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 dénouement—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. He was looking unusually grave.
“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.”
“Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,” I exclaimed, looking out of the window.