yourself, _petite___, I see that you know. Now a second question, did
you know who M. Renauld was?”
“M. Renauld,” she raised her head from her hands and gazed at him
wonderingly.
“Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.”
Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the
day of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he
had finished, she drew a long breath.
“But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective in
the world.”
With a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him
with an abandonment that was wholly French.
“Save him, monsieur,” she cried. “I love him so. Oh, save him, save
him—save him!”