“My view exactly. Then we must look for the explanation of the letter—”
“In Santiago,” finished the commissary. “I shall cable without delay to the police in that city, requesting full details of the murdered man’s life out there, his love affairs, his business transactions, his friendships, and any enmities he may have incurred. It will be strange if, after that, we do not hold a clue to his mysterious murder.”
The commissary looked round for approval.
“Excellent,” said Poirot appreciatively.
“His wife, too, may be able to give us a pointer,” added the magistrate.
“You have found no other letters from this Bella among M. Renauld’s effects?” asked Poirot.
“No. Of course one of our first proceedings was to search through his private papers in the study. We found nothing of interest, however. All seemed square and aboveboard. The only thing at all out of the ordinary was his will. Here it is.”
Poirot ran through the document.
“So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr. Stonor—who is he, by the way?”
“M. Renauld’s secretary. He remained in England, but was over here once or twice for a week-end.”
“And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise. Simply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants, Denise and Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.” He handed it back.
“Perhaps,” began Bex, “you did not notice—"
“The date?” twinkled Poirot. “But yes, I noticed it. A fortnight ago. Possibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men die intestate through never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it is dangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his having a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous intrigues.”
“Yes,” said M. Hautet doubtfully. “But it is possibly a little unfair on his son, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother. If she were to marry again, and her second hus-
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