Christmas Murder Mystery Boxed-Set. Эдгар Аллан По
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Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?”
“That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one, cellela!” The old woman tossed her head scornfully.
“Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary. “Impossible.”
“Voilà,” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the truth.”
“Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were—” he paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without doubt?”
“How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was milor anglais—trés riche—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one—and trés chic for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer young, but ma foi! I who speak to you have seen the men’s heads turn after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she has had more money to spend—all the town knows it. The little economies, they are at an end.” And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable certainty.
M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.
“And Madame Renauld?” he asked at length. “How did she take this—friendship.”
Françoise shrugged her shoulders.
“She was always most amiable—most polite. One would say that she suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur? Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair conducted such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. Style anglais, without doubt!”
I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.
“You say that M. Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she left, then?”
“Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door. Monsieur said good night, and shut the door after her.”
“What time was that?”
“About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.”
“Do you know when M. Renauld went to bed?”
“I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so that one hears every one who goes up and down.”
“And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?”
“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”
“Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?”
“I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.”
“What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?”
“Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place anywhere.”
“Good, Françoise, you can go.”
The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked back.
“I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember that.” And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.
“Léonie Oulard,” called the magistrate.
Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M. Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the night.
Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had changed greatly of late.
“Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always depressed.” But Denise had her own theory. “Without doubt it was the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A terrible society that!”
“It is, of course, possible,” said the magistrate smoothly. “Now, my girl, was it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last night?”
“Not last night, monsieur, the night before.”
“But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last night?”
“No, monsieur. A lady did come to see M. Renauld last night, but it was not Madame Daubreuil.”
Surprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew Madame Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but shorter, and much younger. Nothing could shake her statement.
“Had you ever seen this lady before?”
“Never, monsieur.” And then the girl added diffidently: “But I think she was English.”
“English?”
“Yes, monsieur. She asked for M. Renauld in quite good French, but the accent—one can always tell it, n’est-ce pas? Besides when they came out of the study they were speaking in English.”
“Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?”
“Me, I speak the English very well,” said Denise with pride. “The lady was speaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I heard Monsieur’s last words as he opened the door for her.” She paused, and then repeated carefully and laboriously:
“ ‘Yeas—yeas—butt for Gaud’s saike go nauw!’ ”
“Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now!” repeated the magistrate.
He dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled Françoise. To her he propounded the question as to whether she had not made a mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil’s visit. Françoise, however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame Daubreuil had come. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make herself interesting, voilà tout! So she had cooked up this fine tale about a strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English too! Probably Monsieur had never spoken that sentence in English at all, and even if he had, it proved nothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used that language when talking to M. and Madame Renauld. “You see, M. Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the French very badly.”
The magistrate did not insist. Instead he inquired about the chauffeur, and learned that only yesterday, M. Renauld had declared that he was not likely to use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a holiday.
A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s eyes.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:
“Pardon, M. Bex, but without doubt M. Renauld could drive the car himself?”
The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied promptly:
“No, Monsieur did not drive himself.”
Poirot’s frown deepened.
“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said impatiently.
“See you not? In his letter M. Renauld speaks of sending the car for me to Calais.”
“Perhaps he meant a hired car,” I suggested.
“Doubtless that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your own. Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday—suddenly, at a moment’s notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him out of the way before we arrived?”