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.
“But you must have known, I expostulated. You were taken up to see her this afternoon.”
Poirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment.
“She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room; her boudoir,” he explained.
“But, monsieur,” cried Françoise, “Madame changed her room almost immediately after the crimes. The associations... they were too distressing!”
“Then why was I not told?” vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and working himself into a first-clas
