The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

you were!’ ”

      The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the table in front of him.

      “I must request an answer, please, M. Renauld,” said Giraud sharply.

      With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper-knife on to the floor.

      “What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his chair, flushed and defiant.

      Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:

      “That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, M. le juge.”

      “Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject of your quarrel?”

      “I decline to state.”

      M. Hautet sat up in his chair.

      “M. Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?”

      Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot.

      “I will inform you, if you like, M. le juge.”

      “You know?”

      “Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.”

      Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.

      “Is this so, monsieur.”

      Jack Renauld bowed his head.

      “Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact, he flew at once into a violent rage. Naturally I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.”

      M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld.

      “You were aware of this—attachment, madame.”

      “I feared it,” she replied simply.

      “Mother,” cried the boy. “You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful. What can you have against her?”

      “I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!”

      Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.

      Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:

      “I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I hoped that it was only a boy and girl flirtation which would blow over all the quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence, but my husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and care-worn, different altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to give him any additional worry.”

      M. Hautet nodded.

      “When you informed your father of your intentions towards Mademoiselle Daubreuil,” he resumed, “he was surprised?”

      “He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily to dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to such a marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle Daubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting terms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I answered that I was marrying Marthe, and not her antecedents, but he shouted me down with a peremptory refusal to discuss the matter in any way. The whole thing must be given up. The injustice and high-handedness of it all maddened me—especially since he himself always seemed to go out of his way to be attentive to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that they should be asked to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in earnest. My father reminded me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it must have been in answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I pleased after his death—”

      Poirot interrupted with a quick question.

      “You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?”

      “I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for my mother to come to me at her death,” replied the lad.

      “Proceed with your story,” said the magistrate.

      “After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed down. I wrote to Marthe, telling her what had happened, and her reply soothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be steadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection for each other must be tried and proved, and when my parents realized that it was no light infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent towards us. Of course, to her, I had not dwelt on my father’s principal objection to the match. I soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence. My father wrote me several letters to Paris, affectionate in tone, and which did not refer to our disagreement or its cause, and I replied in the same strain.”

      “You can produce those letters, eh?” said Giraud.

      “I did not keep them.”

      “No matter,” said the detective.

      Renauld looked at him for a moment, but the magistrate was continuing his questions.

      “To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen, M. Renauld?”

      “Duveen?” said Jack. “Duveen?” He leant forward, and slowly picked up the paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head, his eyes met the watching ones of Giraud. “Duveen? No, I can’t say I am.”

      “Will you read this letter, M. Renauld? And tell me if you have any idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father?”

      Jack Renauld took the letter, and read it through, the colour mounting in his face as he did so.

      “Addressed to my father?” The emotion and indignation in his tones were evident.

      “Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.”

      “Does—” He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards his mother. The magistrate understood.

      “As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?”

      “I have no idea whatsoever.”

      M. Hautet sighed.

      “A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the letter altogether. What do you think, M. Giraud? It does not seem to lead us anywhere.”

      “It certainly does not,” agreed the detective with emphasis.

      “And yet,” sighed the magistrate, “it promised at the beginning to be such a beautiful and simple case!” He caught Mrs. Renauld’s eye, and blushed in immediate confusion. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, turning over the papers on the table. “Let me see, where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this may give you pain, M. Renauld. I understand it was a present from you to your mother. Very sad—very distressing—”

      Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the perusal of the letter, was now deadly white.

      “Do you mean—that it was with an aeroplane wire paper cutter that my father was—was killed? But it’s impossible! A little thing like that!”

      “Alas, M. Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear. Sharp and easy