“Dead?”
She nodded.
“I think so.”
“Head must have struck the marble fender.”
“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!
28
Journey’s End
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.