Убийство на поле для гольфа
7. The Mysterious Madame Daubreuil
Andthenanothervoice,muchthesameintimbre,butwithaslightlyharderinflectionbehinditsmellowroundnesssaid:
“Butcertainly.Askthemtoenter.”
InanotherminutewewerefacetofacewiththemysteriousMadameDaubreuil.
Shewasnotnearlysotallasherdaughter,andtheroundedcurvesofherfigurehadallthegraceoffullmaturity.Herhair,againunlikeherdaughter’s,wasdark,andpartedinthemiddleinthemadonnastyle.Hereyes,halfhiddenbythedroopinglids,wereblue.Therewasadimpleintheroundchin,andthehalfpartedlipsseemedalwaystohoveronthevergeofamysterioussmile.Therewassomethingalmostexaggeratedlyfeminineabouther,atonceyieldingandseductive.Thoughverywellpreserved,shewascertainlynolongeryoung,buthercharmwasofthequalitywhichisindependentofage.
Standingthere,inherblackdresswiththefreshwhitecollarandcuffs,herhandsclaspedtogether,shelookedsubtlyappealingandhelpless.
“Youwishedtoseeme,monsieur?”sheasked.
“Yes,madame.”M.Hautetclearedhisthroat.“IaminvestigatingthedeathofM.Renauld.Youhaveheardofit,nodoubt?”
Shebowedherheadwithoutspeaking.Herexpressiondidnotchange.
“Wecametoaskyouwhetheryoucan—er—throwanylightuponthecircumstancessurroundingit?”
“I?”Thesurpriseofhertonewasexcellent.
“Yes,madame.Itwould,perhaps,bebetterifwecouldspeaktoyoualone.”Helookedmeaninglyinthedirectionofthegirl.
MadameDaubreuilturnedtoher.
“Marthe,dear—”
Butthegirlshookherhead.
“No,maman,Iwillnotgo.
