“I must have been dreaming,” I said. “Do you know, I actually dreamt
that we found Marthe Daubreuil’s body in Mrs. Renauld’s room, and that
you declared her to have murdered Mr. Renauld?”
“You were not dreaming. All that is quite true.”
“But Bella Duveen killed Mr. Renauld?”
“Oh, no, Hastings, she did not! She said she did—yes—but that was to
save the man she loved from the guillotine.”
“What?”
“Remember Jack Renauld’s story. They both arrived on the scene at the
same instant, and each took the other to be the perpetrator of the
crime. The girl stares at him in horror, and then with a cry rushes
away. But, when she hears that the crime has been brought home to him,
she cannot bear it, and comes forward to accuse herself and save him
from certain death.”
Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers
together in familiar style.
“The case was not quite satisfactory to me,” he observed judicially.
“All along I was strongly under the impression that we were dealing
with a cold-blooded and premeditated crime committed by some one who
had been contented (very cleverly) with using M. Renauld’s own plans
for throwing the police off the track. The great criminal (as you may
remember my remarking to you once) is always supremely simple.”