“Yes.”
“That was why you wanted me to show you round? And why you pretended to faint?”
Again she nodded.
“Why did you take the dagger?” I asked presently.
She replied as simply as a child:
“I was afraid there might be fingermarks on it.”
“But didn’t you remember that you had worn gloves?”
She shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:
“Are you going to give me up to—to the police?”
“Good God! no.”
Her eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little quiet voice that sounded afraid of itself:
“Why not?”
It seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of love—and God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming to me in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:
“Because I love you, Cinderella.”
She bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken voice:
“You can’t—you can’t—not if you knew—” And then, as though rallying herself, she faced me squarely, and asked, “What do you know, then?”
“I know that you came to see Mr. Renauld that night. He offered you a cheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house—” I paused.
“Go on—what next?”
“I don’t know whether you knew Jack Renauld would be coming that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him, but you did wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable and walked aimlessly—but at any rate just before twelve you were still near there, and you saw a man on the golf links—”
Again I paused. I had leapt to the truth in a flash as she entered the room, but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw vividly the peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr. Renauld, and I remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into believing for one instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when his son burst into our conclave in the salon.
“Go on,” repeated the girl steadily.
“I fancy his back was to you—but you recognized him, or thought you recognized him. The gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the pattern of his overcoat.” I paused. “You used a threat in one of your letters to Jack Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you mad—and you struck! I don’t believe for a minute that you meant to kill him. But you did kill him, Cinderella.”
She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she said:
“You’re right … you’re right … I can see it all as you tell it.” Then she turned on me almost savagely. “And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can you love me?”
“I don’t know,” I said a little wearily. “I think love is like that—a thing one cannot help. I have tried, I know—ever since the first day I met you. And love has been too strong for me.”
And then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again, casting herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.
“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know which way to turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, someone, and tell me what to do!”
Again I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Bella. For God’s sake don’t be afraid of me. I love you, that’s true—but I don’t want anything in return. Only let me help you. Love him still if you have to, but let me help you, as he can’t.”
It was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised her head from her hands and stared at me.
“You think that?” she whispered. “You think that I love Jack Renauld?”
Then, half laughing, half crying, she flung her arms passionately round my neck, and pressed her sweet wet face to mine.
“Not as I love you,” she whispered. “Never as I love you!”
Her lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me again and again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it—and the wonder, I shall not forget—no, not as long as I live!
It was a sound in the doorway that made us look up. Poirot was standing there looking at us.
I did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to his sides.
“Quick,” I said to the girl. “Get out of here. As fast as you can. I’ll hold him.”
With one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a grip of iron.
“Mon ami,” observed the latter mildly, “you do this sort of thing very well. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless as a child. But all this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit down and be calm.”
“You won’t pursue her?”
“Mon Dieu! no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.”
Keeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of knowing that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and he sank into an armchair, feeling his arms tenderly.
“It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings! Eh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show you the girl’s photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.”
“There was no need if you knew that I recognized it,” I said rather bitterly. So Poirot had known all along! I had not deceived him for an instant.
“Ta-ta! You did not know that I knew that. And tonight you help the girl to escape when we have found her with so much trouble. Eh bien! it comes to this—are you going to work with me or against me, Hastings?”
For a moment or two I did not answer. To break with my old friend gave me great pain. Yet I must definitely range myself against him. Would he ever forgive me, I wondered? He had been strangely calm so far, but I knew him to possess marvellous self-command.
“Poirot,” I said, “I’m sorry. I admit I’ve behaved badly to you over this. But sometimes one has no choice. And in future I must take my own line.”
Poirot nodded his head several times.
“I understand,” he said. The mocking light had quite died out of his eyes, and he spoke with a sincerity and kindness that surprised me. “It is that, my friend, is it not? It is love that has come—not as you imagined it, all cock-a-hoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding feet. Well, well—I warned you. When I realized that this girl must have taken the dagger, I warned you. Perhaps you remember. But already it was too late. But, tell me, how much do you know?”
I met his eyes squarely.
“Nothing that you could tell me would be any surprise to me, Poirot. Understand that. But in case you think of resuming your search for Miss Duveen, I should like you to know one thing clearly. If you have any idea that she was concerned in the crime, or was the mysterious lady who called upon Mr. Renauld that night, you are wrong. I travelled home from France with her that day, and parted from her at Victoria that evening, so that it is clearly impossible for her to have been in Merlinville.”
“Ah!” Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. “And you would swear to that in a court of law?”
“Most certainly I would.”
Poirot rose and bowed.
“Mon ami! Vive l’amour! It can perform miracles. It is decidedly ingenious what you have thought of there. It defeats even Hercule Poirot!”
Twenty-three
DIFFICULTIES AHEAD
After a moment of stress, such as I have just described, reaction is bound to set in. I retired to rest that night on a note of triumph, but I awoke to realize that I was by no means out of the wood. True, I could see no flaw in the alibi I had so suddenly conceived. I had but to stick to my story, and I failed to see how Bella could be convicted in face of it.
But I felt the need of treading warily. Poirot would not take defeat lying down. Somehow or other, he would endeavour to turn the tables on me, and that in the way, and at the moment, when I least expected it.
/>
We met at breakfast the following morning as though nothing had happened. Poirot’s good temper was imperturbable, yet I thought I detected a film of reserve in his manner which was new. After breakfast, I announced my intention of going out for a stroll. A malicious gleam shot through Poirot’s eyes.
“If it is information you seek, you need not be at the pains of deranging yourself. I can tell you all you wish to know. The Dulcibella Sisters have cancelled their contract, and have left Coventry for an unknown destination.”
“Is that really so, Poirot?”
“You can take it from me, Hastings. I made inquiries the first thing this morning. After all, what else did you expect?”
True enough, nothing else could be expected under the circumstances. Cinderella had profited by the slight start I had been able to secure her, and would certainly not lose a moment in removing herself from the reach of the pursuer. It was what I had intended and planned. Nevertheless, I was aware of being plunged into a network of fresh difficulties.
I had absolutely no means of communicating with the girl, and it was vital that she should know the line of defence that had occurred to me, and which I was prepared to carry out. Of course it was possible that she might try to send word to me in some way or another, but I hardly thought it likely. She would know the risk she ran of a message being intercepted by Poirot, thus setting him on her track once more. Clearly her only course was to disappear utterly for the time being.
But, in the meantime, what was Poirot doing? I studied him attentively. He was wearing his most innocent air, and staring meditatively into the far distance. He looked altogether too placid and supine to give me reassurance. I had learned, with Poirot, that the less dangerous he looked, the more dangerous he was. His quiescence alarmed me. Observing a troubled quality in my glance, he smiled benignantly.
“You are puzzled, Hastings? You ask yourself why I do not launch myself in pursuit?”
“Well—something of the kind.”
“It is what you would do, were you in my place. I understand that. But I am not of those who enjoy rushing up and down a country seeking a needle in a haystack, as you English say. No—let Mademoiselle Bella Duveen go. Without doubt, I shall be able to find her when the time comes. Until then, I am content to wait.”
I stared at him doubtfully. Was he seeking to mislead me? I had an irritating feeling that, even now, he was master of the situation. My sense of superiority was gradually waning. I had contrived the girl’s escape, and evolved a brilliant scheme for saving her from the consequences of her rash act—but I could not rest easy in my mind. Poirot’s perfect calm awakened a thousand apprehensions.
“I suppose, Poirot,” I said rather diffidently, “I mustn’t ask what your plans are? I’ve forfeited the right.”
“But not at all. There is no secret about them. We return to France without delay.”
“We?”
“Precisely—‘we!’ You know very well that you cannot afford to let Papa Poirot out of your sight. Eh? is it not so, my friend? But remain in England by all means if you wish—”
I shook my head. He had hit the nail on the head. I could not afford to let him out of my sight. Although I could not expect his confidence after what had happened, I could still check his actions. The only danger to Bella lay with him. Giraud and the French police were indifferent to her existence. At all costs I must keep near Poirot.
Poirot observed me attentively as these reflections passed through my mind, and gave me a nod of satisfaction.
“I am right, am I not? And as you are quite capable of trying to follow me, disguised with some absurdity such as a false beard—which everyone would perceive, bien entendu—I much prefer that we should voyage together. It would annoy me greatly that anyone should mock themselves at you.”
“Very well, then. But it’s only fair to warn you—”
“I know—I know all. You are my enemy! Be my enemy, then. It does not worry me at all.”
“So long as it’s all fair and aboveboard, I don’t mind.”
“You have to the full the English passion for ‘fair play!’ Now your scruples are satisfied, let us depart immediately. There is no time to be lost. Our stay in England has been short but sufficient. I know—what I wanted to know.”
The tone was light, but I read a veiled menace into the words.
“Still—” I began, and stopped.
“Still—as you say! Without doubt you are satisfied with the part you are playing. Me, I preoccupy myself with Jack Renauld.”
Jack Renauld! The words gave me a start. I had completely forgotten that aspect of the case. Jack Renauld, in prison, with the shadow of the guillotine looming over him. I saw the part I was playing in a more sinister light. I could save Bella—yes, but in doing so I ran the risk of sending an innocent man to his death.
I pushed the thought from me with horror. It could not be. He would be acquitted. Certainly he would be acquitted. But the cold fear came back. Suppose he were not? What then? Could I have it on my conscience—horrible thought! Would it come to that in the end? A decision. Bella or Jack Renauld? The promptings of my heart were to save the girl I loved at any cost to myself. But, if the cost were to another, the problem was altered.
What would the girl herself say? I remembered that no word of Jack Renauld’s arrest had passed my lips. As yet she was in total ignorance of the fact that her former lover was in prison charged with a hideous crime which he had not committed. When she knew, how would she act? Would she permit her life to be saved at the expense of his? Certainly she must do nothing rash. Jack Renauld might, and probably would, be acquitted without any intervention on her part. If so, good. But if he was not! That was the terrible, the unanswerable problem. I fancied that she ran no risk of the extreme penalty. The circumstances of the crime were quite different in her case. She could plead jealousy and extreme provocation, and her youth and beauty would go for much. The fact that by a tragic mistake it was Mr. Renauld, and not his son, who paid the penalty would not alter the motive of the crime. But in any case, however lenient the sentence of the Court, it must mean a long term of imprisonment.
No, Bella must be protected. And, at the same time, Jack Renauld must be saved. How this was to be accomplished I did not see clearly. But I pinned my faith to Poirot. He knew. Come what might, he would manage to save an innocent man. He must find some pretext other than the real one. It might be difficult, but he would manage it somehow. And with Bella unsuspected, and Jack Renauld acquitted, all would end satisfactorily.
So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still remained a cold fear.
Twenty-four
“SAVE HIM!”
We crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following morning saw us in St. Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot lost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any objections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.
After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the examining magistrate’s room. He greeted us cordially.
“I was told that you had returned to England, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad to find that such is not the case.”
“It is true I went there, monsieur, but it was only for a flying visit. A side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.”
“And it did—eh?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.
“We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one making a mistake.”
“You think not?”
It was the examining magistrate’s turn to shrug his shoulders.
“Oh, well, speaking frankly—in confidence, of course—can you come to any other conclusion?”
“Frankly, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.”
“Such as—?”
But Poirot was not to be drawn.
“I have not yet tabulated them,” he remarked. “It was a general reflection that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for himself on the matter?”
The magistrate frowned.
“I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He contents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a most obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow, perhaps you would like to be present?”
We accepted the invitation with empressement.
“A distressing case,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “My sympathy for Madame Renauld is profound.”
“How is Madame Renauld?”
“She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger, but that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It was, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused her present state. It would be terrible if her brain became unhinged; but I should not wonder at all—no, really, not at all.”
M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful enjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect.
He roused himself at length, and observed with a start:
“That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, Monsieur Poirot. Let me see, where did I put it?”
He proceeded to rummage among his papers. At last he found the missive, and handed it to Poirot.
“It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,” he explained. “But as you left no address I could not do so.”
Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping, foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman’s. Poirot did not open it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.
“Till tomorrow then. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.”
“But not at all. I am always at your service.”
We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with Giraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with himself.