“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 husband obtained an ascendancy over her, this boy might never touch a penny of his father’s money.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Man is a vain animal. M. Renauld figured to himself, without doubt, that his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have been a wise precaution to leave the money in his mother’s hands. The sons of rich men are proverbially wild.”
“It may be as you say. Now, M. Poirot, you would without doubt like to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been removed, but of course photographs have been taken from every conceivable angle, and will be at your disposal as soon as they are available.”
“I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.”
The commissary rose.
“Come with me, monsieurs.”
He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him. Poirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.
“Monsieur.”
“Monsieur.”
At last they got out into the hall.
“That room there, it is the study, hein?” asked Poirot suddenly, nodding towards the door opposite.
“Yes. You would like to see it?” He threw the door open as he spoke, and we entered.
