most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom M. Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is away on a holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, M. Jack Renauld. He, too, is away from home at present.”
Poirot bowed his head.
M. Hautet spoke: “Marchand!”
The sergent de ville appeared.
“Bring in the woman Françoise.”
The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two, he returned, escorting the frightened Françoise.
“Your name is Françoise Arrichet?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?”
“Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the villa this spring, I consented to remain on with the English milord. Never did I imagine—”
The magistrate cut her short.
“Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?”
“Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.”
“And last night?”
“I fastened it as usual.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.”
“What time would that be?”
“The same time as usual, half-past ten, monsieur.”
“What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?”
“Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me. Monsieur was still in his study.”
“Then, if anyone unfastened the door afterward, it must have been M. Renauld himself?”
Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.
“What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins
20
