“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, while 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 eves 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.
203
