eh?” finished Poirot. “But yes, by all means, I was about to propose such an arrangement myself.”
Jack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself out, and ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa Geneviève.
“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember how we arrived here that first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauld’s murder?”
“Ah! yes, truly. Not so long ago, either. But what a lot of things have happened since then—especially for you, mon ami!”
“Poirot, what have you done about finding Bel—I mean Dulcie?”
“Calm yourself, Hastings. I arrange everything.”
“You’re being a precious long time about it,” I grumbled.
Poirot changed the subject.
“Then the beginning, now the end,” he moralized, as we rang the bell. “And, considered as a case, the end is profoundly unsatisfactory.”
“Yes, indeed,” I sighed.
“You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That was not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt with leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls. I spoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and regular, such as a detective delights in. The mise en scène designed by Georges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the denouement—ah, no! A man killed by accident in a girl’s fit of anger—ah, indeed, what order or method is there in that?”
And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot’s peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise.
Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time before Poirot reappeared.
“Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre, but there are squalls ahead!”
“What do you mean?” I cried.
“I would hardly have credited it,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “but women are very unexpected.”
198
