The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

said Madame Daubreuil. “I wonder—”

      “You wonder what, madame?”

      “Nothing.”

      The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.

      “You persist in your statement that M. Renauld confided nothing in you?”

      “Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?”

      “Because, madame,” said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality. “A man tells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his wife.”

      “Ah!” she sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. “Monsieur, you insult me! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to leave my house!”

      The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa Marguerite like a shamefaced pack of schoolboys. The magistrate muttered angry ejaculations to himself. Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he came out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a good hotel near at hand.

      “There is a small place, the Hotel des Bains, on this side of town. A few hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations. We shall see you in the morning then, I presume?”

      “Yes, I thank you, M. Hautet.”

      With mutual civilities, we parted company, Poirot and I going towards Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.

      “The French police system is very marvellous,” said Poirot, looking after them. “The information they possess about every one’s life, down to the most commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with M. Renauld’s tastes and pursuits, and at a moment’s notice they can produce information as to Madame Daubreuil’s banking account, and the sums that have lately been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is that?” He turned sharply.

      A figure was running hatless, down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.

      “I beg your pardon,” she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. “I—I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that M. Renauld called in a detective before he died, and—and that you are he?”

      “Yes, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “It is quite true. But how did you learn it?”

      “Françoise told our Amélie,” explained Marthe, with a blush.

      Poirot made a grimace.

      “The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?”

      The girl hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked:

      “Is—any one suspected?”

      Poirot eyed her keenly.

      Then he replied evasively:

      “Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.”

      “Yes, I know—but—any one in particular?”

      “Why do you want to know?”

      The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot’s words about her earlier in the day recurred to me. The “girl with the anxious eyes!”

      “M. Renauld was always very kind to me,” she replied at last. “It is natural that I should be interested.”

      “I see,” said Poirot. “Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering round two persons.”

      “Two?”

      I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.

      “Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chilians from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!”

      The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.

      “I must run back now. Maman will miss me.”

      And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I stared after her.

      “Mon ami,” said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, “is it that we are to remain planted here all night—just because you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl?”

      I laughed and apologized.

      “But she is beautiful, Poirot. Any one might be excused for being bowled over by her.”

      Poirot groaned.

      “Mon Dieu! But it is that you have the susceptible heart!”

      “Poirot,” I said, “do you remember after the Styles Case when—”

      “When you were in love with two charming women at once, and neither of them were for you? Yes, I remember.”

      “You consoled me by saying that perhaps some day we should hunt together again, and that then—”

      “Eh bien?”

      “Well, we are hunting together again, and—” I paused, and laughed rather self-consciously.

      But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly.

      “Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!”

      “Why,” I cried, “the commissary assured me that she was as good as she is beautiful! A perfect angel!”

      “Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,” remarked Poirot cheerfully. “A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a madonna.”

      “Poirot,” I cried, horrified, “you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent child like this!”

      “Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her. But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat unusual.”

      “For once, I see further than you do,” I said. “Her anxiety is not for herself—but for her mother.”

      “My friend,” said Poirot, “as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. Sacré! if only I could remember where I had seen that face!”

      “What face?” I asked, surprised. “The daughter’s?”

      “No. The mother’s.”

      Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically.

      “But yes—it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. I rather fancy—”

      “Yes?”

      “I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!”

      8. An Unexpected Meeting

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      We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.