her cheeks, but she replied composedly:
‘No, who was that?’
‘A lady.’
‘Indeed?’
But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connexion with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs Renauld more than necessary.
He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this he took the dagger.
‘Madame,’ he said gently, ‘do you recognize this?’
She gave a little cry.
‘Yes, that is my little dagger.’ Then she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. ‘Is that—blood?’
‘Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.’ He removed it hastily from sight. ‘You are quite sure about its being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?’
‘Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.’ There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. ‘This was made from a streamline aeroplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.’
‘I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.’
‘Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Aires.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Aires last night, and he wired him to catch it.’
‘Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Aires was?’
‘No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Aires is not my son’s final destination. He was going overland from there to Santiago.’
And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed:
‘Santiago! Again Santiago!’
It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that word, that Poirot approached Mrs Renauld. He had been standing by the window like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what had passed. He paused by the lady’s side with a bow.
‘Pardon, madame, but may I examine your wrists?’
Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs Renauld held them out to him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten into the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of excitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared.
‘They must cause you great pain,’ he said, and once more he looked puzzled.
But the magistrate was speaking excitedly.
‘Young Monsieur Renauld must be communicated with at once by wireless. It is vital that we should know anything he can tell us about this trip to Santiago.’ He hesitated. ‘I hoped he might have been near at hand, so that we could have saved you pain, madame.’ He paused.
‘You mean,’ she said in a low voice, ‘the identification of my husband’s body?’
The magistrate bowed his head.
‘I am a strong woman, monsieur. I can bear all that is required of me. I am ready—now.’
‘Oh, tomorrow will be quite soon enough, I assure you—’
‘I prefer to get it over,’ she said in a low tone, a spasm of pain crossing her face. ‘If you will be so good as to give me your arm, doctor?’
The doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs Renauld’s shoulders, and a slow procession went down the stairs. M. Bex hurried on ahead to open the door of the shed. In a minute or two Mrs Renauld appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but resolute. She raised her hand to her face.
‘A moment, messieurs, while I steel myself.’
She took her hand away and looked down at the dead man. Then the marvellous self-control which had upheld her so far deserted her.
‘Paul!’ she cried. ‘Husband! Oh, God!’ And pitching forward she fell unconscious to the ground.
Instantly Poirot was beside her, he raised the lid of her eye, felt her pulse. When he had satisfied himself that she had really fainted, he drew aside. He caught me by the arm.
‘I am an imbecile, my friend! If ever there was love and grief in a woman’s voice, I heard it then. My little idea was all wrong. Eh bien! I must start again!’
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