“I thought you were just saying it for the sake of saying something,” I confessed.
“Ah, quelle idée! Later you observed me measuring the overcoat of Monsieur Jack Renauld. Eh bien, Monsieur Jack Renauld wears his overcoat very short. Put those two facts together with a third, namely, that Monsieur Jack Renauld flung out of the house in a hurry on his departure for Paris, and tell me what you make of it!”
“I see,” I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot’s remarks bore in upon me. “That letter was written to Jack Renauld—not to his father. He caught up the wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.”
Poirot nodded.
“Précisément! We can return to this point later. For the moment let us content ourselves with accepting the letter as having nothing to do with Monsieur Renauld père, and pass to the next chronological event.”
“‘23rd May.’” I read: “‘M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter’s wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.’ I don’t see anything much to remark upon there, and the altering of the will the following day seems straightforward enough. It was the direct result of the quarrel.”
“We agree, mon ami—at least as to the cause. But what exact motive underlay this procedure of Monsieur Renauld’s?”
I opened my eyes in surprise.
“Anger against his son of course.”
“Yet he wrote him affectionate letters to Paris?”
“So Jack Renauld says, but he cannot produce them.”
“Well, let us pass from that.”
“Now we come to the day of the tragedy. You have placed the events of the morning in a certain order. Have you any justification for that?”
“I have ascertained that the letter to me was posted at the same time as the telegram was dispatched. Masters was informed he could take a holiday shortly afterwards. In my opinion the quarrel with the tramp took place anterior to these happenings.”
“I do not see that you can fix that definitely unless you question Madame Daubreuil again.”
“There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see nothing, Hastings!”
I looked at him for a moment.
“Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was after the stormy interview with him that Mr. Renauld apprehended danger. He sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the other’s pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.”
A faint smile crossed Poirot’s lips.
“You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same expressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used, later in her story? If the mention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it, and—what is more—send his son there?”
“It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation later. We come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious lady. I confess that that fairly baffles me, unless it was indeed Madame Daubreuil, as Françoise all along maintained.”
Poirot shook his head.
“My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the fragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly familiar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella Duveen is the full name of Jack’s unknown correspondent, and that it was she who came to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she intended to see Jack, or whether she meant all along to appeal to his father, we cannot be certain, but I think we may assume that this is what occurred. She produced her claim upon Jack, probably showed letters that he had written her, and the older man tried to buy her off by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore up. The terms of her letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she would probably deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of her, and here the words that he used are significant.”
“‘Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now,’” I repeated. “They seem to me a little vehement, perhaps, that is all.”
“That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why? Not because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that was slipping by, and for some reason time was precious.”
“Why should it be?” I asked bewildered.
“That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the incident of the wristwatch—which again shows us that time plays a very important part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual drama. It is half past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the evidence of the wristwatch we know that the crime was committed, or at any rate that it was staged, before twelve o’clock. We have reviewed all the events anterior to the murder, there remains only one unplaced. By the doctor’s evidence, the tramp, when found, had been dead at least forty-eight hours—with a possible margin of twenty-four hours more. Now, with no other facts to help me than those we have discussed, I place the death as having occurred on the morning of 7th June.”
I stared at him, stupefied.
“But how? Why? How can you possibly know?”
“Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically explained. Mon ami, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do you not now see what is so glaringly plain?”
“My dear Poirot, I can’t see anything glaring about it. I did think I was beginning to see my way before, but I’m now hopelessly fogged. For goodness’ sake, get on, and tell me who killed Mr. Renauld.”
“That is just what I am not sure of as yet.”
“But you said it was glaringly clear!”
“We talk at cross-purposes, my friend. Remember, it is two crimes we are investigating—for which, as I pointed out to you, we have the necessary two bodies. There, there, ne vous impatientez pas! I explain all. To begin with, we apply our psychology. We find three points at which Monsieur Renauld displays a distinct change of view and action—three psychological points therefore. The first occurs immediately after arriving in Merlinville, the second after quarrelling with his son on a certain subject, the third on the morning of 7th June. Now for the three causes. We can attribute No 1 to meeting Madame Daubreuil. No 2 is indirectly connected with her, since it concerns a marriage between Monsieur Renauld’s son and her daughter. But the cause of No 3 is hidden from us. We had to deduce it. Now, mon ami, let me ask you a question: whom do we believe to have planned this crime?”
“Georges Conneau,” I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot warily.
“Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that it was Georges Conneau who dictated the lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack Renauld, it follows that the third case is put out of court. And, still attributing the crime to Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are forced to the second—that Madame Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved—or in other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree to that?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It seems logical enough.”
“Bien! Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then,
is Georges Conneau?”
“The tramp.”
“Have we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?”
“No, but—”
“Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts no longer support them. Ask yourself instead whom Madame Renauld did love.”
I shook my head perplexed.
“Mais oui, you know perfectly. Whom did Madame Renauld love so dearly that when she saw his dead body she fell down in a swoon?”
I stared dumbfounded.
“Her husband?” I gasped.
Poirot nodded.
“Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call him.”
I rallied myself.
“But it’s impossible.”
“How ‘impossible?’ Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did she not very effectively blackmail Monsieur Renauld?”
“That may be true enough, but—”
“And is it not a fact that we know nothing of Monsieur Renauld’s youth and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French-Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?”
“All that is so,” I said more firmly, “but you seem to me to be overlooking one salient point.”
“What is that, my friend?”
“Why, we have admitted that Georges planned the crime. That brings us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!”
“Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot placidly, “that is just what he did do!”
Twenty-one
HERCULE POIROT ON THE CASE
In a measured voice Poirot began his exposition.
“It seems strange to you, mon ami, that a man should plan his own death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, Monsieur Renauld planned his own death, but there is one detail that perhaps escapes you—he did not intend to die.”
I shook my head, bewildered.