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“
But
who
is
it
?
”
I
cried
.
“
The
murderer
of
M
.
Renauld
,
Hastings
.
And
the
would
-
be
murderer
of
Madame
Renauld
.
”
Puzzled
and
uncomprehending
,
I
knelt
down
,
and
lifting
the
fold
of
cloth
,
looked
into
the
dead
beautiful
face
of
Marthe
Daubreuil
!
I
have
confused
memories
of
the
further
events
of
that
night
.
Poirot
seemed
deaf
to
my
repeated
questions
.
He
was
engaged
in
overwhelming
Françoise
with
reproaches
for
not
having
told
him
of
Mrs
.
Renauld
’
s
change
of
sleeping
quarters
.
I
caught
him
by
the
shoulder
,
determined
to
attract
his
attention
,
and
make
myself
heard
.
“
But
you
must
have
known
,
”
I
expostulated
.
“
You
were
taken
up
to
see
her
this
afternoon
.
”
Poirot
deigned
to
attend
to
me
for
a
brief
moment
.
“
She
had
been
wheeled
on
a
sofa
into
the
middle
room
—
her
boudoir
,
”
he
explained
.
“
But
,
monsieur
,
”
cried
Françoise
,
“
Madame
changed
her
room
almost
immediately
after
the
crime
!
The
associations
—
they
were
too
distressing
!
”
“
Then
why
was
I
not
told
,
”
vociferated
Poirot
,
striking
the
table
,
and
working
himself
into
a
first
-
class
passion
.
“
I
demand
you
—
why
—
was
—
I
—
not
—
told
?
You
are
an
old
woman
completely
imbecile
!
And
Léonie
and
Denise
are
no
better
.
All
of
you
are
triple
idiots
!
Your
stupidity
has
nearly
caused
the
death
of
your
mistress
.
But
for
this
courageous
child
—
”
