“Bien,” said Bex. “This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, one named Duveen.”
“The former, I fancy,” said Poirot, “for, if I am not mistaken, the handwriting is that of M. Renauld.”
That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk.
“Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”
Poirot laughed.
“The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As soon as I saw that the hearth-rug was out of the straight, I said to myself: ‘Tiens! The leg of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly there may be something beneath it which the good Françoise overlooked.’ ”
“Françoise?”
“Or Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust, the room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like this. Yesterday, possibly last night, M. Renauld drew a cheque to the order of some one named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered on the floor. This morning—” But M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell.
Françoise answered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What else?
With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face lightening, he ran to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead man’s cheque book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last counterfoil was blank.
“Courage!” cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. “Without doubt, Madame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person named Duveen.”
The commissary’s face cleared. “That is true. Let us proceed.”
