“Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about its being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?”
“Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the air force during the war. He gave his age as older than it was.” There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. "This was made from an airplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir.”
“I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.”
“Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Aires.”
“What?"
“Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary tor him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Aires last night, and he wired him to catch it.”
“Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Aires was?”
“No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Aires is not my son’s final destination. He was going overland from there to Santiago.”
And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed, “Santiago! Again Santiago!”
It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that word, that Poirot approached Mrs. Renauld. He had been standing by the window like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what had passed. He paused by the lady’s side with a bow.
“Pardon, madame, but may I examine your wrists?”
Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs. Renauld held them out to him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords bad bitten into the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of excitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared.
“They must cause you great pain,” he said, and once more he looked puzzled.
40
