Vintage Murder Mysteries - Ultimate Anthology. Эдгар Аллан По
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 only 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 wrist watch—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 wrist watch 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 June 7th.”
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.”
Poirot looked at me sadly, and shook his head. “Mon Dieu! But it is triste! A good intelligence—and so deplorably lacking in method. There is an exercise most excellent for the development of the little grey cells. I will impart it to you—”
“For Heaven’s sake, not now! You really are the most irritating of fellows, Poirot. For goodness’ sake, get on and tell me who killed M. 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 M. Renauld displays a distinct change of view and action—three psychological points therefore. The occurs immediately after arriving in Merlinville, the second after quarrelling with his son on a certain subject, the third on the morning of June 7th. 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 M. Renauld’s son and her daughter. But the cause of No. 3 is hidden from us. We have to deduce it. Now, mon ami, let me ask you a question; who 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 was Georges Conneau who dictated the lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack Renauld, 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 who Madame Renauld did love.”
I shook my head perplexed.
“Mais, oui, you know perfectly. Who 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 M. Renauld?”
“That may be true enough, but—”
“And is it not a fact that we know nothing of M. 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 it, my friend?”
“Why, we have admitted Georges Conneau 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!”
22. I Find Love
For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand. Then, summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same time, I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.
He rose briskly to his feet.
“We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all despatch. All is well—the sea it will be calm!”
In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the boat, secure from Poirot’s observation (he, as usual, was “practising the method most excellent of Laverguier”) I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know? Was he aware that my acquaintance of the train and Bella Duveen were one and the same? Why had he gone to the Hôtel du Phare? On my behalf as I had believed? Or had I only fatuously thought so, and was this visit undertaken with a deeper and more sinister purpose?
But in any case, why was he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld commit the crime? Or did he suspect—but that was impossible! The girl had no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible motive for wishing his death. What had brought her back to the scene of the murder? I went over the facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais where I parted from her that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on the boat. If she had dined in Calais, and then taken a train out to Merlinville, she would have arrived at the Villa Geneviève just about the time that Françoise said. What had she done when she left the house just after ten? Presumably either gone to an hotel, or returned to Calais. And then? The crime had been committed on Tuesday night. On Thursday morning, she was once more in Merlinville. Had she ever left France at all? I doubted it very much. What kept her there—the hope of seeing Jack Renauld? I had told her (as at the time we believed) that he was on the high seas en route to Buenos Ayres. Possibly she was aware that the Anzora