We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon Léonie’s arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.
“Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor’s orders!”
But Mrs. Renauld came on.
“Mother,” cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she drove him back.
“I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour I renounce you.”
“Mother,” cried the lad, stupefied.
For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself.
“Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest enemy!”
And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs.
We were all dumbfounded—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.
“He is overdone,” murmured Poirot to Marthe. “Where can we take him?”
“But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I. My poor Jack!”
We got the lad to the Villa, where he dropped limply on to a chair in a semi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands.
“He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top of it. Get him to bed, and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.”
A doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as his opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and quiet, the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there was a chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for some one to sit up all night with him.
Finally, having done all we could, we left him in the charge of Marthe and her mother, and set out for the town. It was past our usual hour of dining, and we were both famished. The first restaurant we came to assuaged the pangs of hunger with an excellent _omelette___, and an equally excellent _entrecôte___ to follow.
“And now for quarters for the night,” said Poirot, when at length _café noir___ had completed the meal. “Shall we try our old friend, the Hôtel des Bains?”
We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be accommodated with two good rooms overlooking the sea. Then Poirot asked a question which surprised me.
“Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?”
“Yes, monsieur. She is in the little _salon___.”
“Ah!”
“Poirot,” I cried, keeping pace with him as he walked along the corridor, “who on earth is Miss Robinson?”
Poirot beamed kindly on me.
“It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.”
“But, I say—”
“Bah!” said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the door. “Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of Duveen?”
It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hands in both of mine. My eyes said the rest.
Poirot cleared his throat.
“_Mes enfants___,” he said, “for the moment we have no time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked you?”
In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in paper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start—for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the sea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most compromising of objects and documents!
“_Très bien, mon enfant___,” said Poirot. “I am pleased with you. Go now and rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” asked the girl, her eyes widening.
“You shall hear all about it tomorrow.”
“Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.”
“But mademoiselle—”
“I’m coming too, I tell you.”
Poirot realized that it was futile to argue further. He gave in.
“Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability nothing will happen.”
The girl made no reply.
Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close, oppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused.
“I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld. Come with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside. Madame Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.”
We unlatched the gate, and walked up the path. As we went round to the side of the house, I drew Poirot’s attention to a window on the first floor. Thrown sharply on the blind was the profile of Marthe Daubreuil.
“Ah!” said Poirot. “I figure to myself that that is the room where we shall find Jack Renauld.”
Madame Daubreuil opened the door to us. She explained that Jack was much the same, but perhaps we would like to see for ourselves. She led us upstairs and into the bedroom. Marthe Daubreuil was embroidering by a table with a lamp on it. She put her finger to her lips as we entered.
Jack Renauld was sleeping an uneasy fitful sleep, his head turning from side to side, and his face still unduly flushed.
“Is the doctor coming again?” asked Poirot in a whisper.
“Not unless we send. He is sleeping—that is the great thing. _Maman___ made him a tisane.”
She sat down again with her embroidery as we left the room. Madame Daubreuil accompanied us down the stairs. Since I had learned of her past history, I viewed this woman with increased interest. She stood there with her eyes cast down, the same very faint enigmatical smile that I remembered on her lips. And suddenly I felt afraid of her, as one might feel afraid of a beautiful poisonous snake.
“I hope we have not deranged you, madame,” said Poirot politely as she opened the door for us to pass out.
“Not at all, monsieur.”
“By the way,” said Poirot, as though struck by an afterthought, “M. Stonor has not been in Merlinville today, has he?”
I could not at all fathom the point of this question which I well knew to be meaningless as far as Poirot was concerned.
Madame Daubreuil replied quite composedly:
“Not that I know of.”
“He has not had an interview with Mrs. Renauld?”
“How should I know that, monsieur?”
“True,” said Poirot. “I thought you might have seen him coming or going, that is all. Good night, madame.”
“Why—” I began.
“No ‘_whys___,’ Hastings. There will be time for that later.”
We rejoined Cinderella and made our way rapidly in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. Poirot looked over his shoulder once at the lighted window and the profile of Marthe as she bent over her work.
“He is being guarded at all events,” he muttered.
Arrived at the Villa Geneviève, Poirot took up his stand behind some bushes to the left of the drive, where, whilst enjoying a good view ourselves, we were completely hidden from sight. The Villa itself was in total darkness, everybody was without doubt in bed and asleep. We were almost immediately under the window of Mrs. Renauld’s bedroom, which window, I noticed, was open. It seemed to me that it was upon this spot that Poirot’s eyes were fixed.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered.
“Watch.”
“But—”
“I do not expect anything to happen for at least an hour, probably two hours, but the—”
But his words were interrupted by a long thin drawn cry:
“Help!”
A light flashed up in the second floor room on the right hand side of the house. The cry came from there. And even as we watched there came a shadow on the blind as of two people struggling.
“_Mille tonnerres!___” cried Poirot. “She must have changed her room!”
Dashing forward, he battered wildly on the front door. Then rushing to the tree in the flower-bed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I followed him, as with a bound he sprang in through the open window. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Dulcie reaching the branch behind me.
“Take care,” I exclaimed.
“Take care of your grandmother!” retorted the girl. “This is child’s play to me.”
Poirot had rushed through the empty room and was pounding on the door leading into the corridor.
“Locked and bolted on the outside,” he growled. “And it will take time to burst it open.”
The cries for help were getting noticeably fainter. I saw despair in Poirot’s eyes. He and I together put our shoulders to the door.
Cinderella’s voice, calm and dispassionate, came from the window:
“You’ll be too late, I guess I’m the only one who can do anything.”
Before I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap upward into space. I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her hanging by her hands from the roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the direction of the lighted window.
“Good heavens! She’ll be killed,” I cried.
“You forget. She’s a professional acrobat, Hastings. It was the providence of the good God that made her insist on coming with us tonight. I only pray that she may be in time. Ah!”