# LongBench v2 / 66ec3aff821e116aacb1c52e

task_id: 1b19248d-652a-585b-a546-08303ba07f09
task_key: train--66ec3aff821e116aacb1c52e
task_revision_id: 1

{"choice_A":"Eloise Renauld did not grieve upon first hearing of her husband's death because she no longer loved him.","choice_B":"The overcoat that Paul Renauld was wearing when he died did not fit him because he had mistakenly put on the vagrant's overcoat.","choice_C":"Bella Duveen killed Paul Renauld.","choice_D":"Madame Daubreuil overheard Paul Renauld's plan of feigning death, and took action.","context":"Murder on the Links\n\nChapter 1\nA FELLOW-TRAVELLER\nI believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young\nwriter, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and\noriginal enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors,\npenned the following sentence:\n'“Hell!” said the Duchess.'\nStrangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion.\nOnly the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a duchess.\nIt was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris\nand was returning by the morning service to London, where I was still\nsharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.\nThe Calais express was singularly empty - in fact, my own compartment\nheld only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure\nfrom the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all\nmy traps, when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my\ncompanion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her existence.\nJumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck her head out,\nwithdrawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible ejaculation 'Hell!'\nNow I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I\nhave no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning\ntill night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a\nBillingsgate fishwoman blush!\nI looked up, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face, surmounted\nby a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls hid each ear. I judged\nthat she was little more than seventeen, but her face was covered with\npowder, and her lips were quite impossibly scarlet.\nNothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive\ngrimace.\n'Dear me, we've shocked the kind gentleman!' she observed to an\nimaginary audience. 'I apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and all\nthat, but, oh, Lord, there's reason enough for it! Do you know I've lost my\nonly sister?'\n'Really?' I said politely. 'How unfortunate.'\n'He disapproves.' remarked the lady. 'He disapproves utterly - of me, and\nmy sister - which last is unfair, because he hasn't seen her!'\n\n\nI opened my mouth, but she forestalled me.\n'Say no more! Nobody loves me! I shall go into the garden and eat\nworms! Boohoo. I am crushed!'\nShe buried herself behind a large comic French paper. In a minute or\ntwo, I saw her eyes stealthily peeping at me over the top. In spite of myself\nI could not help smiling, and in a minute she had tossed the paper aside, and\nhad burst into a merry peal of laughter.\n'I knew you weren't such a mutt as you looked,' she cried.\nHer laughter was so infectious that I could not help joining in, though I\nhardly cared for the word 'mutt'.\n'There! Now we're friends!' declared the minx. 'Say you're sorry about\nmy sister -'\n'I am desolated!'\n'That's a good boy!'\n'Let me finish. I was going to add that, although I am desolated, I can\nmanage to put up with her absence very well.' I made a little bow.\nBut this most unaccountable of damsels frowned and shook her head.\n'Cut it out. I prefer the “dignified disapproval” stunt. Oh, your face!\n“Not one of us”, it said. And you were right there - though, mind you, it's\npretty hard to tell nowadays. It's not everyone who can distinguish between\na 'demi' and a duchess. There now, I believe I've shocked you again! You've\nbeen dug out of the backwoods, you have. Not that I mind that. We could do\nwith a few more of your sort. I just hate a fellow who gets fresh. It makes\nme mad.'\nShe shook her head vigorously.\n'What are you like when you're mad?' I inquired with a smile.\n'A regular little devil! Don't care what I say, or what I do, either! I\nnearly did a chap in once. Yes, really. He'd have deserved it, too.'\n'Well,' I begged, 'don't get mad with me.'\n'I shan't. I like you - did the first moment I set eyes on you. But you\nlooked so disapproving that I never thought we should make friends.'\n'Well, we have. Tell me something about yourself.'\n'I'm an actress. No - not the kind you're thinking of. I've been on the\nboards since I was a kid of six - tumbling.'\n'I beg your pardon,' I said, puzzled.\n'Haven't you ever seen child acrobats?'\n'Oh, I understand!'\n\n\n'I'm American born, but I've spent most of my life in England. We've\ngot a new show now -'\n'We?'\n'My sister and I. Sort of song and dance, and a bit of patter, and a dash\nof the old business thrown in. It's quite a new idea, and it hits them every\ntime. There's going to be money in it...'\nMy new acquaintance leaned forward, and discoursed volubly, a great\nmany of her terms being quite unintelligible to me. Yet I found myself\nevincing an increasing interest in her. She seemed such a curious mixture of\nchild and woman. Though perfectly wordly-wise, and able, as she expressed\nit, to take care of herself, there was yet something curiously ingenuous in\nher single-minded attitude towards life, and her whole-hearted\ndetermination to 'make good'.\nWe passed through Amiens. The name awakened many memories. My\ncompanion seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of what was in my mind.\n'Thinking of the War?'\nI nodded.\n'You were through it, I suppose?'\n'Pretty well. I was wounded once, and after that they invalided me out\naltogether. I'm a sort of private secretary now to an MP.'\n'My! That's brainy!'\n'No, it isn't. There's really awfully little to do. Usually a couple of hours\nevery day sees me through. It's dull work too. In fact, I don't know what I\nshould do if I hadn't got something to fall back upon.'\n'Don't say you collect bugs!'\n'No. I share rooms with a very interesting man. He's a Belgian - an ex-\ndetective. He's set up as a private detective in London, and he's doing\nextraordinarily well. He's really a very marvellous little man. Time and\nagain he has proved to be right where the official police have failed.'\nMy companion listened with widening eyes.\n'Isn't that interesting, now? I just adore crime. I go to all the mysteries\non the movies. And when there's a murder on I just devour the papers.'\n'Do you remember the Styles Case?' I asked.\n'Let me see, was that the old lady who was poisoned? Somewhere down\nin Essex?'\nI nodded.\n\n\n'That was Poirot's first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him the murderer\nwould have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of detective\nwork.'\nWarming to my subject, I ran over the heads of the affair, working up to\nthe triumphant and unexpected denouement.\nThe girl listened spellbound. In fact, we were so absorbed that the train\ndrew into Calais station before we realized it.\nI secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform.\nMy companion held out her hand.\n'Goodbye, and I'll mind my language better in future.'\n'Oh, but surely you'll let me look after you on the boat?'\n'Mayn't be on the boat. I've got to see whether that sister of mine got\naboard after all anywhere. But thanks, all the same.'\n'Oh, but we're going to meet again, surely? Aren't you even going to tell\nme your name.' I cried as she turned away.\nShe looked over her shoulder.\n'Cinderella,' she said, and laughed.\nBut little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again!\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 2\nAN APPEAL FOR HELP\nIt was five minutes past nine when I entered our joint sitting-room for\nbreakfast on the following morning. My friend Poirot, exact to the minute\nas usual, was just tapping the shell of his second egg.\nHe beamed upon me as I entered.\n'You have slept well, yes? You have recovered from the crossing so\nterrible? It is a marvel, almost you are exact this morning. Pardon, but your\ntie is not symmetrical. Permit that I rearrange him.'\nElsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little\nman! Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one\nside, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache,\nair of dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For\nneatness of any kind he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set\ncrookedly, or a speck of dust, or a slight disarray in one's attire, was torture\nto the little man until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter.\n'Order' and 'Method' were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible\nevidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that\ntaken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a\nproblem. Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency,\nand remark with great satisfaction:\n'The true work, it is done from within. The little grey cells - remember\nalways the little grey cells, mon ami!'\nI slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirot's greeting,\nthat an hour's sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be dignified by\nthe epitet 'terrible'.\n'Anything interesting come by the post?' I asked.\nPoirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air.\n'I have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives\nnowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist.'\nHe shook his head despondently, and I roared with laughter.\n'Cheer up, Poirot, the luck will change. Open your letters. For all you\nknow, there may be a great case looming on the horizon.'\nPoirot smiled, and taking up the neat little letter opener with which he\nopened his correspondence he slit the tops of the several envelopes that lay\nby his plate.\n\n\n'A bill. Another bill. It is that I grow extravagant in my old age. Aha! a\nnote from Japp.'\n'Yes?' I pricked up my ears. The Scotland Yard Inspector had more than\nonce introduced us to an interesting case.\n'He merely thanks me (in his fashion) for a little point in the\nAberystwyth Case on which I was able to set him right. I am delighted to\nhave been of service to him.'\nPoirot continued to read his correspondence placidly.\n'A suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local Boy Scouts. The\nCountess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another\nlap-dog without doubt! And now for the last. Ah -'\nI looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading\nattentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me.\n'This is out of the ordinary, mon ami. Read for yourself.'\nThe letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic\nhand:\n'Villa Geneviève\nMerlinville-sur-Mer\nFrance\nDear Sir,\nI am in need of the services of a detective and for reasons which I will\ngive you here, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard of you\nfrom several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only a\nman of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be discreet. I do not\nwish to trust details to the post, but, on account of a secret I possess, I go in\ndaily fear of my life. I am convinced that the danger is imminent, and\ntherefore I beg that you will lose no time in crossing to France. I will send a\ncar to meet you at Calais, if you will wire me when you are arriving. I shall\nbe obliged if you will drop all cases you have on hand, and devote yourself\nsolely to my interests. I am prepared to pay any compensation necessary. I\nshall probably need your services for a considerable period of time, as it\nmay be necessary for you to go out to Santiago where I spent several years\nof my life. I shall be content for you to name your own fee.\nAssuring you once more that the matter is urgent.\nYours faithfully,\nP.T. Renauld'\nBelow the signature was a hastily scrawled line, almost illegible:\n\n\n'For God's sake, come!'\nI handed the letter back with quickened pulses.\n'At last!' I said. 'Here is something distinctly out of the ordinary.'\n'Yes, indeed,' said Poirot meditatively.\n'You will go of course,' I continued.\nPoirot nodded. He was thinking deeply. Finally he seemed to make up\nhis mind, and glanced up at the clock. His face was very grave.\n'See you, my friend, there is no time to lose. The Continental express\nleaves Victoria at 11 o'clock. Do not agitate yourself. There is plenty of\ntime. We can allow ten minutes for discussion. You accompany me, n'est-ce\npas?'\n'Well...'\n'You told me yourself that your employer needed you not for the next\nfew weeks.'\n'Oh, that's all right. But this Mr Renauld hints strongly that his business\nis private.'\n'Ta-ta-ta - I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, you seem to know the\nname?'\n'There's a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His name's\nRenauld. I don't know whether it could be the same.'\n'But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is\nin Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah, but we progress finely! You\nremarked the postscript? How did it strike you?'\nI considered.\n'Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end\nhis self-control snapped and on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled\nthose four desperate words.'\nBut my friend shook his head energetically.\n'You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is nearly\nblack, that of the postscript is quite pale?'\n'Well?' I said, puzzled.\n'Mon Dieu, mon ami, but use your little grey cells! Is it not obvious? M.\nRenauld wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he re-read it carefully. Then,\nnot on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last words, and blotted the\nsheet.'\n'But why?'\n\n\n'Parbleu! so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has upon\nyou.'\n'What?'\n'Mais oui - to make sure of my coming! He re-read the letter and was\ndissatisfied. It was not strong enough!'\nHe paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light\nthat always betokened inward excitement:\n'And so, mon ami, since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but\nsoberly, in cold blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as\nsoon as possible.'\n'Merlinville,' I murmured thoughtfully. 'I've heard of it, I think.'\nPoirot nodded.\n'It is a quiet little place - but chic! It lies about midway between\nBoulogne and Calais. Mr Renauld has a house in England, I suppose?'\n'Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the\ncountry, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about\nhim, he doesn't do much in a social way. I believe he has large South\nAmerican interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile\nand the Argentine.'\n'Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack.\nA small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.'\nEleven o'clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover.\nBefore starting Poirot had dispatched a telegram to Mr Renauld giving the\ntime of our arrival at Calais.\nOn the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend's solitude. The\nweather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond so\nI was hardly surprised when a smiling Poirot joined me on disembarking at\nCalais. A disappointment was in store for us, as no car had been sent to\nmeet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram having been delayed in\ntransit.\n'We will hire a car,' he said cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us\ncreaking and jolting along, in the most ram-shackle of automobiles that ever\nplied for hire, in the direction of Merlinville.\nMy spirits were at their highest, but my little friend was observing me\ngravely.\n'You are what the Scotch people call “fey”, Hastings. It presages\ndisaster.'\n\n\n'Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.'\n'No, but I am afraid.'\n'Afraid of what?'\n'I do not know. But I have a premonition - a je ne sai quoi!'\nHe spoke so gravely that I was impressed in spite of myself.\n'I have a feeling,' he said slowly, 'that this is going to be a big affair - a\nlong, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work out.'\nI would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the\nlittle town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the Villa\nGeneviève.\n'Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève is about\nhalf a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big Villa, over-looking the\nsea.'\nWe thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A\nfork in the road brought us to a second halt.\nA peasant was trudging towards us, and we waited for him to come up\nto us in order to ask the way again. There was a tiny Villa standing right by\nthe road, but it was too small and dilapidated to be the one we wanted. As\nwe waited, the gate of it swung open and a girl came out.\nThe peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his\nseat and asked for direction.\n'The Villa Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right,\nmonsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.'\nThe chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were\nfascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate, watching\nus. I am an admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody could have\npassed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a young goddess,\nher uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I swore to myself that\nshe was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. As we swung up the\nrough road, I turned my head to look after her.\n'By jove, Poirot,' I exclaimed, 'did you see that young goddess?'\nPoirot raised his eyebrows.\n'Ça commence?' he murmured. 'Already you have seen a goddess!'\n'But, hang it all, wasn't she?'\n'Possibly, I did not remark the fact.'\n'Surely you noticed her?'\n\n\n'Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a\ngoddess. I -' He hesitated.\n'Yes?'\n'I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,' said Poirot gravely.\nBut at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously,\nwe both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing sergent de\nville. He held up his hand to bar our way.\n'You cannot pass, messieurs.'\n'But we wish to see Mr Renauld,' I cried. 'We have an appointment. This\nis his Villa, isn't it?'\n'Yes, monsieur, but -'\nPoirot leaned forward.\n'But what?'\n'Monsieur Renauld was murdered this morning.'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 3\nAT THE VILLA GENEVIÈVE\nIn a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with\nexcitement.\n'What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?'\nThe sergent de ville drew himself up.\n'I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.'\n'True. I comprehend.' Poirot reflected for a minute. 'The Commissary of\nPolice, he is without doubt within?'\n'Yes, monsieur.'\nPoirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.\n'Voilà! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the\ncommissary at once?'\nThe man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a\nfew seconds a comrade joined him, and was handed Poirot's message. There\nwas a wait of some minutes, and then a short, stout man with a huge\nmoustache came bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and\nstood aside.\n'My dear Monsieur Poirot,' cried the newcomer, 'I am delighted to see\nyou. Your arrival is most opportune.'\nPoirot's face had lighted up.\n'Monsieur Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.' He turned to me. 'This is an\nEnglish friend of mine, Captain Hastings - Monsieur Lucien Bex.'\nThe commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex\nturned once more to Poirot.\n'Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. You\nhave information to give which may assist us?'\n'Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent for?'\n'No. By whom?'\n'The dead man. It seems that he knew an attempt was going to be made\non his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.'\n'Sacré tonnerre,' ejaculated the Frenchman. 'So he foresaw his own\nmurder. That upsets our theories considerably! But come inside.'\nHe held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house.\nM. Bex continued to talk:\n\n\n'The examining magistrate, Monsieur Hautet, must hear of this at once.\nHe has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin\nhis interrogations.'\n'When was the crime committed?' asked Poirot.\n'The body was discovered this morning about nine o'clock. Madame\nRenauld's evidence and that of the doctors goes to show that death must\nhave occurred about 2 a.m. But enter, I pray of you.'\nWe had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the Villa.\nIn the hall another sergent de ville was sitting. He rose at sight of the\ncommissary.\n'Where is Monsieur Hautet now?' inquired the latter.\n'In the hall, monsieur.'\nM. Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M.\nHautet and his clerk were sitting at a big round table. They looked up as we\nentered. The commissary introduced us, and explained our presence.\nM. Hautet, the Juge d'Instruction, was a tall gaunt man, with piercing\ndark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of caressing as\nhe talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man, with slightly\nstooping shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr Durand.\n'Most extraordinary,' remarked M. Hautet as the commissary finished\nspeaking. 'You have the letter here, monsieur?'\nPoirot handed it to him, and the magistrate read it.\n'H'm! He speaks of a secret. What a pity he was not more explicit. We\nare much indebted to you, Monsieur Poirot. I hope you will do us the\nhonour of assisting us in our investigations. Or are you obliged to return to\nLondon?'\n'Monsieur le juge, I propose to remain. I did not arrive in time to\nprevent my client's death, but I feel myself bound in honour to discover the\nassassin.'\nThe magistrate bowed.\n'These sentiments do you honour. Also, without doubt, Madame\nRenauld will wish to retain your services. We are expecting M. Giraud from\nthe Sûreté in Paris any moment, and I am sure that you and he will be able\nto give each other mutual assistance in your investigations. In the\nmeantime, I hope that you will do me the honour to be present at my\ninterrogations, and I need hardly say that if there is any assistance you\nrequire it is at your disposal.'\n\n\n'I thank you, monsieur. You will comprehend that at present I am\ncompletely in the dark. I know nothing whatever.'\nM. Hautet nodded to the commissary, and the latter took up the tale:\n'This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her\nwork, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to burglars,\nshe looked into the dining-room, but seeing the silver was safe she thought\nno more about it, concluding that her master had, without doubt, risen early,\nand gone for a stroll.'\n'Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of\nhis?'\n'No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the\nEnglish - that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable things\nat any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a young maid, Léonie,\nwas horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and almost at the same\nmoment news was brought that Monsieur Renauld's body had been\ndiscovered, stone-dead, stabbed in the back.'\n'Where?'\n'That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. Monsieur\nPoirot, the body was lying face downwards, on an open grave.'\n'What?'\n'Yes. The pit was freshly dug - just a few yards outside the boundary of\nthe Villa.'\n'And it had been dead how long?'\nDr Durand answered.\n'I examined the body this morning at ten o'clock. Death must have taken\nplace at least seven and possibly ten hours previously.'\n'H'm! that fixes it at between midnight and 3 am.'\n'Exactly, and Mrs Renauld's evidence places it at after 2 am, which\nnarrows the field still farther. Death must have been instantaneous, and\nnaturally could not have been self-inflicted.'\nPoirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:\n'Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by\nthe horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost\nunconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men\nentered the bed-room, gagged and bound her, while forcibly abducting her\nhusband. This we know at second hand from the servants. On hearing the\ntragic news she fell at once into an alarming state of agitation. On arrival,\n\n\nDr Durand immediately prescribed a sedative, and we have not yet been\nable to question her. But without doubt she will awake more calm, and be\nequal to bearing the strain of the interrogation.'\nThe commissary paused.\n'And the inmates of the home, monsieur?'\n'There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with\nthe former owners of the Villa Geneviève. Then there are two young girls,\nsisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville, and they\ncome of most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom\nMonsieur Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is away on\na holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, Monsieur Jack\nRenauld. He, too, is away from home at present.'\nPoirot bowed his head. M. Hautet spoke:\n'Marchaud!'\nThe sergent de ville appeared.\n'Bring in the woman Françoise.'\nThe man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two he returned,\nescorting the frightened Françoise.\n'Your name is Françoise Arrichet?'\n'Yes, monsieur.'\n'You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?'\n'Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the\nVilla this spring, I consented to remain on with the English tailor. Never did\nI imagine -'\nThe magistrate cut her short.\n'Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the\nfront door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?'\n'Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.'\n'And last night?'\n'I fastened it as usual.'\n'You are sure of that?'\n'I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.'\n'What time would that be?'\n'The same time as usual, half past ten, monsieur.'\n'What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?'\n'Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with\nme. Monsieur was still in his study.'\n\n\n'Then, if anyone unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been\nMonsieur Renauld himself.'\nFrançoise shrugged her broad shoulders.\n'What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every\nminute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he\nhad had to let the lady out -'\nThe magistrate interrupted sharply:\n'The lady? What lady do you mean?'\n'Why, the lady who came to see him.'\n'Had a lady been to see him that evening?'\n'But yes monsieur - and many other evenings as well.'\n'Who was she? Did you know her?'\nA rather cunning look spread over the woman's face.\n'How should I know who it was?' she grumbled. 'I did not let her in last\nnight.'\n'Aha!' roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a\nbang on the table. 'You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand\nthat you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit\nMonsieur Renauld in the evenings.'\n'The police - the police,' grumbled Françoise. 'Never did I think that I\nshould be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was.\nIt was Madame Daubreuil -'\nThe commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though\nin utter astonishment.\n'Madame Daubreuil - from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?'\n'That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one.'\nThe old woman tossed her head scornfully.\n'Madame Daubreuil,' murmured the commissary. 'Impossible.'\n'Voilà,' grumbled Françoise. 'That is all you get for telling the truth.'\n'Not at all,' said the examining magistrate soothingly. 'We were\nsurprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they\nwere - ?' He paused delicately. 'Eh? It was that without doubt?'\n'How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was milord\nanglais - très riche - and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one - and\ntrès chic, for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it,\nshe has had her history! She is no longer young, but ma foi! I who speak to\nyou have seen the men's heads turn after her as she goes down the street.\n\n\nBesides lately, she has had more money to spend - all the town knows it.\nThe little economies, they are at an end.' And Françoise shook her head\nwith an air of unalterable certainty.\nM. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.\n'And Madame Renauld?' he asked at length. 'How did she take this -\nfriendship?'\nFrançoise shrugged her shoulders.\n'She was always most amiable - most polite. One would say that she\nsuspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur?\nDay by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not\nthe same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has\nchanged. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the\nbrink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair\nconducted in such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. Style anglais -\nwithout doubt!'\nI bounded indignantly in my seat but the examining magistrate was\ncontinuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.\n'You say that Monsieur Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out?\nHad she left, then?'\n'Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door.\nMonsieur said good-night and shut the door after her.'\n'What time was that?'\n'About twenty-five minutes after midnight, monsieur.'\n'Do you know when Monsieur Renauld went to bed?'\n'I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so\nthat one hears everyone who goes up and down.'\n'And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?'\n'Nothing whatever, monsieur.'\n'Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?'\n'I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.'\n'What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?'\n'Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place\nanywhere.'\n'Good. Françoise, you can go.'\nThe old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked\nback.\n\n\n'I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad\none! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember\nthat.' And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.\n'Léonie Oulard,' called the magistrate.\nLéonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M.\nHautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the\ndiscovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an\nexaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the\nnight.\nHer sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had\nchanged greatly of late.\n'Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was\nalways depressed.' But Denise had her own theory. 'Without doubt it was\nthe Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men - who else could it be? A\nterrible society that!'\n'It of course, possible,' said the magistrate smoothly. 'Now, my girl, was\nit you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last night?'\n'Not last night, monsieur, the night before.'\n'But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last\nnight?'\n'No, monsieur. A lady did come to see Monsieur Renauld last night, but\nit was not Madame Daubreuil.'\nSurprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew\nMadame Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but shorter,\nand much younger. Nothing could shake her statement.\n'Had you ever seen this lady before?'\n'Never, monsieur.' And then the girl added diffidently: 'But I think she\nwas English.'\n'English?'\n'Yes, monsieur. She asked for Monsieur Renauld in quite good French,\nbut the accent - however slight - one can always tell it. Besides, when they\ncame out of the study they were speaking in English.'\n'Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?'\n'I speak the English very well,' said Denise with pride. 'The lady was\nspeaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I heard Monsieur's last\nwords as he opened the door for her.' She paused, and then repeated\ncarefully and laboriously: '“Yeas - yeas - but for Gaud's saike go nouw!”'\n\n\n'Yes, yes, but for God's sake go now!' repeated the magistrate. He\ndismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled\nFrançoise. To her he put the question as to whether she had not made a\nmistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil's visit. Françoise,\nhowever, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame\nDaubreuil had been. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make\nherself interesting, voilà tout! So she had cooked up this fine tale about a\nstrange lady. Airing her knowledge of English, too! Probably Monsieur had\nnever spoken that sentence in English at all, and, even if he had, it proved\nnothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used\nthat language when talking to Monsieur and Madame Renauld. 'You see,\nMonsieur Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the\nFrench very badly.'\nThe magistrate did not insist. Instead, he inquired about the chauffeur,\nand learned that only yesterday Monsieur Renauld had declared that he was\nnot likely to use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a holiday.\nA perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot's eyes.\n'What is it?' I whispered.\nHe shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:\n'Pardon, Monsieur Bex, but without doubt Monsieur Renauld could\ndrive the car himself?'\nThe commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied\npromptly:\n'No, Monsieur did not drive himself.'\nPoirot's frown deepened.\n'I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,' I said impatiently.\n'See you not? In his letter Monsieur Renauld speaks of sending the car\nfor me to Calais.'\n'Perhaps he meant a hired car,' I suggested.\n'Doubtless, that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your\nown? Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday -\nsuddenly, at a moment's notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him\nout of the way before we arrived?'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 4\nTHE LETTER SIGNED 'BELLA'\nFrançoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully\non the table.\n'Monsieur Bex,' he said at length, 'here we have directly conflicting\ntestimony. Which are we to believe, Françoise or Denise?'\n'Denise,' said the commissary decidedly. 'It was she who let the visitor\nin. Françoise is old and obstinate and has evidently taken a dislike to\nMadame Daubreuil. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that\nRenauld was entangled with another woman.'\n'Tiens!' cried M. Hautet. 'We have forgotten to inform Monsieur Poirot\nof that.' He searched among the papers on the table, and finally handed the\none he was in search of to my friend. 'This letter, Monsieur Poirot, we\nfound in the pocket of the dead man's overcoat.'\nPoirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumpled, and\nwas written in English in a rather unformed hand:\nMy Dear,\nWhy have you not written for so long? You do love me still, don't you?\nYour letters lately have been so different, cold, and strange, and now this\nlong silence. It makes me afraid. If you were to stop loving me! But that's\nimpossible - what a silly kid I am - always imagining things! But if you did\nstop loving me, I don't know what I should do - kill myself perhaps! I\ncouldn't live without you. Sometimes I fancy another woman is coming\nbetween us. Let her look out, that's all - and you too! I'd as soon kill you as\nlet her have you! I mean it.\nBut there, I'm writing high-flown nonsense. You love me, and I love\nyou - yes, love you, love you, love you!\nYour own adoring,\nBella.\nThere was no address or date. Poirot handed it back with a grave face.\n'And the assumption is - ?'\nThe examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders.\n'Obviously Monsieur Renauld was entangled with this Englishwoman -\nBella! He comes over here, meets Madame Daubreuil, and starts an intrigue\nwith her. He cools off to the other, and she instantly suspects something.\nThis letter contains a distinct threat. Monsieur Poirot, at first sight the case\n\n\nseemed simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that Monsieur Renauld was\nstabbed in the back seemed to point distinctly to its being a woman's crime.'\nPoirot nodded.\n'The stab in the back, yes - but not the grave! That was laborious work,\nhard work - no woman dug that grave, Monsieur. That was a man's doing.'\nThe commissary exclaimed excitedly:\n'Yes, yes, you are right. We did not think of that.'\n'As I said,' continued M. Hautet, 'at first sight the case seemed simple,\nbut the masked men, and the letter you received from Monsieur Renauld,\ncomplicate matters. Here we seem to have an entirely different set of\ncircumstances with no relationship between the two. As regards the letter\nwritten to yourself, do you think it is possible that it referred in any way to\nthis “Bella” and her threats?'\nPoirot shook his head.\n'Hardly. A man like Monsieur Renauld, who has led an adventurous life\nin out-of-the-way places, would not be likely to ask for protection against a\nwoman.'\nThe examining magistrate nodded his head emphatically.\n'My view exactly. Then we must look for the explanation of the letter -'\n'In Santiago,' finished the commissary. 'I shall cable without delay to the\npolice in that city, requesting full details of the murdered man's life out\nthere, his love affairs, his business transactions, his friendships, and any\nenmities he may have incurred. It will be strange if, after that, we do not\nhold a clue to his mysterious murder.'\nThe commissary looked round for approval.\n'Excellent!' said Poirot appreciatively.\n'You have found no other letters from Mrs Bella among Monsieur\nRenauld's effects?' asked Poirot.\n'No. Of course one of our first proceedings was to search through his\nprivate papers in the study. We found nothing of interest, however. All\nseemed square and aboveboard. The only thing at all out of the ordinary\nwas his will. Here it is.'\nPoirot ran through the document.\n'So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr Stonor - who is he, by the\nway?'\n'Monsieur Renauld's secretary. He remained in England, but was over\nhere once or twice for a weekend.'\n\n\n'And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise.\nSimply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants,\nDenise and Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.' He handed it\nback.\n'Perhaps,' began Bex, 'you did not notice -'\n'The date?' twinkled Poirot. 'But, yes, I noticed it. A fortnight ago.\nPossibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men die intestate\nthrough never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it is\ndangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his\nhaving a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous\nintrigues.'\n'Yes,' said M. Hautet doubtfully. 'But it is possibly a little unfair on his\nson, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother. If she were to\nmarry again, and her second husband obtained an ascendancy over her, this\nboy might never touch a penny of his father's money.'\nPoirot shrugged his shoulders.\n'Man is a vain animal. Monsieur Renauld figured to himself, without\ndoubt, that his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have\nbeen a wise precaution to leave the money in his mother's hands. The sons\nof rich men are proverbially wild.'\n'It may be as you say. Now, Monsieur Poirot, you would without doubt\nlike to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been\nremoved, but of course photographs have been taken from every\nconceivable angle, and will be at your disposal as soon as they are\navailable.'\n'I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.'\nThe commissary rose.\n'Come with me, messieurs.'\nHe opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him.\nPoirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.\n'Monsieur.'\n'Monsieur.'\nAt last they got out into the hall.\n'That room there, it is the study, hein?' asked Poirot suddenly, nodding\ntowards the door opposite.\n'Yes. You would like to see it?' He threw open the door as he spoke, and\nwe entered.\n\n\nThe room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was\nsmall, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A business-like writing-\ndesk, with many pigeon-holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-\ncovered arm-chairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table\ncovered with the latest books and magazines.\nPoirot stood a moment taking in the room, then he stepped forward,\npassed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a\nmagazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the\noak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.\n'No dust?' I asked, with a smile.\nHe beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.\n'Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.'\nHis sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.\n'Ah!' he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. 'The hearth-rug\nis crooked,' and he bent down to straighten it.\nSuddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a\nsmall fragment of pink paper.\n'In France, as in England,' he remarked, 'the domestics omit to sweep\nunder the mats?'\nBex took the fragment from him, and I came close to examine it.\n'You recognize it - eh, Hastings?'\nI shook my head, puzzled - and yet that particular shade of pink paper\nwas very familiar.\nThe commissary's mental processes were quicker than mine.\n'A fragment of a cheque,' he exclaimed.\nThe piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was\nwritten in ink the word 'Duveen'.\n'Bien,' said Bex. 'This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, someone\nnamed Duveen.'\n'The former, I fancy,' said Poirot. 'For, if I am not mistaken, the\nhandwriting is that of Monsieur Renauld.'\nThat was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from\nthe desk.\n'Dear me,' murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, 'I really\ncannot imagine how I came to overlook this.'\nPoirot laughed.\n\n\n'The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings\nhere will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As\nsoon as I saw that the hearth-rug was out of the straight, I said to myself:\n“Tiens! The legs of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly there\nmay be something beneath it which the good Françoise overlooked.”'\n'Françoise?'\n'Or Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust,\nthe room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like\nthis. Yesterday, possibly last night, Monsieur Renauld drew a cheque to the\norder of someone named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered\non the floor. This morning -'\nBut M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell. Françoise\nanswered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What\nhad she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What\nelse? With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face\nlightening, he ran to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead\nman's cheque book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last\ncounterfoil was blank.\n'Courage!' cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. 'Without doubt,\nMadame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person\nnamed Duveen.'\nThe commissary's face cleared. 'That is true. Let us proceed.'\nAs we turned to leave the room, Poirot remarked casually:\n'It was here that Monsieur Renauld received his guest last night, eh?'\n'It was - but how did you know?'\n'By this. I found it on the back of the leather chair.' And he held up\nbetween his finger and thumb a long black hair - a woman's hair!\nM. Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small\nshed leaning against the house. He produced a key from his pocket and\nunlocked it.\n'The body is here. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before\nyou arrived, as the photographers had done their job.'\nHe opened the door and we passed. The murdered man lay on the\nground, with a sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the\ncovering. Renauld was a man of medium height, slender, and lithe figure.\nHe looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully\nstreaked with grey. He was clean shaven, with a long thin nose, and eyes set\n\n\nrather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who\nhad spent most of his life beneath tropical skies. His lips were drawn back\nfrom his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was\nstamped on the livid features.\n'One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the back,' remarked\nPoirot.\nVery gently, he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder-\nblades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the\nmiddle of it there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.\n'Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?'\n'It was left in the wound.' The commissary reached down a large glass\njar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper-knife than\nanything else. It had a black handle and a narrow shining blade. The whole\nthing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured point\ngingerly with his finger-tip.\n'Ma foi! It is sharp! A nice easy little tool for murder.'\n'Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,' remarked\nBex regretfully. 'The murderer must have worn gloves.'\n'Of course he did,' said Poirot contemptuously. 'Even in Santiago they\nknow enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English knows it - thanks\nto the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the\nsame, it interests me very much that there were no fingerprints. It is so\namazingly simple to leave the fingerprints of someone else! And then the\npolice are happy.' He shook his head. 'I very much fear our criminal is not a\nman of method - either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.'\nHe let the body fall back into its original position.\n'He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,' he remarked.\n'Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious point.'\nAt this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after\nhim. He strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She\nendeavoured to peep in with ghoulish curiosity.\n'Well, what is it?' demanded Box impatiently.\n'Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered and is quite\nready to receive the examining magistrate.'\n'Good,' said M. Bex briskly. 'Tell Monsieur Hautet and say that we will\ncome at once.'\n\n\nPoirot fingered a moment looking back towards the body. I thought for a\nmoment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his\ndetermination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But when he\nspoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously\ninappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.\n'He wore his overcoat very long,' he said constrainedly.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 5\nMRS RENAULD'S STORY\nWe found M. Hautet awaiting us in the hall, and we all proceeded\nupstairs together, Françoise marching ahead to show us the way. Poirot\nwent up in a zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a\ngrimace:\n'No wonder the servants heard M. Renauld mounting the stairs, not a\nboard of them but creaks fit to awake the dead!'\nAt the head of the staircase, a small passage branched off.\n'The servants' quarters,' explained Bex.\nWe continued along a corridor, and Françoise tapped on the last door to\nthe right of it.\nA faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large, sunny apartment\nlooking out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a\nquarter of a mile distant.\nOn a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr Durand, lay\na tall, striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark\nhair was now almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality, and strength\nof her personality would have made itself felt anywhere. You knew at once\nthat you were in the presence of what the French call une maîtresse femme.\nShe greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head. 'Pray be seated,\nmessieurs.'\nWe took chairs, and the magistrate's clerk established himself at a round\ntable.\n'I hope, madame,' began M. Hautet, 'that it will not distress you unduly\nto relate to us what occurred last night?'\n'Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if the scoundrelly\nassassins are to be caught and punished.'\n'Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you\nquestions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did\nyou go to bed last night?'\n'At half past nine monsieur. I was tired.'\n'And your husband?'\n'About an hour later, I fancy.'\n'Did he seem disturbed - upset in any way?'\n'No, not more than usual.'\n\n\n'What happened then?'\n'We slept. I was awakened by a hand being pressed over my mouth. I\ntried to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the\nroom. They were both masked.'\n'Can you describe them at all, madame?'\n'One was very tall, and had a long black beard, the other was short and\nstout. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their\neyes.'\n'H'm!' said the magistrate thoughtfully. 'Too much beard, I fear.'\n'You mean they were false?'\n'Yes, madame. But continue your story.'\n'It was the short man who was holding me. He forced a gag into my\nmouth, and then bound me with rope hand and foot. The other man was\nstanding over my husband. He had caught up my little dagger paper-knife\nfrom the dressing-table and was holding it with the point just over his heart.\nWhen the short man had finished with me he joined the other and they\nforced my husband to get up and accompany them into the dressing-room\nnext door. I was nearly fainting with terror, nevertheless I listened\ndesperately.\n'They were speaking in too low a tone for me to hear what they said.\nBut I recognized the language, a bastard Spanish such as is spoken in some\nparts of South America. They seemed to be demanding something from my\nhusband, and presently they grew angry and their voices rose a little. I think\nthe tall man was speaking. “You know what we want?” he said. “The secret!\nWhere is it?” I do not know what my husband answered, but the other\nreplied fiercely: “You lie! We know you have it. Where are your keys?”\n'Then I heard sounds of drawers being pulled out. There is a safe on the\nwall of my husband's dressing-room in which he always keeps a fairly large\namount of ready money. Léonie tells me this has been rifled and the money\ntaken, but evidently what they were looking for was not there, for presently\nI heard the tall man, with an oath, command my husband to dress himself.\nSoon after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them,\nfor they hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed.'\n'Pardon,' interrupted Poirot, 'but is there then no other egress from the\ndressing-room?'\n'No, monsieur there is only the communicating door into my room.\nThey hurried my husband through, the short man in front and the tall man\n\n\nbehind him with the dagger still in his hand. Paul tried to break away to\ncome to me. I saw his agonized eyes. He turned to his captors. “I must\nspeak to her,” he said. Then, coming to the side of the bed, “It is all right,\nEloise,” he said. “Do not be afraid. I shall return before morning.” But,\nalthough he tried to make his voice confident, I could see the terror in his\neyes. Then they hustled him out of the door the tall man saying: “One sound\n- and you are a dead man, remember.”\n'After that,' continued Mrs Renauld, 'I must have fainted. The next thing\nI recollect is Léonie rubbing my wrists and giving me brandy.'\n'Madame Renauld,' said the magistrate, 'had you any idea what it was\nfor which the assassins were searching?'\n'None whatever, monsieur.'\n'Had you any knowledge that your husband feared something?'\n'Yes. I had seen the change in him.'\n'How long ago was that?'\nMrs Renauld reflected.\n'Ten days, perhaps.'\n'Not longer?'\n'Possibly. I only noticed it then.'\n'Did you question your husband at all as to the cause?'\n'Once. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he\nwas suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to\nconceal the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing.'\n'Were you aware that he had called in the services of a detective?'\n'A detective?' exclaimed Mrs Renauld, very much surprised.\n'Yes, this gentleman - Monsieur Hercule Poirot.' Poirot bowed. 'He\narrived today in response to a summons from your husband.' And taking the\nletter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady.\nShe read it with apparently genuine astonishment.\n'I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the danger.'\n'Now, madame I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any\nincident in your husband's past life in South America which might throw\nlight on his murder?'\nMm. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head.\n'I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people\nhe had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one\n\n\ndistinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident - only that I am not\naware of it.'\nThe examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately. 'And you\ncan fix the time of this outrage?'\n'Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike\ntwo.' She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case\nwhich stood in the centre of the chimney-piece.\nPoirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded,\nsatisfied.\n'And here too,' exclaimed M. Bex, 'is a wristwatch, knocked off the\ndressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms. Little\ndid they know it would testify against them.'\nGently he picked away the fragments of broken glass.\nSuddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction.\n'Mon Dieu!' he ejaculated.\n'What is it?'\n'The hands of the watch point to seven o'clock!'\n'What?' cried the examining magistrate, astonished.\nBut Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled\ncommissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.\n'The glass is broken, yes but the watch itself is still going.'\nThe explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But\nthe magistrate bethought himself of another point.\n'But surely it is not seven o'clock now?'\n'No,' said Poirot gently, 'it is a few minutes after five. Possibly the watch\ngains, is that so, madame?'\nMrs Renauld was frowning perplexedly.\n'It does gain,' she admitted. 'But I've never known it gain quite so much\nas that.'\nWith a gesture of impatience the magistrate left the matter of the watch\nand proceeded with his interrogatory.\n'Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the\nmurderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you\nsuggest any explanation?'\n'Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to\nlatch it when he came in.'\n'Is that a likely thing to happen?'\n\n\n'Very. My husband was the most absent-minded of men.'\nThere was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke as though this trait in\nthe dead man's character had at times vexed her.\n'There is one inference I think we might draw,' remarked the\ncommissary suddenly. 'Since the men insisted on Monsieur Renauld\ndressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the\nplace where “the secret” was concealed, lay some distance away.'\nThe magistrate nodded.\n'Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.'\n'What time does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?' asked\nPoirot.\n'11.50 one way, and 12.17 the other, but it is more probable that they\nhad a motor waiting.'\n'Of course,' agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.\n'Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,' continued the\nmagistrate, brightening. 'A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely\nto have been noticed. That is an excellent point, Monsieur Bex.'\nHe smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to\nMrs Renauld:\n'There is another question. Do you know anyone of the name of\n“Duveen”?'\n'Duveen?' Mrs Renauld repeated thoughtfully. 'No, for the moment, I\ncannot say I do.'\n'You have never heard your husband mention anyone of that name.'\n'Never.'\n'Do you know anyone whose Christian name is Bella?'\nHe watched Mrs Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any\nsigns of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a\nnatural manner. He continued his questions.\n'Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?'\nNow he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied\ncomposedly:\n'No, who was that?'\n'A lady.'\n'Indeed?'\nBut for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It\nseemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the\n\n\ncrime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs Renauld more than necessary.\nHe made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod.\nThen rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had\nseen in the outhouse in his hand. From this he took the dagger.\n'Madame,' he said gently, 'do you recognize this?'\nShe gave a little cry.\n'Yes, that is my little dagger.' Then she saw the stained point, and she\ndrew back, her eyes widening with horror.\n'Is that - blood?'\n'Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.'\nHe removed it hastily from sight. 'You are quite sure about it being the\none that was on your dressing-table last night?'\n'Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during\nthe War. He gave his age as older than it was.' There was a touch of the\nproud mother in her voice. 'This was made from a streamline aeroplane\nwire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.'\n'I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he\nnow? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.'\n'Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Ayres.'\n'What?'\n'Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on\nbusiness to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for\nhim to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving\nCherbourg for Buenos Ayres last night, and he wired him to catch it.'\n'Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Ayres was?'\n'No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Ayres is not my\nson's final destination. He was going over-land from there to Santiago.'\nAnd, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed:\n'Santiago! Again Santiago!'\nIt was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that\nword, that Poirot approached Mrs Renauld. He had been standing by the\nwindow like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what\nhad passed. He paused by the lady's side with a bow.\n'Pardon, madame, but may I examine your wrists?'\nThough slightly surprised at the request, Mrs Renauld held them out to\nhim. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten\n\n\ninto the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of\nexcitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared.\n'They must cause you great pain,' he said, and once more he looked\npuzzled.\nBut the magistrate was speaking excitedly.\n'Young Monsieur Renauld must be communicated with at once by\nwireless. It is vital that we should know anything he can tell us about this\ntrip to Santiago.' He hesitated. 'I hoped he might have been near at hand, so\nthat we could have saved you pain, madame.' He paused.\n'You mean,' she said in a low voice, 'the identification of my husband's\nbody?'\nThe magistrate bowed his head.\n'I am a strong woman, monsieur. I can bear all that is required of me. I\nam ready - now.'\n'Oh, tomorrow will be quite soon enough, I assure you -'\n'I prefer to get it over,' she said in a low tone, a spasm of pain crossing\nher face. 'If you will be so good as to give me your arms doctor?'\nThe doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs Renauld's\nshoulders, and a slow procession went down the stairs. M. Box hurried on\nahead to open the door of the shed. In a minute or two Mrs Renauld\nappeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but resolute. She raised her\nhand to her face.\n'A moment, messieurs, while I steel myself.'\nShe took her hand away and looked down at the dead man. Then the\nmarvellous self-control which had upheld her so far deserted her.\n'Paul!' she cried. 'Husband! Oh, God!' And pitching forward she fell\nunconscious to the ground.\nInstantly Poirot was beside her, he raised the lid of her eye, felt her\npulse. When he had satisfied himself that she had really fainted, he drew\naside. He caught me by the arm.\n'I am an imbecile, my friend! If ever there was love and grief in a\nwoman's voice, I heard it then. My little idea was all wrong. Eh bien! I must\nstart again!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 6\nTHE SCENE OF THE CRIME\nBetween them, the doctor and M. Hautet carried the unconscious\nwoman into the house. The commissary looked after them, shaking his\nhead.\n'Pauvre femme,' he murmured to himself. 'The shock was too much for\nher. Well, well, we can do nothing. Now, Monsieur Poirot, shall we visit the\nplace where the crime was committed?'\n'If you please, Monsieur Bex.'\nWe passed through the house, and out by the front door. Poirot had\nlooked up at the staircase in passing, and shook his head in a dissatisfied\nmanner.\n'It is to me incredible that the servants heard nothing. The creaking of\nthat staircase, with three people descending it, would awaken the dead!'\n'It was the middle of the night, remember. They were sound asleep by\nthen.'\nBut Poirot continued to shake his head as though not fully accepting the\nexplanation. On the sweep of the drive he paused, looking up at the house.\n'What moved them in the first place to try if the front door were open? It\nwas a most unlikely thing that it should be. It was far more probable that\nthey should at once try to force a window.'\n'But all the windows on the ground floor are barred with iron shutters,'\nobjected the commissary.\nPoirot pointed to a window on the first floor.\n'That is the window of the bedroom we have just come from, is it not?\nAnd see - there is a tree by which it would be the easiest thing in the world\nto mount.'\n'Possibly,' admitted the other. 'But they could not have done so without\nleaving footprints in the flower-bed.'\nI saw the justice of his words. There were two large oval flower-beds\nplanted with scarlet geraniums, one each side of the steps leading up to the\nfront door. The tree in question had its roots actually at the back of the bed\nitself, and it would have been impossible to reach it without stepping on the\nbed.\n'You see,' continued the commissary, 'owing to the dry weather no prints\nwould show on the drive or paths; but, on the soft mould of the flower-bed,\n\n\nit would have been very different affair.'\nPoirot went close to the bed and studied it attentively. As Bex had said,\nthe mould was perfectly smooth. There was not an indentation on it\nanywhere.\nPoirot nodded, as though convinced, and we turned away; but he\nsuddenly darted off and began examining the other flower-bed.\n'Monsieur Bex!' he called. 'See here. Here are plenty of traces for you.'\nThe commissary joined him - and smiled.\n'My dear Monsieur Poirot, those are without doubt the footprints of the\ngardener's large hobnailed boots. In any case, it would have no importance,\nsince this side we have no tree, and consequently no means of gaining\naccess to the upper storey.'\n'True,' said Poirot, evidently crestfallen. 'So you think these footprints\nare of no importance?'\n'Not the least in the world.'\nThen to my utter astonishment, Poirot pronounced these words:\n'I do not agree with you. I have a little idea that these footprints are the\nmost important things we have seen yet.'\nM. Bex said nothing, merely shrugged his shoulders. He was far too\ncourteous to utter his real opinion.\n'Shall we proceed?' he asked, instead.\n'Certainly. I can investigate this matter of the footprints later,' said\nPoirot cheerfully.\nInstead of following the drive down to the gate, M. Bex turned up a path\nthat branched off at right angles. It led, up a slight incline, round to the right\nof the house, and was bordered on either side by a kind of shrubbery.\nSuddenly it emerged into a little clearing from which one obtained a view\nof the sea. A seat had been placed here, and not far from it was a rather\nramshackle shed. A few steps farther on, a neat line of small bushes marked\nthe boundary of the Villa grounds. M. Bex pushed his way through these,\nand we found ourselves on a wide stretch of open downs. I looked round,\nand saw something that filled me with astonishment.\n'Why, this is a Golf Course,' I cried.\nBex nodded.\n'The links are not completed yet,' he explained. 'It is hoped to be able to\nopen them some time next month. It was some of the men working on them\nwho discovered the body early this morning.'\n\n\nI gave a gasp. A little to my left, where for the moment I had\noverlooked it, was a long narrow pit and by it, face downwards, was the\nbody of a man! For a moment, my heart gave a terrible leap, and I had a\nwild fancy that the tragedy had been duplicated. But the commissary\ndispelled my illusion by moving forward with a sharp exclamation of\nannoyance:\n'What have my police been about? They had strict orders to allow no\none near the place without proper credentials!'\nThe man on the ground turned his head over his shoulder.\n'But I have proper credentials,' he remarked and rose slowly to his feet.\n'My dear Monsieur Giraud,' cried the commissary. 'I had no idea that\nyou had arrived, even. The examining magistrate has been awaiting you\nwith the utmost impatience.'\nAs he spoke, I was scanning the newcomer with the keenest curiosity.\nThe famous detective from the Paris Sûreté was familiar to me by name and\nI was extremely interested to see him in the flesh. He was very tall, perhaps\nabout thirty years of age, with auburn hair and moustache, and a military\ncarriage. There was a trace of arrogance in his manner which showed that\nhe was fully alive to his own importance. Bex introduced us, presenting\nPoirot as a colleague. A flicker of interest came into the detective's eye.\n'I know you by name, Monsieur Poirot,' he said. 'You cut quite a figure\nin the old days, didn't you? But methods are very different now.'\n'Crimes, though, are very much the same,' remarked Poirot gently.\nI saw at once that Giraud was prepared to be hostile. He resented the\nother being associated with him, and I felt that if he came across any clue of\nimportance he would be more than likely to keep it to himself.\n'The examining magistrate -' began Bex again.\nBut Giraud interrupted rudely:\n'A fig for the examining magistrate! The light is the important thing. For\nall practical purposes it will be gone in another half hour or so. I know all\nabout the case, and the people at the house will do very well until\ntomorrow; but, if we're going to find a clue to the murderers, here is the\nspot we shall find it. Is it your police who have been trampling all over the\nplace? I thought they knew better nowadays.'\n'Assuredly they do. The marks you complain of were made by the\nworkmen who discovered the body.'\nThe other grunted disgustedly.\n\n\n'I can see the tracks where the three of them came through the hedge -\nbut they were cunning. You can just recognize the centre foot-marks as\nthose of Monsieur Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully\nobliterated. Not that there would really be much to see anyway on this hard\nground, but they weren't taking any chances.'\n'The external sign,' said Poirot. 'That is what you seek, eh?'\nThe other detective stared.\n'Of course.'\nA very faint smile came to Poirot's lips. He seemed about to speak, but\nchecked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying.\n'That's what the grave was dug with, right enough,' said Giraud. 'But\nyou'll get nothing from it. It was Renauld's own spade, and the man who\nused it wore gloves. Here they are.' He gesticulated with his foot to where\ntwo soil-stained gloves were lying. 'And they're Renauld's too - or at least\nhis gardener's. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking\nno chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have\nbeen buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces! But I'll\nbeat them. There's always something! And I mean to find it.'\nBut Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short,\ndiscoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade. He touched it\ndelicately with his finger.\n'And does this, too, belong to the murdered man?' he asked, and I\nthought I detected a subtle flavour of irony in the question.\nGiraud shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he neither knew nor\ncared.\n'May have been lying around here for weeks. Anyway, it doesn't interest\nme.'\n'I, on the contrary, find it very interesting,' said Poirot suavely.\nI guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and if\nso, he succeeded. The other walked away rudely remarking that he had no\ntime to waste, and bending down he resumed his minute search of the\nground.\nMeanwhile, Poirot, as though struck by a sudden idea, stepped back\nover the boundary, and tried the door of the little shed.\n'That's locked,' said Giraud over his shoulder. 'But it's only a place\nwhere the gardener keeps his rubbish. The spade didn't come from there,\nbut from the tool-shed up by the house.'\n\n\n'Marvellous,' murmured M. Bex ecstatically to me. 'He has been here\nbut half an hour, and he already knows everything! What a man!\nUndoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today!'\nAlthough I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly\nimpressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help\nfeeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it\nvexed me. He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly puerile\npoints that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he\nsuddenly asked:\n'Monsieur Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this white-washed\nline that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?'\n'No, Monsieur Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that\nthere is here to be a “bunkair”, as you call it.'\n'A bunkair?' Poirot turned to me. 'That is the irregular hole filled with\nsand and a bank at one side is it not?'\nI concurred.\n'Monsieur Renauld, without doubt he played the golf?'\n'Yes, he was a keen golfer. It's mainly owing to him, and to his large\nsubscriptions, that this work is being carried forward. He even had a say in\nthe designing of it.'\nPoirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he remarked:\n'It was not a very good choice they made - for a spot to bury the body?\nWhen the men began to dig up the ground, all would have been discovered.'\n'Exactly,' cried Giraud triumphantly. 'And that proves that they were\nstrangers to the place. It's an excellent piece of indirect evidence.'\n'Yes,' said Poirot doubtfully. 'No one who knew would bury a body there\n- unless they wanted it to be discovered. And that is clearly absurd, is it\nnot?'\nGiraud did not even trouble to reply.\n'Yes,' said Poirot, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice. 'Yes undoubtedly -\nabsurd!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 7\nTHE MYSTERIOUS MADAME DAUBREUIL\nAs we retraced our steps to the house, M. Bex excused himself for\nleaving us, explaining that he must immediately acquaint the examining\nmagistrate with the fact of Giraud's arrival. Giraud himself had been\nobviously delighted when Poirot declared that he had seen all he wanted.\nThe last thing we observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud, crawling about\non all fours, with a thoroughness in his search that I could not but admire.\nPoirot guessed my thoughts, for as soon as we were alone he remarked\nironically:\n'At last you have seen the detective you admire - the human foxhound!\nIs it not so, my friend?'\n'At any rate, he's doing something,' I said, with asperity. 'If there's\nanything to find he'll find it. Now you -'\n'Eh bien! I also have found something! A piece of lead-piping.'\n'Nonsense, Poirot. You know very well that's got nothing to do with it. I\nmeant little things - traces that may lead us infallibly to the murderers.'\n'Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one\nmeasuring two millimeters! But it is the romantic idea that all important\nclues must be infinitesimal. As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to\ndo with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so. No -' as I was\nabout to interpose a question - 'we will say no more. Leave Giraud to his\nsearch, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough - and\nyet - and yet, mon ami, I am not satisfied! And do you know why? Because\nof the wrist-watch that is two hours fast. And then there are several curious\nlittle points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the\nmurderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and\nhave done with it?'\n'They wanted the “secret”,' I reminded him.\nPoirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.\n'Well, where is this “secret”? Presumably some distance away, since\nthey wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand,\nalmost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a\nweapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.'\nHe paused, frowning, and then went on:\n\n\n'Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an\naccomplice, and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should\nremain open? I wonder if -'\nHe stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house.\nSuddenly he turned to me.\n'My friend, I am about to surprise you - to please you! I have taken your\nreproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!'\n'Where?'\n'In that right-hand bed yonder. Monsieur Bex says that they are the foot-\nmarks of the gardener. Let us see if this is so. See, he approaches with his\nwheelbarrow.'\nIndeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of\nseedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came\nhobbling towards us.\n'You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the foot-\nmarks?' I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he\nsaid the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they\nwere.\n'Exactly,' said Poirot.\n'But won't he think it very odd?'\n'He will not think about it at all.'\nWe could say no more, for the old man had joined us.\n'You want me for something, monsieur?'\n'Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven't you?'\n'Twenty-four years, monsieur.'\n'And your name is -'\n'Auguste, monsieur.'\n'I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb.\nThey have been planted long?'\n'Some times monsieur. But of courses to keep the beds looking smart,\none must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are\nover, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.'\n'You put in some new plants yesterday, didn't you? Those in the middle\nthere and in the other bed also.'\n'Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to “pick\nup”. Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As monsieur doubtless\n\n\nknows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot.' Auguste was\ncharmed with Poirot's interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous.\n'That is a splendid specimen there,' said Poirot, pointing. 'Might I\nperhaps have a cutting of it?'\n'But certainly, monsieur.' The old fellow stepped into the bed, and\ncarefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.\nPoirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.\n'You see?' said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine\nthe indentation of the gardener's hobnailed boot. 'It is quite simple.'\n'I did not realize -'\n'That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent\nmental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?'\nI examined the bed carefully.\n'All the bootmarks in the bed were made by the same boot,' I said at\nlength after a careful study.\n'You think so? Eh bien! I agree with you,' said Poirot.\nHe seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of\nsomething else.\n'At any rate,' I remarked, 'you will have one bee less in your bonnet\nnow.'\n'Mon Dieu! But what an idiom! What does it mean?'\n'What I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these foot-\nmarks.'\nBut to my surprise Poirot shook his head.\n'No, no, mon ami. At last I am on the right track. I am still in the dark,\nbut, as I hinted just now to Monsieur Bex, these foot-marks are the most\nimportant and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud - I should not\nbe surprised if he took no notice of them whatever.'\nAt that moment the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the\ncommissary came down the steps.\n'Ah, Monsieur Poirot, we were coming to look for you,' said the\nmagistrate. 'It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil.\nWithout doubt she will be very much upset by Monsieur Renauld's death,\nand we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that he\ndid not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the\nwoman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are\nweak, don't we?'\n\n\nWe said no more, but fell into line. Poirot walked with the examining\nmagistrate, and the commissary and I followed a few paces behind.\n'There is no doubt that Françoise's story is substantially correct,' he\nremarked to me in a confidential tone. 'I have been telephoning\nheadquarters. It seems that three times in the last six weeks - that is to say\nsince the arrival of Monsieur Renauld at Merlinville - Madame Daubreuil\nhas paid a large sum in notes into her banking account. Altogether the sum\ntotals two hundred thousand francs!'\n'Dear me,' I said, considering, 'that must be something like four\nthousand pounds.'\n'Precisely. Yes, there can be no doubt that he was absolutely infatuated.\nBut it remains to be seen whether he confided his secret to her. The\nexamining magistrate is hopeful, but I hardly share his views.'\nDuring this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the\nfork in the road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in\nanother moment I realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the\nmysterious Madame Daubreuil, was the small house from which the\nbeautiful girl had emerged.\n'She has lived here for many years,' said the commissary nodding his\nhead towards the house. 'Very quietly, very unobtrusively. She seems to\nhave no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she had made in\nMerlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not\neven know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you\ncomprehend.'\nI nodded, my interest growing.\n'And - the daughter?' I ventured.\n'A truly beautiful young girl - modest, devout, all that she should be.\nOne pities her, for, though she may know nothing of the past, a man who\nwants to ask her hand in marriage must necessarily inform himself, and then\n-' The commissary shrugged his shoulders cynically.\n'But it would not be her fault,' I cried, with rising indignation.\n'No. But what will you? A man is particular about his wife's\nantecedents.'\nI was prevented from further argument by our arrival at the door. M.\nHautet rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed, and then we heard a footfall\nwithin, and the door was opened. On the threshold stood my young goddess\nof that afternoon. When she saw us, the colour left her cheeks, leaving her\n\n\ndeathly white, and her eyes widened with apprehension. There was no\ndoubt about it, she was afraid!\n'Mademoiselle Daubreuil,' said M. Hautet, sweeping off his hat, 'we\nregret infinitely to disturb you, but the exigencies of the Law, you\ncomprehend? My compliments to madame your mother, and will she have\nthe goodness to grant me a few moments' interview?'\nFor a moment the girl stood motionless. Her left hand was pressed to\nher side, as though to still the sudden unconquerable agitation of her heart.\nBut she mastered herself, and said in a low voice:\n'I will go and see. Please come inside.'\nShe entered a room on the left of the hall, and we heard the low murmur\nof her voice. And then another voice, much the same in timbre, but with a\nslightly harder inflection behind its mellow roundness, said:\n'But certainly. Ask them to enter.'\nIn another minute we were face to face with the mysterious Madame\nDaubreuil.\nShe was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her\nfigure had all the grace of full maturity. Her hair, again unlike her\ndaughter's, was dark, and parted in the middle in the Madonna style. Her\neyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. Though very well\npreserved, she was certainly no longer young, but her charm was of the\nquality which is independent of age.\n'You wished to see me, monsieur?' she asked.\n'Yes, madame.' M. Hautet cleared his throat. 'I am investigating the\ndeath of Monsieur Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?'\nShe bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change.\n'We came to ask you whether you can - er- throw any light upon the\ncircumstances surrounding it?'\n'I?' The surprise of her tone was excellent.\n'Yes, madame. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of\nvisiting the dead man at his Villa in the evenings. Is that so?'\nThe colour rose in the lady's pale cheeks, but she replied quietly:\n'I deny your right to ask me such a question!'\n'Madame, we are investigating a murder.'\n'Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder!'\n'Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man\nwell. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?'\n\n\n'Never.'\n'Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have\nmade there?'\n'No.'\n'Then you can give us no help at all?'\n'I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his\nwife tell you what you want to know?' Her voice held a slender inflection of\nirony.\n'Mrs Renauld has told us all she can.'\n'Ah!' said Madame Daubreuil. 'I wonder -'\n'You wonder what, madame?'\n'Nothing.'\nThe examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was\nfighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.\n'You persist in your statement that Monsieur Renauld confided nothing\nto you?'\n'Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?'\n'Because, madame,' said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality, 'a man\ntells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his wife.'\n'Ah!' She sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. 'Monsieur, you insult\nme! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to\nleave my house!'\nThe honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa\nMarguerite like a shame-faced pack of schoolboys. The magistrate muttered\nangry ejaculations to himself. Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he\ncame out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a\ngood hotel near at hand.\n'There is a small place, the Hôtel des Bains, on this side of the town. A\nfew hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations.\nWe shall see you in the morning, then, I presume?'\n'Yes, I thank you, Monsieur Hautet.'\nWith mutual civilities we parted company, Poirot and I going towards\nMerlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.\n'The French police system is very marvellous,' said Poirot, looking after\nthem. 'The information they possess about everyone's life, down to the most\ncommonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little\nover six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with Monsieur Renauld's\n\n\ntastes and pursuits, and at a moment's notice they can produce information\nas to Madame Daubreuil's banking account, and the sums that have lately\nbeen paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is\nthat?' He turned sharply.\nA figure was running hatless down the road after us. It was Marthe\nDaubreuil.\n'I beg your pardon,' she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. 'I - I\nshould not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what\nthe people say, that Monsieur Renauld called in a detective before he died,\nand - and that you are he?'\n'Yes, mademoiselle,' said Poirot gently. 'It is quite true. But how did you\nlearn it?'\n'Françoise told our Amélie,' explained Marthe with a blush.\nPoirot made a grimace.\n'The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters.\nWell, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?'\nThe gift hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last,\nalmost in a whisper, she asked: 'Is - anyone suspected?'\nPoirot eyed her keenly.\nThen he replied evasively:\n'Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.'\n'Yes, I know - but - anyone in particular?'\n'Why do you want to know?'\nThe girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot's words\nabout her earlier in the day occurred to me. The 'girl with the anxious eyes'.\n'Monsieur Renauld was always very kind to me,' she replied at last. 'It is\nnatural that I should be interested.'\n'I see,' said Poirot. 'Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering\nround two persons.'\n'Two?'\nI could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.\n'Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chileans from\nSantiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and\nbeautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!'\nThe girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.\n'I must run back now. Mama will miss me.'\n\n\nAnd she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern\nAtalanta. I stared after her.\n'Mon ami,' said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, 'is it that we are to\nremain planted here all night - just because you have seen a beautiful young\nwoman, and your head is in a whirl.'\nI laughed and apologized.\n'But she is beautiful, Poirot. Anyone might be excused for being bowled\nover by her.'\nBut to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly.\n'Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for\nyou, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!'\n'Why,' I cried, 'the commissary assured me that she was as good as she\nis beautiful! A perfect angel!'\n'Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,'\nremarked Poirot cheerfully. 'A malformation of the grey cells may coincide\nquite easily with the face of a Madonna.'\n'Poirot,' I cried, horrified, 'you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent\nchild like this!'\n'Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her.\nBut you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat\nunusual.'\n'For once I see farther than you do,' I said. 'Her anxiety is not for herself\n- but for her mother.'\n'My friend,' said Poirot, 'as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame\nDaubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter\nworrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I\nrepeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl! She is not for\nyou! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. Sacré! if only I could remember where I\nhad seen that face?'\n'What face?' I asked, surprised. 'The daughter's?'\n'No. The mother's.'\nNoting my surprise, he nodded emphatically.\n'But yes - it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with\nthe Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I\nhave seen her picture - and in connection with some case. I rather fancy -\"\n'Yes?'\n'I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 8\nAN UNEXPECTED MEETING\nWe were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the\ngate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and\nwe passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the\nstairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.\nPoirot inquired after the health of Mrs Renauld. Léonie shook her head.\n'She is terribly upset, the poor lady! She will eat nothing - but nothing!\nAnd she is as pale as a ghost. It is heart-rending to see her. Ah, it is not I\nwho would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another\nwoman!'\nPoirot nodded sympathetically.\n'What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman\nwho loves will forgive many blows. Still undoubtedly there must have been\nmany scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?'\nAgain Léonie shook her head.\n'Never, monsieur. Never have I heard madame utter a word of protest -\nof reproach even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel - quite\ndifferent to monsieur.'\n'Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?'\n'Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The\nday that he quarrelled with Monsieur Jack - ma foi!, they might have been\nheard in the marketplace, they shouted so loud!'\n'Indeed,' said Poirot. 'And when did this quarrel take place?'\n'Oh, it was just before Monsieur Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed\nhis train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had\nleft in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for\nthe station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was\nwhite - white - with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!'\nLéonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.\n'And the dispute, what was it about?'\n'Ah, that I do not know,' confessed Léonie. 'It is true that they shouted,\nbut their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one\nwell acquainted with English could have comprehended. But monsieur, he\nwas like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!'\nThe sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie's loquacity.\n\n\n'And Françoise who awaits me!' she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy\nremembrance of her duties. 'That old one, she always scolds.'\n'One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?'\n'They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur\nthe commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of\nthe murder.'\n'Quelle idée!' murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.\n'You will go out and join them?'\n'No, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool there on this hot\nmorning.'\nThis placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.\n'If you don't mind -' I said, and hesitated.\n'Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?'\n'Well, I'd rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he's anywhere about,\nand see what he's up to.'\n'The human foxhound,' murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a\ncomfortable chair, and closed his eyes. 'By all means, my friend. Au revoir.'\nI strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I walked up the path\nwe had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime\nmyself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the\nbushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so farther to\nthe right. The shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to\nforce my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite\nunexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young\nlady who had been standing with her back to the plantation. She not\nunnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of\nsurprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!\nThe surprise was mutual.\n'You?' we both exclaimed simultaneously.\nThe young lady recovered herself first.\n'My old friend,' she exclaimed. 'What are you doing here?'\n'For the matter of that, what are you?' I retorted.\n'When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home\nto England like a good little boy.'\n'When last I saw you,' I said, 'you were trotting home with your sister,\nlike a good little girl. By the way, how is your sister?'\nA flash of white teeth rewarded me.\n\n\n'How kind of you to ask! My sister is well, I thank you.'\n'She is here with you?'\n'She remained in town,' said the minx with dignity.\n'I don't believe you've got a sister,' I laughed. 'If you have, her name is\nHarris!'\n'Do you remember mine?' she asked with a smile.\n'Cinderella. But you're going to tell me the real one now, aren't you?'\nShe shook her head with a wicked look.\n'Not even why you're here?'\n'Oh, that! I suppose you've heard of members of my profession\n“resting”.'\n'At expensive French watering-places?'\n'Damn cheap if you know where to go.'\nI eyed her keenly.\n'Still, you'd no intention of coming here when I met you two days ago?'\n'We all have our disappointments,' said Miss Cinderella sententiously.\n'There now, I've told you quite as much as is good for you. Little boys\nshould not be inquisitive. You've not yet told me what you're doing here?'\n'You remember my telling you that my great friend was a detective?'\n'Yes?'\n'And perhaps you've heard about this crime - at the Villa Geneviève?'\nShe stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.\n'You don't mean - that you're in on -'\nI nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as\nshe regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds she remained\nsilent, staring at me. Then she nodded her head emphatically.\n'Well, if that doesn't beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see all the\nhorrors.'\n'What do you mean?'\n'What I say. Bless the boy, didn't I tell you I doted on crimes? I've been\nnosing round for hours. It's a real piece of luck happening on you this way.\nCome on, show me all the sights.'\n'But look here - wait a minute - I can't. Nobody's allowed in.'\n'Aren't you and your friend the big bugs?'\nI loath to relinquish my position of importance.\n'Why are you so keen?' I asked weakly. 'And what is it you want to see?'\n\n\n'Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the\nbody, and any fingerprints or interesting things like that. I've never had a\nchance before of being right in on a murder like this. It'll last me all my\nlife.'\nI turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The\ngirl's ghoulish excitement nauseated me.\n'Come off your high horse,' said the lady suddenly. 'And don't give\nyourself airs. When you got called to this job, did you put your nose in the\nair and say it was a nasty business, and you wouldn't be mixed up in it?'\n'No, but -'\n'If you'd been here on a holiday, wouldn't you be nosing round just the\nsame as I am? Of course you would.'\n'I'm a man. You're a woman.'\n'Your idea of a woman is someone who gets on a chair and shrieks if she\nsees a mouse. That's all prehistoric. But you will show me round, won't\nyou? You see, it might make a big difference to me.'\n'In what way?'\n'They're keeping all the reporters out. I might make a big scoop with one\nof the papers. You don't know how much they pay for a bit of inside stuff.'\nI hesitated. She slipped a small soft hand into mine. 'Please - there's a\ndear.'\nI capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of\nshowman.\nWe repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A\nman was on guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight,\nand raised no questions as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as\nvouched for by me. I explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had\nbeen made, and she listened attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent\nquestion. Then we turned our steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded\nrather cautiously, for, truth to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet anyone. I\ntook the girl through the shrubbery round to the back of the house where the\nsmall shed was. I recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the\ndoor, M. Bex had left the key with the sergent de ville, Marchaud, 'In case\nMonsieur Giraud should require it while we are upstairs.' I thought it quite\nlikely that the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud\nagain. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house.\n\n\nMarchaud was on duty outside the door of the salon. From within came the\nmurmur of voices.\n'Monsieur desires Monsieur Hautet? He is within. He is again\ninterrogating Françoise.'\n'No,' I said hastily, 'I don't want him. But I should very much like the\nkey of the shed outside if it is not against regulations.'\n'But certainly, monsieur.' He produced it. 'Here it is. Monsieur Hautet\ngave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You will\nreturn it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.'\n'Of course.'\nI felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud's eyes, at least,\nI ranked equally in importance with Poirot.\nThe girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she\nsaw the key in my hand.\n'You've got it then?'\n'Of course,' I said coolly. 'All the same, you know, what I'm doing is\nhighly irregular.'\n'You've been a perfect darling and I shan't forget it. Come along. They\ncan't see us from the house, can they?'\n'Wait a minute.' I arrested her eager advance. 'I won't stop you if you\nreally wish to go in. But do you? You've seen the grave, and the grounds,\nand you've heard all the details of the affair. Isn't that enough for you? This\nis going to be gruesome, you know, and unpleasant.'\nShe looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite\nfathom. Then she laughed.\n'I'm for the horrors,' she said. 'Come along.'\nIn silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed\nin. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as Bex had\ndone the preceding afternoon. A little gasping sound escaped from the girl's\nlips, and I turned and looked at her. There was horror on her face now, and\nthose debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly. She had not\nchosen to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard\nof it. I felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it\nnow. I turned the corpse over gently.\n'You see,' I said. 'He was stabbed in the back.'\nHer voice was almost soundless. 'With what?'\nI nodded towards the glass jar.\n\n\n'That dagger.'\nSuddenly the girl reeled, and then sank down in a heap. I sprang to her\nassistance.\n'You are faint. Come out of here. It has been too much for you.'\n'Water,' she murmured. 'Quick. Water.'\nI left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants\nwere about and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a\nfew drops of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again.\nThe girl was lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water\nrevived her in a marvellous manner.\n'Take me out of here - oh quickly, quickly!' she cried, shuddering.\nSupporting her with my arm, I led her out into the air, and she pulled the\ndoor to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath.\n'That's better. Oh, it was horrible! Why did you ever let me go in?'\nI felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I\nwas not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so\ncallous as I had thought her. After all she was little more than a child, and\nher curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order.\n'I did my best to stop you, you know,' I said gently.\n'I suppose you did. Well, goodbye.'\n'Look here, you can't start off like that - all alone. You're not fit for it. I\ninsist on accompanying you back to Merlinville.'\n'Nonsense. I'm quite all right now.'\n'Supposing you felt faint again? No, I shall come with you.'\nBut this she combated with a good deal of energy. In the end, however, I\nprevailed so far as to be allowed to accompany her to the outskirts of the\ntown. We retraced our steps over our former route, passing the grave again,\nand making a detour on to the road. Where the first straggling line of shops\nbegan, she stopped and held out her hand.\n'Goodbye, and thank you ever so much for coming with me.'\n'Are you sure you're all right now?'\n'Quite, thanks. I hope you won't get into any trouble over showing me\nthings.'\nI disclaimed the idea lightly.\n'Well, good-bye.'\n'Au revoir,' I corrected. 'If you're staying here, we shall meet again.'\nShe flashed a smile at me.\n\n\n'That's so. Au revoir, then.'\n'Wait a second, you haven't told me your address.'\n'Oh, I'm staying at the Hôtel du Phare. It's a little place, but quite good.\nCome and look me up tomorrow.'\n'I will,' I said, with perhaps rather unnecessary empressement.\nI watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the\nVilla. I remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed.\nFortunately no one had noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed\nit and returned it to the sergent de ville. And, as I did so, it came upon me\nsuddenly that though Cinderella had given me her address I still did not\nknow her name.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 9\nM. GIRAUD FINDS SOME CLUES\nIn the salon I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the\nold gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present,\ngreeted me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into\na seat. M. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did\nnot succeed in eliciting anything of importance.\nThe gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his. He wore them when\nhandling a certain species of primula plant which was poisonous to some\npeople. He could not say when he had worn them last. Certainly he had not\nmissed them. Where were they kept? Sometimes in one place, sometimes in\nanother. The spade was usually to be found in the small tool-shed. Was it\nlocked? Of course it was locked. Where was the key kept? Parbleu, it was\nin the door of course. There was nothing of value to steal. Who would have\nexpected a party of bandits, or assassins? Such things did not happen in\nMadame la Vicomtesse's time.\nM. Hautet signifying that he had finished with him, the old man\nwithdrew, grumbling to the last. Remembering Poirot's unaccountable\ninsistence on the footprints in the flower-beds, I scrutinized him narrowly as\nhe gave his evidence. Either he had nothing to do with the crime or he was a\nconsummate actor. Suddenly just as he was going out of the door an idea\nstruck me.\n'Pardon, Monsieur Hautet,' I cried, 'but will you permit me to ask him\none question?'\n'But certainly monsieur.'\nThus encouraged, I turned to Auguste.\n'Where do you keep your boots?'\n'On my feet,' growled the old man. 'Where else?'\n'But when you go to bed at night?'\n'Under my bed.'\n'But who cleans them?'\n'Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on\nthe front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, but\notherwise -' He shrugged his shoulders.\nI shook my head, discouraged.\n\n\n'Well, well,' said the magistrate, 'we do not advance very much.\nUndoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago.\nHas anyone seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very\ngood mind to send for him and -'\n'You will not have to send far.'\nThe quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in\nthrough the open window.\nHe leapt lightly into the room and advanced to the table.\n'Here I am, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting\nmyself sooner.'\n'Not at all - not at all!' said the magistrate, rather confused.\n'Of course I am only a detective,' continued the other. 'I know nothing of\ninterrogatories. Were I conducting one, I should be inclined to do so without\nan open window. Anyone standing outside can so easily hear all that passes.\nBut no matter.'\nM. Hautet flushed angrily. There was evidently going to be no love lost\nbetween the examining magistrate and the detective in charge of the case.\nThey had taken foul of each other at the start. Perhaps in any event it would\nhave been much the same. To Giraud, all examining magistrates were fools,\nand to M. Hautet, who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the\nParis detective could not fail to give offence.\n'Eh bien, Monsieur Giraud,' said the magistrate rather sharply. 'Without\ndoubt you have been employing your time to a marvel! You have the names\nof the assassins for us, have you not? And also the precise spot where they\nfind themselves now?'\nUnmoved by this irony, M. Giraud replied:\n'I know at least where they have come from.'\nGiraud took two small objects from his pocket and laid them down on\nthe table. We crowded round. The objects were very simple ones: the stub\nof a cigarette and an unlighted match. The detective wheeled round on\nPoirot.\n'What do you see there?' he asked.\nThere was something almost brutal in his tone. It made my cheeks flush.\nBut Poirot remained unmoved. He shrugged his shoulders.\n'A cigarette end and a match.'\n'And what does that tell you?'\nPoirot spread out his hands.\n\n\n'It tells me - nothing.'\n'Ah!' said Giraud, in a satisfied voice. 'You haven't made a study of\nthese things. That's not an ordinary match - not in this country at least. It's\ncommon enough in South America. Luckily it's unlighted. I mightn't have\nrecognized it otherwise. Evidently one of the men threw away his cigarette\nand lit another, spilling one match out of the box as he did so.'\n'And the other match?' asked Poirot.\n'Which match?'\n'The one he did light his cigarette with. You have found that also?'\n'No.'\n'Perhaps you didn't search very thoroughly.'\n'Not search thoroughly -' For a moment it seemed as though the\ndetective was going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled\nhimself. 'I see you love a joke, Monsieur Poirot. But in any case, match or\nno match, the cigarette end would be sufficient. It is a South American\ncigarette with liquorice pectoral paper.'\nPoirot bowed. The commissary spoke:\n'The cigarette end and match might have belonged to Monsieur\nRenauld. Remember, it is only two years since he returned from South\nAmerica.'\n'No,' replied the other confidently. 'I have already searched among the\neffects of Monsieur Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he\nused are quite different.'\n'You do not think it odd,' asked Poirot, 'that these strangers should come\nunprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and that they should\nso conveniently find all these things?'\nGiraud smiled in a rather superior manner.\n'Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it\nwould be inexplicable.'\n'Aha!' said M. Hautet. 'An accomplice within the house!'\n'Or outside it,' said Giraud, with a peculiar smile. 'But someone must\nhave admitted them. We cannot allow that, by an unparalleled piece of good\nfortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk in?'\n'The door was opened for them; but it could just as easily be opened\nfrom outside - by someone who possessed a key.'\n'But who does possess a key?'\nGiraud shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\n'As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if he\ncan help it. But several people might have had one. Monsieur Jack Renauld,\nthe son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but\nhe might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the\ngardener - he has been here many years. One of the younger servants may\nhave a lover. It is easy to take an impression of a key and have one cut.\nThere are many possibilities. Then there is another person who, I should\njudge, is exceedingly likely to have such a thing.'\n'Who is that?'\n'Madame Daubreuil,' said the detective.\n'Eh, bien,' said the magistrate. 'So you have heard about that, have you?'\n'I hear everything,' said Giraud imperturbably.\n'There is one thing I could swear you have not heard,' said Hautet,\ndelighted to be able to show superior knowledge, and without more ado he\nretailed the story of the mysterious visitor the night before. He also touched\non the cheque made out to 'Duveen', and finally handed Giraud the letter\nsigned 'Bella'.\n'All very interesting. But my theory remains unaffected.'\n'And your theory is?'\n'For the moment I prefer not to say. Remember, I am only just beginning\nmy investigations.'\n'Tell me one thing, Monsieur Giraud,' said Poirot suddenly. 'Your theory\nallows for the door being opened. It does not explain why it was still open.\nWhen they departed, would it not have been natural for them to close it\nbehind them. If a sergent had chanced to come up to the house, as is\nsometimes done to see that all is well, they might have been discovered and\novertaken almost at once.'\n'Bah! They forgot it. A mistake, I grant you.'\nThen to my surprise Poirot uttered almost the same words as he had\nuttered to Bex the previous evening:\n'I do not agree with you. The door being left open was the result of\neither design or necessity, and any theory that does not admit that fact is\nbound to prove vain.'\nWe all regarded the little man with a good deal of astonishment. The\nconfession of ignorance drawn from him over the match end had, I thought,\nbeen bound to humiliate him, but here he was self-satisfied as ever, lying\ndown the great Giraud without a tremor.\n\n\nThe detective twisted his moustache, eyeing my friend in a somewhat\nbantering fashion.\n'You don't agree with me, eh? Well, what strikes you particularly about\nthe case? Let's hear your views.'\n'One thing presents itself to me as being significant. Tell me, Monsieur\nGiraud, does nothing strike you as familiar about this case? Is there nothing\nit reminds you of?'\n'Familiar? Reminds me of? I can't say off-hand. I don't think so, though.'\n'You are wrong,' said Poirot quietly. 'A crime almost precisely similar\nhas been committed before.'\n'When? And where?'\n'Ah, that, unfortunately, I cannot for the moment remember, but I shall\ndo so. I had hoped you might be able to assist me.'\nGiraud snorted incredulously.\n'There have been many affairs of masked men. I cannot remember the\ndetails of them all. The crimes all resemble each other more or less.'\n'There is such a thing as the individual touch.' Poirot suddenly assumed\nhis lecturing manner, and addressed us collectively. 'I am speaking to you\nnow of the psychology of crime. Monsieur Giraud knows quite well that\neach criminal has his particular method, and that the police, when called in\nto investigate, say, a case of burglary, can often make a shrewd guess at the\noffender, simply by the peculiar methods he has employed. (Japp would tell\nyou the same, Hastings.) Man is an unoriginal animal. Unoriginal within the\nlaw in his daily respectable life, equally unoriginal outside the law. If a man\ncommits a crime, any other crime he commits will resemble it closely. The\nEnglish murderer who disposed of his wives in succession by drowning\nthem in their baths was a case in point. Had he varied his methods, he might\nhave escaped detection to this day. But he obeyed the common dictates of\nhuman nature, arguing that what had once succeeded would succeed again,\nand he paid the penalty of his lack of originality.'\n'And the point of all this?' sneered Giraud.\n'That, when you have two crimes precisely similar in design and\nexecution, you find the same brain behind them both. I am looking for that\nbrain, Monsieur Giraud, and I shall find it. Here we have a true clue - a\npsychological clue. You may know all about cigarettes and match ends,\nMonsieur Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man.'\nGiraud remained singularly unimpressed.\n\n\n'For your guidance,' continued Poirot, 'I will also advise you of one fact\nwhich might fail to be brought to your notice. The wristwatch of Madame\nRenauld, on the day following the tragedy, had gained two hours.'\nGiraud stared.\n'Perhaps it was in the habit of gaining?'\n'As a matter of fact, I am told it did.'\n'Very well, then.'\n'All the same, two hours is a good deal,' said Poirot softly. 'Then there is\nthe matter of the footprints in the flower-bed.'\nHe nodded his head towards the open window. Giraud took two eager\nstrides, and looked out.\n'But I see no footprints?'\n'No,' said Poirot, straightening a little pile of books on a table. 'There are\nnone.'\nFor a moment an almost murderous rage obscured Giraud's face. He\ntook two strides towards his tormentor, but at that moment the salon door\nwas opened, and Marchaud announced:\n'Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, has just arrived from England. May he\nenter?'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 10\nGABRIEL STONOR\nThe man who now entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall,\nwith a well-knit, athletic frame and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he\ndominated the assembly. Even Giraud seemed anaemic beside him. When I\nknew him better I realized that Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual\npersonality. English by birth, he had knocked about all over the world. He\nhad shot big game in Africa, travelled in Korea, ranched in California, and\ntraded in the South Sea islands.\nHis unerring eye picked out M. Hautet.\n'The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you,\nsir. This is a terrible business. How's Mrs Renauld? Is she bearing up fairly\nwell? It must have been an awful shock to her.'\n'Terrible, terrible,' said M. Hautet. 'Permit me to introduce Monsieur\nBex, our commissary of police Monsieur Giraud of the Sûreté. This\ngentleman is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. Mr Renauld sent for him, but he\narrived too late to do anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of Monsieur\nPoirot's, Captain Hastings.'\nStonor looked at Poirot with some interest.\n'Sent for you, did he?'\n'You did not know, then, that Monsieur Renauld contemplated calling in\na detective?' interposed M. Bex.\n'No, I didn't. But it doesn't surprise me a bit.'\n'Why?'\n'Because the old man was rattled. I don't know what it was all about. He\ndidn't confide in me. We weren't on those terms. But rattled he was - and\nbadly.'\n'H'm!' said M. Hautet. 'But you have no notion of the cause?'\n'That's what I said, sir.'\n'You will pardon me, Monsieur Stonor, but we must begin with a few\nformalities. Your name?'\n'Gabriel Stonor.'\n'How long ago was it that you became secretary to Monsieur Renauld?'\n'About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met\nhim through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering good\nboss he was too.'\n\n\n'Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?'\n'Yes, a good bit.'\n'Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?'\n'Several times, I believe.'\n'He never mentioned any special incident that occurred there - anything\nthat might have provoked some vendetta against him?'\n'Never.'\n'Did he speak of any secret that he had acquired while sojourning there?'\n'Not that I can remember. But for all that, there was a mystery about\nhim. I've never heard him speak of his boyhood, for instance, or of any\nincident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French-Canadian\nby birth, I believe, but I've never heard him speak of his life in Canada. He\ncould shut up like a clam if he liked.'\n'So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue\nas to any secret to obtain posession of which he might have been\nmurdered?'\n'That's so.'\n'Monsieur Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in\nconnection with Monsieur Renauld?'\n'Duveen. Duveen.' He tried the name over thoughtfully. 'I don't think I\nhave. And yet it seems familiar.'\n'Do you know a lady, a friend of Monsieur Renauld's, whose Christian\nname is Bella?'\nAgain Mr Stonor shook his head.\n'Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It's curious. I'm sure I know it. But\nfor the moment I can't remember in what connection.\nThe magistrate coughed.\n'You understand, Monsieur Stonor… the case is like this. There must be\nno reservations. You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration for\nMadame Renauld - for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and\naffection - you might - in fact!' said M. Hautet, getting rather tied up in his\nsentence, 'there must absolutely be no reservations.'\nStonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.\n'I don't quite get you,' he said gently. 'Where does Mrs Renauld come\nin? I've an immense respect and affection for that lady; she's a very\nwonderful and unusual type, but I don't quite see how my reservations or\notherwise, could affect her?'\n\n\n'A lot if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more\nthan a friend to her husband?'\n'Ah!' said Stonor. 'I get you now. But I'll bet my bottom dollar that\nyou're wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He just\nadored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.'\nM. Hautet shook his head gently.\n'Monsieur Stonor. I hold absolute proof - a love-letter written by this\nBella to Monsieur Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover,\nwe have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an\nintrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the\nadjoining Villa.'\nThe secretary's eyes narrowed.\n'Hold on, sir. You're barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld.\nWhat you've just been saying is plumb impossible. There's some other\nexplanation.'\nThe magistrate shrugged his shoulders.\n'What other explanation could there be?'\n'What leads you to think it was a love affair?'\n'Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the\nevenings. Also, since Monsieur Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève,\nMadame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In\nall, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.'\n'I guess that's right,' said Stonor quietly. 'I transmitted him those sums in\nnotes at his request. But it wasn't an love affair.'\n'What else could it be?'\n'Blackmail,' said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a slam on\nthe table. 'That's what it was.'\n'Ah!' cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.\n'Blackmail,' repeated Stonor. 'The old man was being bled - and at a\ngood rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just\nnow there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame Daubreuil\nknew enough of it to put the screw on.'\n'It is possible,' the commissary cried exaltedly. 'Decidedly it is possible.'\n'Possible?' roared Stonor. 'It's certain. Tell me, have you asked Mm.\nRenauld about this love-affair stunt of yours?'\n'No, monsieur. We did not wish to occasion her any distress if it could\nreasonably be avoided.'\n\n\n'Distress? Why, she'd laugh in your face. I tell you, she and Renauld\nwere a couple in a hundred.'\n'Ah, that reminds me of another point,' said M. Hautet. 'Did Monsieur\nRenauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his\nwill?'\n'I know all about it - took it to the lawyers for him after he'd drawn it\nout. I can give you the name of his solicitors if you want to see it. They've\ngot it there. Quite simple. Half in trust to his wife for her lifetime, the other\nhalf to his son. A few legacies. I rather think he left me a thousand.'\n'When was this will drawn up?'\n'Oh, about a year and a half ago.'\n'Would it surprise you very much, Monsieur Stonor, to hear that\nMonsieur Renauld had made another will, less than a fortnight ago?'\nStonor was obviously very much surprised.\n'I'd no idea of it. What's it like?'\n'The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There is\nno mention of his son.'\nMr Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle.\n'I call that rather rough on the lad! His mother adores him of course, but\nto the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on his father's\npart. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it all goes to prove what I\ntold you, that Renauld and his wife were on first-rate terms.'\n'Quite so, quite so,' said M. Hautet. 'It is possible we shall have to revise\nour ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to Santiago, and are\nexpecting a reply from there any minute. In all probability, everything will\nthen be perfectly clear and straightforward. On the other hand, if your\nsuggestion of blackmail is true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to give\nus valuable information.'\nPoirot interjected a remark:\n'Monsieur Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with\nMonsieur Renauld?'\n'Over a year.'\n'Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?'\n'I'm quite sure he hasn't. Before coming to M. Renauld he had been for\nmany years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.'\n'In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?'\n'Absolutely.'\n\n\nPoirot seemed somewhat crestfallen.\nMeanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.\n'My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to\nher for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her\nupstairs.'\nMarchaud saluted and disappeared.\nWe waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened,\nand Mrs Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.\nM. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and\nshe thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his\nwith an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs Renauld\nturned to M. Hautet.\n'You wish to ask me something?'\n'With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a\nFrench-Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth or\nupbringing?'\nShe shook her head.\n'My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He\ncame from the North-West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy\nchildhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived\nentirely in the present and the future.'\n'Was there any mystery in his past life?'\nMrs Renauld smiled a little and shook her head.\n'Nothing so romantic I am sure, monsieur.'\nM. Hautet also smiled.\n'True - we must not permit ourselves to get melodramatic. There is one\nthing more -' He hesitated.\nStonor broke in impetuously:\n'They've got an extraordinary idea into their head, Mrs Renauld. They\nactually fancy that Mr Renauld was carrying on an intrigue with a Madame\nDaubreuil who it seems, lives next door.'\nThe scarlet colour flamed into Mrs Renauld's cheeks. She flung her\nhead up, then bit her lip, her face quivering. Stonor stood looking at her in\nastonishment but M. Bex leaned forward and said gently:\n'We regret to cause you pain, madame, but have you any reason to\nbelieve that Madame Daubreuil was your husband's mistress?'\n\n\nWith a sob of anguish, Mrs Renauld buried her face in her hands. Her\nshoulders heaved convulsively. At last she lifted her head and said\nbrokenly:\n'She may have been.'\nNever, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement\non Stonor's face. He was thoroughly taken aback.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 11\nJACK RENAULD\nWhat the next development of the conversation would have been I\ncannot say, for at that moment the door was thrown open violently and a tall\nyoung man strode into the room.\nJust for a moment I had the uncanny sensation that the dead man had\ncome to life again. Then I realized that this dark head was untouched with\ngrey, and that, in point of fact, it was a mere boy who now burst in among\nus with so little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs Renauld with an\nimpetuosity that took no heed of the presence of others.\n'Mother!'\n'Jack!' With a cry she folded him in her arms. 'My dearest! But what\nbrings you here? You were to sail on the Anzora from Cherbourg two days\nago?' Then, suddenly recalling to herself the presence of others, she turned\nwith a certain dignity: 'My son, messieurs.'\n'Aha!' said M. Hautet, acknowledging the young man's bow. 'So you did\nnot sail on the Anzora?'\n'No, monsieur. As I was about to explain, the Anzora was detained\ntwenty-four hours through engine trouble. I should have sailed last night\ninstead of the night before, but, happening to buy an evening paper I saw in\nit an account of the - the awful tragedy that had befallen us -' His voice\nbroke and the tears came into his eyes. 'My poor father - my poor, poor\nfather.'\nStaring at him like one in a dream, Mrs Renauld repeated:\n'So you did not sail?' And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she\nmurmured as though to herself: 'After all, it does not matter - now.'\n'Sit down, Monsieur Renauld, I beg of you,' said M. Hautet indicating a\nchair. 'My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible shock\nto you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that you\nwere prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us\njust the information we need to clear up this mystery.'\n'I am at your disposal, monsieur. Ask me any questions you please.'\n'To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at\nyour father's request?'\n'Quite so, monsieur. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed\nwithout delay to Buenos Ayres, and from thence over the Andes to\n\n\nValparaiso, and on to Santiago.'\n'Ah! And the object of this journey?'\n'I have no idea.'\n'What?'\n'No. See, here is the telegram.'\nThe magistrate took it and read it aloud:\n'“Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark Anzora sailing tonight\nBuenos Ayres. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will await\nyou Buenos Ayres. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance. Renauld.”\nAnd there had been no previous correspondence on the matter?'\nJack Renauld shook his head.\n'That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my\nfather, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in\nSouth America. But he had never made any suggestion of sending me out.'\n'You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M. Renauld?'\n'I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of\nmy holidays in that country, so, I really know far less of South America\nthan might be supposed. You see, the War broke out when I was seventeen.'\n'You served in the English Flying Corps, did you not?'\n'Yes, monsieur.'\nM. Hautet nodded his head and proceeded with his inquiries along the,\nby now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely\nthat he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the\ncity of Santiago or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had\nnoticed no change in his father's manner of late, and that he had never heard\nhim refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as\nconnected with business interests.\nAs M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in:\n'I should like to put a few questions of my own, Monsieur le juge.'\n'By all means, Monsieur Giraud, if you wish,' said the magistrate coldly.\nGiraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.\n'Were you on good terms with your father, Monsieur Renauld?'\n'Certainly I was,' returned the lad haughtily.\n'You assert that positively?'\n'Yes.'\n'No little disputes, eh?'\n\n\nJack shrugged his shoulders. 'Everyone may have a difference of\nopinion now and then.'\n'Quite so, quite so. But, if anyone were to assert that you had a violent\nquarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person,\nwithout doubt would be lying?'\nI could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast, 'I know\neverything,' had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by\nthe question.\n'We - we did have an argument,' he admitted.\n'Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument, did you use this\nphrase: “When you are dead I can do as I please”?'\n'I may have done,' muttered the other. 'I don't know.'\n'In response to that, did your father say: “But I am not dead yet!”? To\nwhich you responded: “I wish you were!”'\nThe boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things\non the table in from of him.\n'I must request an answer, please, Monsieur Renauld,' said Giraud\nsharply.\nWith an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper-knife to the\nfloor.\n'What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with\nmy father. I dare say I said all those things - I was so angry I cannot even\nremember what I said! I was furious - I could almost have killed him at that\nmoment there, make the most of that!' He leant back in his chair, flushed\nand defiant.\nGiraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:\n'That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the\ninterrogatory, Monsieur Hautet.'\n'Ah, yes, exactly,' said M. Hautet. 'And what was the subject of your\nquarrel?'\n'That I decline to state.'\nM. Hautet sat up in his chair.\n'Monsieur Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law,' he\nthundered. 'What was the subject of the quarrel?'\nYoung Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But\nanother voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot:\n'I will inform you, if you like, monsieur.'\n\n\n'You know?'\n'Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe\nDaubreuil.'\nRenauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.\n'Is that so, monsieur?'\nJack Renauld bowed his head.\n'Yes,' he admitted. 'I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry\nher. When I informed my father of the fact he flew at once into a violent\nrage. Naturally, I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too,\nlost my temper.'\nM. Hautet looked across at Mrs Renauld.\n'You were aware of this - attachment, madame?'\n'I feared it,' she replied simply.\n'Mother,' cried the boy. 'You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful.\nWhat can you have against her?'\n'I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I\nshould prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman, not one\nwho has a mother of doubtful antecedents!'\nHer rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I\ncould well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her\nonly son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.\nMrs Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:\n'I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I\nhoped that it was only a boy and girl flirtation which would blow over all\nthe quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence,\nbut my husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and careworn,\ndifferent altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to\ngive him any additional worry.'\nM. Hautet nodded.\n'When you informed your father of your intentions towards\nMademoiselle Daubreuil,' he resumed, 'he was surprised?'\n'He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily\nto dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to\nsuch a marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle\nDaubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting\nterms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I\nanswered that I was marrying Marthe and not her antecedents, but he\n\n\nshouted me down with a peremptory refusal to discuss the matter in any\nway. The whole thing must be given up. The injustice and highhandedness\nof it all maddened me - especially since he himself always seemed to go out\nof his way to be attentive to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that\nthey should be asked to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in\nearnest. My father reminded me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it\nmust have been in answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I\npleased after his death -'\nPoirot interrupted with a quick question:\n'You were aware, then, of the terms of your father's will?'\n'I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for\nmy mother, to come to me at her death,' replied the lad.\n'Proceed with your story,' said the magistrate.\n'After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly\nrealized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for\nthe station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed\ndown. I wrote to Marthe telling her what had happened, and her reply\nsoothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be\nsteadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection\nfor each other must be tried and proved and when my parents realized that it\nwas no light infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent towards us.\nOf course, to her, I had not dwelt on my father's principal objection to the\nmatch. I soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence.'\n'To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen,\nMonsieur Renauld?'\n'Duveen,' said Jack. 'Duveen?' He leant forward and slowly picked up\nthe paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head, his eyes\nmet the watching ones of Giraud. 'Duveen? No, I can't say I do.'\n'Will you read this letter, Monsieur Renauld? And tell me if you have\nany idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father.'\nJack Renauld took the letter and read it through, the colour mounting in\nhis face as he did so.\n'Addressed to my father?' The emotion and indignation in his tones were\nevident.\n'Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.'\n'Does -' He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards\nhis mother.\n\n\nThe magistrate understood.\n'As yet - no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?'\n'I have no idea whatsoever.'\nM. Hautet sighed.\n'A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the\nletter altogether. Let me see where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this\nmay give you pain, Monsieur Renauld. I understand it was a present from\nyou to your mother. Very sad - very distressing -'\nJack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the\nperusal of the letter, was now deadly white.\n'Do you mean - that it was with an aeroplane wire paper-cutter that my\nfather was - was killed? But it's impossible! A little thing like that!'\n'Alas, Monsieur Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear.\nSharp and easy to handle.'\n'Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the - the body?'\n'Oh no, it has been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It\nwould be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still -\nMonsieur Bex, might I trouble you?'\n'Certainly. I will fetch it immediately.'\n'Would it not be better to take Monsieur Renauld to the shed?' suggested\nGiraud smoothly. 'Without doubt he would wish to see his father's body.'\nThe boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate,\nalways disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied:\n'But no - not at present. Monsieur Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us\nhere.'\nThe commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack and wrung him\nby the hand. Poirot had risen, and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that\nstruck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading\nthe mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his\nfirst theory of jealousy and a stab in the back. Suddenly the door burst open\nand the commissary rushed in.\n'Monsieur le juge! Monsieur le juge!'\n'But yes. What is it?'\n'The dagger! It is gone!'\n'What - gone?'\n'Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!'\n\n\n'What?' I cried. 'Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw -' The words\ndied on my tongue.\nBut the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.\n'What is that you say?' cried the commissary. 'This morning?'\n'I saw it there this morning,' I said slowly. 'About an hour and a half ago,\nto be accurate.'\n'You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?'\n'I asked the sergent de ville for it.'\n'And you went there? Why?'\nI hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to\nmake a clean breast of it.\n'Monsieur Hautet,' I said, 'I have committed a grave fault, for which I\nmust crave your indulgence.'\n'Proceed, monsieur.'\n'The fact of the matter is,' I said, wishing myself anywhere else but\nwhere I was, 'that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She\ndisplayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and I - well,\nin short, I took the key to show her the body.'\n'Ah!' cried the magistrate indignantly. 'But it is a grave fault you have\ncommitted there, Captain Hastings. It is altogether most irregular. You\nshould not have permitted yourself this folly.'\n'I know,' I said meekly. 'Nothing that you can say could be too severe,\nmonsieur.'\n'You did not invite this lady to come here?'\n'Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who\nhappens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that until\nmy unexpected meeting with her.'\n'Well, well,' said the magistrate, softening. 'It was most irregular, but the\nlady is without doubt young and beautiful. What it is to be young!' And he\nsighed sentimentally.\nBut the commissary, less romantic and more practical, took up the tale:\n'But did you not re-close and lock the door when you departed?'\n'That's just it,' I said slowly. 'That's what I blame myself for so terribly.\nMy friend was upset at the sight. She nearly fainted. I got her some brandy\nand water, and afterwards insisted on accompanying her back to the town.\nIn the excitement I forgot to re-lock the door. I only did so when I got back\nto the Villa.'\n\n\n'Then for twenty minutes at least -' said the commissary slowly. He\nstopped.\n'Exactly,' I said.\n'Twenty minutes,' mused the commissary.\n'It is deplorable,' said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner returning.\n'Without precedent.'\nSuddenly another voice spoke.\n'You find it deplorable?' asked Giraud.\n'Certainly I do.'\n'I find it admirable!' said the other imperturbably.\nThis unexpected ally quite bewildered me.\n'Admirable, Monsieur Giraud?' asked the magistrate, studying him\ncautiously out of the corner of his eye.\n'Precisely.'\n'And why?'\n'Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the\nassassin, has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with\nthat knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.' There was a note of\nmenace in his voice. He continued: 'He risked a good deal to gain\npossession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that fingerprints might be\ndiscovered on it.'\nPoirot turned to Bex.\n'You said there were none?'\nGiraud shrugged his shoulders.\n'Perhaps he could not be sure.'\nPoirot looked at him.\n'You are wrong, Monsieur Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must\nhave been sure.'\n'I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice\nwho was not aware of that fact.'\nThe magistrate's clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M.\nHautet addressed us:\n'Our work here is finished. Perhaps, Monsieur Renauld, you will listen\nwhile your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the\nproceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my\nmethods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The\ncase is now in the clever hands of the renowned Monsieur Giraud. He will\n\n\nwithout doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already\nlaid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my\nheartfelt sympathy! Messieurs, I wish you all good day.' And, accompanied\nby his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure.\nPoirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his and observed the\ntime.\n'Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,' he said. 'And you shall\nrecount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing\nus. We need make no adieux.'\nWe went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just\ndriven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot's voice\narrested me:\n'One little moment, my friend.' Dexterously he whipped out his yard\nmeasure and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in\nthe hall, from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before,\nand guessed that it belonged to either Mr Stonor or Jack Renauld.\nThen, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his\npocket and followed me out into the open air.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 12\nPOIROT ELUCIDATES CERTAIN POINTS\n'Why did you measure that overcoat?' I asked, with some curiosity, as\nwe walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.\n'Parbleu! to see how long it was,' replied my friend imperturbably.\nI was vexed. Poirot's incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing\nnever failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of\nthought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time,\ncertain words Mrs Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me,\nfraught with a new significance. 'So you did not sail?' she had said, and then\nhad added: 'After all, it does not matter - now.'\nWhat had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical - significant.\nWas it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all\nknowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have\nentrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended?\nCould she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully\nthought out and preconceived plan?\nThe more I thought about, it, the more I was convinced that I was right.\nMrs Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her\nson, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if\nnot the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very\npowerful considerations must keep her silent.\n'You think profoundly, my friend,' remarked Poirot, breaking in upon\nmy reflections. 'What is it that intrigues you so?'\nI told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would\nridicule my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.\n'You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that\nshe was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring,\nat least of conniving at the crime.'\n'You suspected her?' I cried.\n'But certainly. She benefits enormously - in fact, by this new will, she is\nthe only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for\nattention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of\nexamining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that\nshe had gagged and bound herself. Bien, I saw at once that there was no\nfake, the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut into the flesh. That\n\n\nruled out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed.\nBut it was still possible for her to have connived at it, or to have been the\ninstigator with an accomplice. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was\nsingularly familiar to me - the masked men that she could not recognize, the\nmention of “the secret” - I had heard, or read, all these things before.\nAnother little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the\ntruth. The wristwatch, Hasting, the wristwatch!'\nAgain that wristwatch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.\n'You see, mon ami? You comprehend?'\n'No,' I replied with some ill burnout. 'I neither see nor comprehend. You\nmake all these confounded mysteries and it's useless asking you to explain.\nYou always like keeping something up your sleeve to the last minute.'\n'Do not enrage yourself, my friend,' said Poirot, with a smile. I will\nexplain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, c'est entendu? He treats me\nas an old one of no importance! We shall see! In common fairness I gave\nhim a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that is his own lookout.'\nI assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion.\n'C'est bien! Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell me, my friend,\nat what time, according to you, did the tragedy take place?'\n'Why, at two o'clock or thereabouts,' I said, astonished. 'You remember,\nMrs Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while the men were in\nthe room.'\n'Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate,\nBex, and everyone else, accept the time without further question. But I,\nHercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at\nleast two hours earlier.'\n'But the doctors -'\n'They decided, after examination of the body, that death had taken place\nbetween ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason it was\nimperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it\nactually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact\nhour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Madame Renauld's\ntestimony alone, someone moved on the hands of that wristwatch to two\no'clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case,\nthey defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism\nof the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their\npart, for it at once drew my attention to two points - first, that Madame\n\n\nRenauld was lying; secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the\npostponement of the time.'\n'And what reason could there be?'\n'Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I\ncannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having\na possible connection.'\n'And that is?'\n'The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.'\nI followed it out slowly.\n'So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, anyone\nleaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!'\n'Perfect, Hastings! You have it!'\nI sprang up.\n'But we must inquire at the station! Surely they cannot have failed to\nnotice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!'\n'You think so, Hastings?'\n'Of course. Let us go there now.'\nPoirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.\n'Go by all means if you wish, mon ami - but if you go, I should not ask\nfor particulars of two foreigners.'\nI stared and he said rather impatiently:\n'La, la, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men\nand all the rest of cette histoire - lа!'\nHis words took me so much aback, that I hardly knew how to respond.\nHe went on serenely:\n'You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this\ncrime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things,\neither the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an\naccount read or a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin's\nmemory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on\nthat after -' He broke off.\nI was revolving sundry matters in my mind.\n'But Mr Renauld's letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago!'\n'Undoubtedly there was a secret in Monsieur Renauld's life - there can\nbe no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a\nred herring, dragged constantly across the track to put us off the scent. It is\npossible that it was used in the same way on Monsieur Renauld, to keep\n\n\nhim from directing his suspicions to a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured\nHastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at\nhand, in France.'\nHe spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be\nconvinced. But I essayed one objection:\n'And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them?'\nA light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot's face.\n'Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to\nfind! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever\ndog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his\nstomach. “See what I have found,” he says. And then again to me: “What\ndo you see here?” Me, I answer with profound and deep truth, “Nothing.”\nAnd Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself “Oh, he is\nimbecile, this old one!” But we shall see...'\nBut my mind had reverted to the main facts.\n'Then all this story of the masked men -'\n'Is false.'\n'What really happened?'\nPoirot shrugged his shoulders.\n'One person could tell us - Madame Renauld. But she will not speak.\nThreats and enmities would not move her. A remarkable woman that,\nHastings. I recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman\nof unusual character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of\nbeing concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.'\n'What made you do that?'\n'Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband's body. I\ncould swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.'\n'Yes,' I said thoughtfully, 'one cannot mistake these things.'\n'I beg your pardon, my friend - one can always be mistaken. Regard a\ngreat actress, does not her acting of grief carry you away and impress you\nwith its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I\nneeded other evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great\ncriminal can be a great actor. I base my certainty in this case not upon my\nown impression, but upon the undeniable fact that Madame Renauld\nactually fainted. I turned up her eye-lids and felt her pulse. There was no\ndeception - the swoon was genuine. Therefore I was satisfied that her\nanguish was real and not assumed. Besides, a small additional point without\n\n\ninterest, it was unnecessary for Madame Renauld to exhibit unrestrained\ngrief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of her husband's death, and\nthere would be no need for her to simulate another such a violent one on\nbeholding his body. No, Madame Renauld was not her husband's murderess.\nBut why has she lied? She lied about the wristwatch, she lied about the\nmasked men, she lied about a third thing. Tell me, Hastings, what is your\nexplanation of the open door?'\n'Well,' I said, rather embarrassed, 'I suppose it was an oversight. They\nforgot to shut it.'\nPoirot shook his head, and sighed.\n'That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a\nmeaning behind that open door which for the moment I cannot fathom. One\nthing I am fairly sure of - they did not leave through the door. They left by\nthe window.'\n'What?'\n'Precisely.'\n'But there were no foot-marks in the flower-bed underneath the\nwindow.'\n'No - and there ought to have been. Listen, Hastings. The gardener, as\nyou heard him say, planted both those beds the preceding afternoon. In the\none there are plenty of impressions of his big hobnailed boots - in the other,\nnone! You see? Someone had passed that way, someone who, to obliterate\ntheir footprints, smoothed over the surface of the bed with a rake.'\n'Where did they get a rake?'\n'Where they got the spade and the gardening gloves,' said Poirot\nimpatiently. 'There is no difficulty about that.'\n'What makes you think that they left that way though? Surely it is more\nprobable that they entered by the window, and left by the door?'\n'That is possible, of course. Yet I have a strong idea that they left by the\nwindow.'\n'I think you are wrong.'\n'Perhaps, mon ami.'\nI mused, thinking over the new field of conjecture that Poirot's\ndeductions had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic\nallusion to the flower-bed and the wristwatch. His remarks had seemed so\nmeaningless at the moment, and now, for the first time I realized how\n\n\nremarkably, from a few slight incidents, he had unravelled much of the\nmystery that surrounded the case. I paid a belated homage to my friend.\n'In the meantime,' I said, considering, 'although we know a great deal\nmore than we did we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who killed Mr\nRenauld.'\n'No,' said Poirot cheerfully. 'In fact we are a great deal farther off.'\nThe fact seemed to afford him such peculiar satisfaction that I gazed at\nhim in wonder. He met my eye and smiled. Suddenly a light burst upon me.\n'Poirot! Mrs Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.'\nFrom the quietness with which Poirot received my mark, I could see\nthat the idea had already occurred to him.\n'Yes,' he said thoughtfully. 'Shielding someone - or screening someone.\nOne of the two.'\nThen, as we entered our hotel he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 13\nTHE GIRL WITH THE ANXIOUS EYES\nWe lunched with an excellent appetite. For a while we ate in silence,\nand then Poirot observed maliciously:\n'Eh bien! And your indiscretions! You recount them not?'\nI felt myself blushing.\n'Oh, you mean this morning?' I endeavoured to adopt a tone of absolute\nnonchalance.\nBut I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted\nthe whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.\n'Tien! A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming\nyoung lady?'\nI had to confess that I did not know.\n'Still more romantic! The first rencontre in the train from Paris, the\nsecond here. Journeys end in lovers' meetings, is not that the saying?'\n'Don't be an ass, Poirot.'\n'Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle -\nCinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should\nestablish a harem!'\n'It's all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very beautiful\ngirl, and I do admire her immensely - I don't mind admitting it. The other's\nnothing - I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.'\n'You do not propose to see the lady again?'\nHis last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness\nwith which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, written large in\nletters of fire, I saw the words 'Hôtel du Phare', and I heard again her voice\nsaying, ' Come and look me up', and my own answering with empressement\n'I will.'\nI answered Poirot lightly enough:\n'She asked me to look her up, but, of course, I shan't.'\n'Why “of course”?'\n'Well, I don't want to.'\n'Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d'Angleterre you told\nme, did you not?'\n'No. Hôtel du Phare.'\n'True, I forgot.'\n\n\nA moment's misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never\nmentioned any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him and felt reassured. He\nwas cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his\ntask. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.\nWe had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny\ncigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket.\n'The train to Paris leaves at 2.25,' he observed. 'I should be starting.'\n'Paris?' I cried.\n'That is what I said, mon ami.'\n'You are going to Paris? But why?'\nHe replied very seriously:\n'To look for the murderer of Monsieur Renauld.'\n'You think he is in Paris?'\n'I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must look\nfor him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good time.\nBelieve me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long. In\nall probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should\naccompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the\nsociety of Monsieur Renauld fils.'\n'That reminds me,' I said. 'I meant to ask you how you knew about those\ntwo?'\n'Mon ami - I know human nature. Throw together a boy like young\nRenauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe and the result is\nalmost inevitable. Then, the quarrel. It was money, or a woman, and,\nremembering Léonie's description of the lad's anger, I decided on the latter.\nSo I made my guess - and I was right.'\n'You already suspected that she loved young Renauld?'\nPoirot smiled.\n'At any rate, I saw that anxious eyes. That is how I always think of\nMademoiselle Daubreuil - the girl with the anxious eyes.'\nHis voice was so grave that it impressed me uncomfortably.\n'What do you mean by that, Poirot?'\n'I fancy, my friend, that we shall see before very long. But I must start.'\n'I will come and see you off,' I said, rising.\n'You will do nothing of the sort. I forbid it.'\nHe was so peremptory that I stared at him in surprise. He nodded\nemphatically.\n\n\n'I mean it, mon ami. Au revoir.'\nI felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down to the\nbeach and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join\nthem. I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself among\nthem in some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled\naimlessly along the sands towards the farther end of the town. It occurred to\nme that, after all, it would only be decent feeling on my part to inquire after\nthe girl. And it would save trouble in the end. The matter would then be\nfinished with. There would be no need for me to trouble about her any\nfurther. But if I did not go at all, she might quite possibly come and look me\nup at the Villa.\nAccordingly, I left the beach, and walked inland. I soon found the Hôtel\ndu Phare, a very unpretentious building.\nIt was annoying in the extreme not to know the lady's name and, to save\nmy dignity, I decided to stroll inside and look around. Probably I should\nfind her in the lounge. I went in, but there was no sign of her. I waited for\nsome time, till my impatience got the better of me, I took the concierge\naside and slipped five francs into his hand.\n'I wish to see a lady who is staying here. A young English lady, small\nand dark. I am not sure of her name.'\nThe man shook his head and seemed to be suppressing a grin.\n'There is no such lady as you describe staying here.'\n'But the lady told me she was staying here.'\n'Monsieur must have made a mistake - or it is more likely the lady did,\nsince there has been another gentleman here inquiring for her.'\n'What is that you say?' I cried, surprised.\n'But yes, monsieur. A gentleman who described her just as you have\ndone.'\n'What was he like?'\n'He was a small gentleman, well dressed, very neat, very spotless, the\nmoustache very stiff, the head of a peculiar shape, and the eyes green.'\nPoirot! So that was why he refused to let me accompany him to the\nstation. The impertinence of it! I would thank him not to meddle in my\nconcerns. Did he fancy I needed a nurse to look after me?\nThanking the man, I departed, somewhat at a loss, and still much\nincensed with my meddlesome friend.\n\n\nBut where was the lady? I set aside my wrath and tried to puzzle it out.\nEvidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then\nanother thought struck me. Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately\nwithheld her name and given me the wrong address?\nThe more I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that this last\nsurmise of mine was right. For some reason or other she did not wish to let\nthe acquaintance ripen into friendship. And, though half an hour earlier this\nhad been precisely my own view, I did not enjoy having the tables turned\nupon me. The whole affair was profoundly unsatisfactory, and I went up to\nthe Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct ill burnout. I did not go to the\nhouse, but went up the path to the little bench by the shed, and sat there\nmoodily enough.\nI was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand.\nIn a second or two I realized that they came, not from the garden I was in,\nbut from the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were\napproaching rapidly. A girl's voice was speaking, a voice that I recognized\nas that of the beautiful Marthe.\n'Chéri,' she was saying, 'is it really true? Are all our troubles over?'\n'You know it, Marthe,' Jack Renauld replied. 'Nothing can part us now,\nbeloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can take you\nfrom me.'\n'Nothing?' the girl murmured. 'Oh, Jack, Jack - I am afraid.'\nI had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally\neavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in\nthe hedge. They stood together facing me, the man's arm round the girl, his\neyes looking into hers. They were a splendid-looking couple, the dark, well-\nknit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as\nthey stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed\ntheir young lives.\nBut the girl's face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize\nit, as he held her closer to him and asked:\n'But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to fear?'\nAnd then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as\nshe murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words:\n'I am afraid - for you.'\nI did not hear young Renauld's answer, for my attention was distracted\nby an unusual appearance a little farther down the hedge. There appeared to\n\n\nbe a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in\nthe summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown\nbush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It\nwas Giraud.\nEnjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of\nearshot.\n'What were you doing there?' I asked.\n'Exactly what you were doing - listening.'\n'But I was not there on purpose!'\n'Ah!' said Giraud. 'I was.'\nAs always, I admired the man while disliking him. He looked me up and\ndown with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.\n'You didn't help matters by butting in. I might have heard something\nuseful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil.'\n'Monsieur Poirot has gone to Paris,' I replied coldly.\nGiraud snapped his fingers disdainfully. 'So he has gone to Paris, has\nhe? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there the better. But what does\nhe think he will find there?'\nI thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.\n'That I am not at liberty to say,' I said quietly.\nGiraud subjected me to a piercing stare.\n'He has probably enough sense not to tell you,' he remarked rudely.\n'Good afternoon. I'm busy.' And with that he turned on his heel, and left me\nwithout ceremony.\nMatters seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève. Giraud evidently\ndid not desire my company and, from what I had seen, it seemed fairly\ncertain that Jack Renauld did not either.\nI went back to the town, had an enjoyable bathe, and returned to the\nhotel. I turned in early, wondering whether the following day would bring\nforth anything of interest. I was wholly unprepared for what it did bring\nforth. I was eating my petit déjeuner in the dining-room, when the waiter,\nwho had been talking to someone outside, came back in obvious\nexcitement. He hesitated for a minute, fidgeting with his napkin, and then\nburst out:\n'Monsieur will pardon me, but he is connected, is he not, with the affair\nat the Villa Geneviève?'\n'Yes,' I said eagerly. 'Why?'\n\n\n'Monsieur has not heard the news, though?'\n'What news?'\n'That there has been another murder there last night!'\n'What?'\nLeaving my breakfast, I caught up my hat and ran as fast as I could.\nAnother murder - and Poirot away! What fatality! But who had been\nmurdered?\nI dashed in at the gate. A group of servants were in the drive, talking\nand gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.\n'What has happened?'\n'Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse\nupon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for Monsieur le\nCuré to bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that\nroof. It might be my turn - who knows?'\nShe crossed herself.\n'Yes,' I cried, 'but who has been killed?'\n'Do I know - me? A man - a stranger. They found him up there - in the\nshed - not a hundred yards from where they found poor Monsieur. And that\nis not all. He is stabbed - stabbed in the heart with that dagger!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 14\nTHE SECOND BODY\nNot waiting for anything else, I turned and ran along the trail that led to\nthe shed. The two men who were guarding the door stepped aside to let me\nthrough. I entered the shed very excited.\nIt was quite dark inside. It was a rustic wooden building to keep old\npottery and gardening tools. I had stormed in, but slowed down and stopped\non the treshold, fascinated by what I saw.\nGiraud was on his fours, a lantern in his hand, searching meticulously\nevery inch of the ground. He raised his head with a frown when he heard\nme coming in. Then he relaxed, and said with an amused expression:\n'Ah, c'est l'Anglais! Do come in! Let's see what you can find out!'\nAnnoyed by his tone of voice, I lowered my head and entered the shed.\n'There it is,' said Giraud, pointing his lantern at a corner of the shed.\nI went over there.\nThe dead man was on his back. He was of medium height, dark skin,\npossibly in his fifties. He was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue well-cut\nsuit. The face was terribly convulsed. On the left side, a little over the heart,\nthere was the black shiny handle of a paper-knife. I recognised it\nimmediately. It was the same knife I had seen in the jar the morning before!\n'The doctor is expected at any moment,' Giraud explained. 'But we\npractically don't need him. There is no doubt about what killed the man. He\nwas stabbed through the heart and the death must have been instantaneous.'\n'When did it happen? Last night?'\nGiraud shook his head.\n'Hardly. I like to wait always for the medical pronouncement, but I bet\nthat this man is dead for at least twelve hours. When did you see the knife\nfor the last time?'\n'At ten in the morning.'\n'In this case I think that the crime was commited not much later.'\n'But there were people passing by all the time!'\nGiraud gave an unpleasant laugh.\n'Who said that the man was killed in this shed?'\nI felt myself blushing.\n'I - I - thought that -'\n\n\n'Ah, but what a great detective! Look at him, mon petit! Do you think a\nman stabbed through the heart falls this way with arms neatly beside him?\nOf course not! And look here - and here -'\nGiraud passed his lantern over the floor, revealing strange irregular\nmarks on it.\n'He was dragged here after he was killed. Half dragged, half carried by\ntwo people. Their footprints don't show on the hard soil outside, and in here\nthey took the precautions of destroying them. But there is always something\nleft. And I can assure you, my friend, that one of them was a woman.'\n'A woman?'\n'That's right.'\n'But if the tracks were erased, how can you know?'\n'I know it - by this!'\nGiraud took something from the handle of the knife and held it up for\nme. It was a woman's hair, long and black, the same as the one Poirot had\nfound on the chair in the library.\nWith an ironic smile he put the hair back on the knife.\n'Let us leave things as they are, as far as possible,' he explained. 'It\npleases the examining magistrate. Well, do you notice anything else?'\nI was forced to shake my head.\n'Look at his hands.'\nI did. The nails were broken and discoloured and the skin was hard. It\nhardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I\nlooked up at Giraud.\n'They are not the hands of a gentleman,' he said, answering my look. 'On\nthe contrary, his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is curious is it\nnot?'\n'Very curious,' I agreed.\n'And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This\nman was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was\nmasquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by\ndisguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know - he\nwas as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.'\nHe looked down at the body again.\n'As before, there are no fingerprints on the handle of the dagger. The\nmurderer again wore gloves.'\n\n\n'You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?' I asked\neagerly.\nGiraud became inscrutable.\n'Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!'\nThe sergent de ville appeared at the door.\n'Monsieur?'\n'Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour\nago.'\n'She is coming up the path now monsieur, and her son with her.'\n'Good. I only want one at a time, though.'\nMarchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared\nwith Mrs Renauld.\n'Here is Madame.'\nGiraud came forward with a curt bow.\n'This way, madame.' He led her across, and then, standing suddenly\naside, 'Here is the man. Do you know him?'\nAnd as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like bored into her face, seeking to\nread her mind - noting every indication of her expression.\nBut Mrs Renauld remained perfectly calm - too calm, I felt. She looked\ndown at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of\nagitation or recognition.\n'No,' she said. 'I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to\nme.'\n'You are sure?'\n'Quite sure.'\n'You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?'\n'No.' She seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. 'No, I do not\nthink so. Of course they wore beards - false ones the magistrate thought -\nbut still, no.' Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely, 'I am sure\nneither of the two was this man.'\n'Well then, madame, that is all.'\nShe went off with the sun making silver threads in her hair. Jack\nRenauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man in a completely\nnatural manner.\nGiraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could\nnot tell. He called to Marchaud. 'You have got the other there!'\n\n\n“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting\nwith vehemence.\n'I protest, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?'\n'Madame,' said Giraud brutally, 'I am investigating not one murder, but\ntwo murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.'\n'How dare you?' she cried. 'How dare you insult me by such a wild\naccusation! It is infamous!'\n'Infamous, is it? What about this?' Stooping, he again detached the hair,\nand held it up. 'Do you see this, madame?'\nHe advanced towards her. 'You permit that I see whether it matches?'\nWith a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.\n'It is false, I swear it. I know nothing of the crime - of either crime.\nAnyone who says I do lies! Ah, mon Dieu, what shall I do?'\n'Calm yourself, madame,' said Giraud coldly. 'No one has accused you\nas yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.'\n'Anything you wish, monsieur.'\n'Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?'\nDrawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame\nDaubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and\ncuriosity. Then she shook her head.\n'I do not know him.'\nIt seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud\ndismissed her with a nod of the head.\n'You are letting her go?' I asked in a low voice. 'Is that wise? Surely that\nblack hair is from her head.'\n'I do not need teaching my business,' said Giraud dryly. 'She is under\nsurveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.'\nThen, frowning, he gazed down at the body.\n'Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?' he asked suddenly.\nI considered the face carefully.\n'No,' I said at last. 'I should put him down as a Frenchman most\ndecidedly.'\nGiraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.\n'Same here.'\nHe stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved\nme aside and once more, on hands and knees he continued his search of the\nfloor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he\n\n\nwent over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on\na bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers,\nand he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested\nhim, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went\nback to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end he\nrose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and\nperplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence.\nBut at the moment a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old\nfriend, the examining magistrate accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex with\nthe doctor behind them, came bustling in.\n'But this is extraordinary, Monsieur Giraud,' cried M. Hautet. 'Another\ncrime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep\nmystery here. But who is the victim this time?'\n'That is just what nobody can tell us, monsieur. He has not been\nidentified.'\n'Where is the body?' asked the doctor.\nGiraud moved aside a little.\n'There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And\nwith the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder\nfollowed hard upon the theft - but that is for you to say. You can handle the\ndagger freely - there are no fingerprints on it.'\nThe doctor knelt down by the dead man and Giraud turned to the\nexamining magistrate.\n'A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.'\n'And so no one can identify him,' mused the magistrate. 'Could it\npossibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among\nthemselves.'\nGiraud shook his head.\n'The man is a Frenchman. I would take my oath of that.'\nBut at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor, who was sitting\nback on his heels with a perplexed expression.\n'You say he was killed yesterday morning?'\n'I fix it by the theft of the dagger,' explained Giraud. 'He may, of course,\nhave been killed later in the day.'\n'Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least forty-\neight hours, and probably longer.'\nWe stared at each other in blank amazement.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 15\nA PHOTOGRAPH\nThe doctor's words were so surprising that we were all momentarily\ntaken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have\nbeen stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr Durand asserted\npositively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing\nwas fantastic to the last extreme.\nWe were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor's announcement\nwhen a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to\nthe Villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the\ntrain arriving at Merlinville at 12.28.\nI looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to\nthe station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance\nthat he should know at once of the new and startling developments in the\ncase.\nEvidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he\nwanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved that. Very few hours\nhad sufficed. I wondered how he would take the exciting news I had to\nimpart.\nThe train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down\nthe platform until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a\nfew questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening\nof the tragedy.\nI approached the chief porter, an intelligent-looking man, and had little\ndifficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to\nthe police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands or assassins should be\nallowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility\nthey might have left by the midnight train but he negatived the idea\ndecidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners - he was sure of it. Only\nabout twenty people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to\nobserve them.\nI do not know what put the idea into my head - possibly it was the deep\nanxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil's tones - but I asked suddenly:\n'Young Monsieur Renauld - he did not leave by that train, did he?'\n'Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it\nwould not be amusing, that!'\n\n\nI stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me.\nThen I saw.\n'You mean,' I said, my heart beating a little, 'that Monsieur Jack Renauld\narrived at Merlinville that evening?'\n'But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the 11.40.'\nMy brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe's poignant\nanxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. But\nwhy had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that\nhe had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish\ncountenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that be had any\nconnection with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about so vital a\nmatter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along. Hence her\nanxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot as to whether anyone was\nsuspected.\nMy cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in\nanother moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He\nbeamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced\nme warmly on the platform.\n'Mon cher ami! I have succeeded - but succeeded to a marvel!'\n'Indeed? I'm delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?'\n'How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some\ndevelopments, eh? The brave Giraud he has made an arrest? Or even arrests\nperhaps? Ah, but I make him look foolish, that one! But where are you\ntaking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I\nattend to my moustaches - they are deplorably limp from the heat of\ntravelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I\nmust rearrange.'\nI cut short his remonstrances.\n'My dear Poirot - never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at once.\nThere has been another murder!'\nNever have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the\njauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.\n'What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, but I am all wrong. I\nhave failed. Giraud may mock himself at me - he will have reason!'\n'You did not expect it, then?'\n'I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory - it ruins\neverything - it - Ah, no!' He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest.\n\n\n'It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts, taken methodically, and in\ntheir proper order, admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I am\nright!'\n'But then -'\nHe interrupted me.\n'Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is\nimpossible unless - unless - oh wait, I implore you. Say no word.'\nHe was silent for a moment or two, then resuming his normal manner,\nhe said in a quiet assured voice:\n'The victim is a man of middle age. His body was found in the locked\nshed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight\nhours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to\nMr Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.'\nIt was my turn to stare open-mouthed. In my knowledge of Poirot he\nhad never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably a doubt\ncrossed my mind.\n'Poirot,' I cried, 'you're pulling my leg. You've heard all about it already.'\nHe turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.\n'Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing\nwhatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?'\n'But how on earth could you know all that?'\n'I was right, then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the\nlittle grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have\nbeen a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can\ntake a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the\nVilla Geneviève much more quickly.'\nAs we walked, taking the way he had indicated I recounted all I knew.\nPoirot listened attentively.\n'The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it\nwas the same one?'\n'Absolutely certain. That's what makes it so impossible.'\n'Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.'\nI raised my eyebrows.\n'Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most\nextraordinary coincidence.'\n'You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two\nidentical weapons would be highly improbable. But not here. This\n\n\nparticular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld's\norders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he\nshould have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for\nhis own use.'\n'But nobody has mentioned such a thing,' I objected.\nA hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot's tone.\n'My friend, in working upon a case, one does not take into account only\nthe things that are “mentioned”. There is no reason to mention many things\nwhich may be important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for not\nmentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.'\nI was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought\nus to the famous shed. We found all our friends there, and after an\ninterchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task.\nHaving watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot\nbestowed but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he\nexamined was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile\nrose to Giraud's lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down\nagain.\n'Old clothes of the gardener's?' he queried.\n'Exactly,' said Giraud.\nPoirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical.\nHe examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were\nno marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and\nbroken fingernails. While examining the latter he threw a quick question at\nGiraud.\n'You saw them?'\n'Yes, I saw them,' replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.\nSuddenly Poirot stiffened.\n'Dr Durand!'\n'Yes?' The doctor came forward.\n'There is foam on the lips. You observed it?'\n'I didn't notice it, I must admit.'\n'But you observe it now?'\n'Oh, certainly.'\nPoirot again shot a question at Giraud.\n'You noticed it without doubt?'\n\n\nThe other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been\nwithdrawn from the wound. It stood in a glass jar by the side of the body.\nPoirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up\nhis eyes were shining.\n'It is a strange wound this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the\nclothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all. What do\nyou think monsieur docteur?'\n'I can only say that it is most abnormal.'\n'It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed after he\nwas already dead.' And stilling the clamour of voices that arose with a wave\nof his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added: 'M. Giraud agrees with me\ndo you not, monsieur?'\nWhatever Giraud's real belief, he accepted the position without moving\na muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he answered:\n'Certainly. I agree.'\nThe murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.\n'But what an idea!' cried M. Hautet. 'To stab a man after he is dead!\nBarbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate perhaps.'\n'No,' said Poirot. 'I should fancy it was done quite cold-bloodedly - to\ncreate an impression.'\n'What impression?'\n'The impression it nearly did create,' returned Poirot oracularly.\nM. Bex had been thinking.\n'How, then, was the man killed?'\n'He was not killed. He died. He died, if I am not much mistaken, of an\nepileptic fit!'\nThis statement of Poirot's again aroused considerable excitement. Dr\nDurand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he\nrose to his feet.\n'Monsieur Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your\nassertion. The incontrovertible fact that the man had been stabbed distracted\nmy attention from any other indications.'\nPoirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse\nin compliments. Poirot responded fully, and then excused himself on the\npretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched and that he wished to repair the\nravages of the journey. As we were about to leave the shed, Giraud\napproached us.\n\n\n'One other thing, Monsieur Poirot,' he said in his suave mocking voice.\n'We found this coiled round the handle of the dagger - a woman's hair.'\n'Ah,' said Poirot. 'A woman's hair? What woman's, I wonder?'\n'I wonder also,' said Giraud. Then with a bow he left us.\n'He was insistent the good Giraud,' said Poirot thoughtfully, as we\nwalked towards the hotel. 'I wonder in what direction he hopes to mislead\nme? A woman's hair - h'm!'\nWe lunched heartily, but I found Poirot somewhat distrait and\ninattentive. Afterwards we went up to our sitting-room and there I begged\nhim to tell me something of his mysterious journey to Paris.\n'Willingly, my friend. I went to Paris to find this!'\nHe took from his pocket a small faded newspaper cutting. It was the\nreproduction of a woman's photograph. He handed it to me. I uttered an\nexclamation.\n'You recognize it, my friend?'\nI nodded. Although the photo obviously dated from very many years\nhack, and the hair was dressed in a different style, the likeness was\nunmistakable.\n'Madame Daubreuil!' I exclaimed.\nPoirot shook his head with a smile.\n'Not quite correct, my friend. She did not call herself by that name in\nthose days. That is a picture of the notorious Madame Beroldy!'\nMadame Beroldy! In a flash the whole thing came back to me. The\nmurder trial that had evoked such world-wide interest.\nThe Beroldy Case.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 16\nTHE BEROLDY CASE\nSome twenty years or so before the opening of the present story,\nMonsieur Arnold Beroldy, a native of Lyons, arrived in Paris accompanied\nby his pretty wife and their little daughter, a mere babe. Monsieur Beroldy\nwas a junior partner in a firm of wine merchants, a stout middle-aged man,\nfond of the good things of life, devoted to his charming wife, and altogether\nunremarkable in every way. The firm in which Monsieur Beroldy was a\npartner was a small one and, although doing well, it did not yield a large\nincome to the junior partner. The Beroldys had a small apartment and lived\nin a very modest fashion to begin with.\nBut, unremarkable though Monsieur Beroldy might be, his wife was\nplentifully gilded with the brush of Romance. Young and good-looking, and\ngifted with a singular charm of manner, Madame Beroldy at once created a\nstir in the quarter, especially when it began to be whispered that some\ninteresting mystery surrounded her birth. It was rumoured that she was the\nillegitimate daughter of a Russian Grand Duke. Others asserted that it was\nan Austrian Arch-duke, and that the union was legal, though morganatic.\nBut all stories agreed upon one point, that Jeanne Beroldy was the centre of\nan interesting mystery.\nAmong the friends and acquaintances of the Beroldys was a young\nlawyer, Georges Conneau. It was soon evident that the fascinating Jeanne\nhad completely enslaved his heart. Madame Beroldy encouraged the young\nman in a discreet fashion, but always being careful to affirm her complete\ndevotion to her middle-aged husband. Nevertheless, many spiteful persons\ndid not hesitate to declare that young Conneau was her lover - and not the\nonly one!\nWhen the Beroldys had been in Paris about three months another\npersonage came upon the scene. This was Mr Hiram P. Trapp, a native of\nthe United States, and extremely wealthy. Introduced to the charming and\nmysterious Madame Beroldy, he fell a prompt victim to her fascinations.\nHis admiration was obvious, though strictly respectful. About this time,\nMadame Beroldy became more outspoken in her confidences. To several\nfriends, she declared herself greatly worried on her husband's behalf. She\nexplained that he had been drawn into several schemes of a political nature,\nand also referred to some important papers that had been entrusted to him\n\n\nfor safe-keeping and which concerned a 'secret' of far-reaching European\nimportance. They had been entrusted to his custody to throw pursuers off\nthe track, but Madame Beroldy was nervous, having recognized several\nimportant members of the Revolutionary Circle in Paris.\nOn the 28th day of November the blow fell. The woman who came\ndaily to clean and cook for the Beroldys was surprised to find the door of\nthe apartment standing wide open. Hearing faint moans issuing from the\nbedroom, she went in. A terrible sight met her eyes. Madame Beroldy lay\non the floor bound hand and foot, uttering feeble moans, having managed to\nfree her mouth from a gag. On the bed was Monsieur Beroldy, lying in a\npool of blood, with a knife driven through his heart.\nMadame Beroldy's story was clear enough. Suddenly awakened from\nsleep, she had discerned two masked men bending over her. Stifling her\ncries, they had bound and gagged her. They had then demanded of\nMonsieur Beroldy the famous 'secret'.\nBut the intrepid wine merchant refused point-blank to accede to their\nrequest. Angered by his refusal, one of the men stabbed him through the\nheart. With the dead man's keys, they had opened the safe in the corner, and\nhad carried away with them a mass of papers. Both men were heavily\nbearded, and had worn masks, but Madame Beroldy declared positively that\nthey were Russians.\nThe affair created an immense sensation. Time went on, and the\nmysterious bearded men were never traced. And then, just as public interest\nwas beginning to die down, a startling development occurred: Madame\nBeroldy was arrested and charged with the murder of her husband. The trial,\nwhen it came on, aroused widespread interest.\nThe youth and beauty of the accused, and her mysterious story, were\nsufficient to make of it a cause célèbre.\nIt was proved beyond doubt that Jeanne Beroldy's parents were a highly\nrespectable and prosaic couple, fruit merchants who lived on the outskirts\nof Lyons. The Russian Grand Duke, the court intrigues, and the political\nschemes - all the stories about were traced back to the lady herself!\nRemorselessly, the whole story of her life was laid bare. The motive for the\nmurder was found in Mr Hiram P. Trapp. Mr Trapp did his best, but,\nrelentlessly and agilely cross-questioned, he was forced to admit that he\nloved the lady, and that, had she been free, he would have asked her to be\nhis wife. The fact that the relations between them were admittedly platonic\n\n\nstrengthened the case against the accused. Debarred from becoming his\nmistress by the simple honourable nature of the man, Jeanne Beroldy had\nconceived the monstrous project of ridding herself of her elderly,\nundistinguished husband and becoming the wife of the rich American.\nThroughout, Madame Beroldy confronted her accusers with complete\nsang-froid and self-possession. Her story never varied. She continued to\ndeclare strenuously that she was of royal birth and that she had been\nsubstituted for the daughter of the fruit-seller at an early age. Absurd and\ncompletely unsubstantiated as these statements were, a great number of\npeople believed implicitly in their truth.\nBut the prosecution was implacable. It denounced the masked 'Russians'\nas a myth, and asserted that the crime had been committed by Madame\nBeroldy and her lover, Georges Conneau. A warrant was issued for the\narrest of the latter, but he had wisely disappeared. Evidence showed that the\nbonds which secured Madame Beroldy were so loose that she could easily\nhave freed herself.\nAnd then, towards the close of the trial, a letter, posted in Paris, was\nsent to the Public Prosecutor. It was from Georges Conneau and, without\nrevealing his whereabouts, it contained a full confession of the crime. He\ndeclared that he had indeed struck the fatal blow at Madame Beroldy's\ninstigation. The crime had been planned between them. Believing that her\nhusband ill-treated her, and maddened by his own passion for her, a passion\nwhich he believed her to return, he had planned the crime and struck the\nfatal blow that should free the woman he loved from a hateful bondage.\nNow, for the first time, he learnt of Mr Hiram P. Trapp, and realized that\nthe woman he loved had betrayed him! Not for his sake did she wish to be\nfree, but in order to marry the wealthy American. She had used him as a\ncat's paw, and now, in his jealous rage, he turned and denounced her,\ndeclaring that throughout he had acted at her instigation.\nAnd then Madame Beroldy proved herself the remarkable woman she\nundoubtedly was. Without hesitation, she dropped her previous defence,\nand admitted that the 'Russians' were a pure invention on her part. The real\nmurderer was Georges Conneau. Maddened by passion, he had committed\nthe crime, vowing that if she did not keep silence he would exact a terrible\nvengeance from her. Terrified by his threats, she had consented - also\nfearing it likely that if she told the truth she might be accused of conniving\nat the crime, but she had steadfastly refused to have anything more to do\n\n\nwith her husband's murderer, and it was in revenge for this attitude on her\npart that he had written this letter accusing her.\nShe swore solemnly that she had had nothing to do with the planning of\nthe crimes - that she had awoke on that memorable night to find Georges\nConneau standing over her, the blood-stained knife in his hand.\nIt was a touch-and-go affair. Madame Beroldy's story was hardly\ncredible. But her address to the jury was a masterpiece. The tears streaming\ndown her face, she spoke of her child - of her woman's honour - of her\ndesire to keep her reputation untarnished for the child's sake. She admitted\nthat, Georges Conneau having been her lover, she might perhaps be held\nmorally responsible for the crime - but, before God, nothing more! She\nknew that she had committed a grave fault in not denouncing Conneau to\nthe law but she declared in a broken voice that that was a thing no woman\ncould have done. She had loved him! Could she let her hand be the one to\nsend him to the guillotine? She had been guilty of much, but she was\ninnocent of the terrible crime imputed to her.\nHowever that may have been, her eloquence and personality won the\nday. Madame Beroldy, amidst a scene of unparalleled excitement, was\nacquitted.\nDespite the utmost endeavours of the police, Georges Conneau was\nnever traced. As for Madame Beroldy, nothing more was heard of her.\nTaking the child with her, she left Paris to begin a new life.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 17\nWE MAKE FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS\nI have set down the Beroldy case in full. Of course all the details did not\npresent themselves to my memory as I have recounted them here.\nNevertheless, I recalled the case fairly accurately. It had attracted a great\ndeal of interest at the time, and had been fully reported by the English\npapers, so that it did not need much effort of memory on my part to\nrecollect the salient details.\nJust for the moment, in my excitement, it seemed to clear up the whole\nmatter. I admit that I am impulsive, and Poirot deplores my custom of\njumping to conclusions, but I think I had some excuse in this instance. The\nremarkable way in which this discovery justified Poirot's point of view\nstruck me at once.\n'Poirot,' I said 'I congratulate you. I see everything now.'\nPoirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he\nlooked up.\n'And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it that you\nsee?'\n'Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil - Beroldy - who murdered Mr\nRenauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.'\n'Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly acquitted? That\nin actual fact she was guilty of connivance in her husband's murder?'\nI opened my eyes wide.\n'Of course! Don't you?'\nPoirot walked to the end of the room, absent-mindedly straightened a\nchair, and then said thoughtfully:\n'Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no “of course” about it, my friend.\nTechnically speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.'\n'Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.'\nPoirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked\nthan ever.\n'So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil\nmurdered Monsieur Renauld?'\n'Yes.'\n'Why?'\nHe shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.\n\n\n'Why?' I stammered. 'Why? Oh, because -' I came to a stop.\nPoirot nodded his head at me.\n'You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame\nDaubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness' sake) murder Monsieur\nRenauld? We can find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his\ndeath; considered as either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You\ncannot have a murder without motive. The first crime was different - there\nwe had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband's shoes.'\n'Money is not the only motive for murder,' I objected.\n'True,' agreed Poirot placidly. 'There are two others, the crime\npassionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea\nwhich implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the\nmurderer. Homicidal mania and religious fanaticism belong to that class.\nWe can rule it out here.'\n'But what about the crime passionnel? Can you rule that out? If Madame\nDaubreuil was Renauld's mistress, if she found that his affection was\ncooling, or if her jealousy was aroused in any way, might she not have\nstruck him down in a moment of anger?'\nPoirot shook his head.\n'If - I say if, you note - Madame Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, he\nhad not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character.\nShe is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a\nmagnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her\nappearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she has been cold-blooded and\ncalculating in her motives and actions. It was not to link her life with that of\nher young lover that she contrived at her husband's murder. The rich\nAmerican, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective.\nIf she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was\nno gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That\nwas a man's work.'\n'She might have had an accomplice,' I suggested, unwilling to relinquish\nmy belief.\n'I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between\nthe two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?'\nI stared at him in astonishment.\n'Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked\nmen, the “secret”, the papers!'\n\n\nPoirot smiled a little.\n'Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The similarity\nof the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on\nsomething very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale -\nif it were, all would indeed be plain sailing - it is Madame Renauld. Is she\nthen in league with the other?'\n'I can't believe that,' I said slowly. 'If she is, she must be the most\nconsummate actress the world has ever known.'\n'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot impatiently. 'Again you have the sentiment and not\nthe logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then\nby all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Mrs\nRenauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some\nof which I have already presented. The others are more evident. So, having\ndiscarded this possibility, we come very close to the truth, which is\nextremely curious and interesting, as it always happens.'\n'What else do you know, Poirot?'\n'You must make your own deductions, mon ami. You had access to the\nfacts! Put your grey cells to work. Think... not like Giraud, but like Hercule\nPoirot.'\n'But do you know?'\n'My friend, I have been a fool about many things. But, at last, I see\nclearly.'\n'Do you know everything?'\n'I found out what M. Renauld called me to find out.'\n'And you know who the murderer is?'\n'I know who the murderer is.'\n'How?'\n'I think we are talking about different things. There is not only one\ncrime, but two. The first I solved. The second - eh bien, I confess I am not\nsure yet!'\n'But I thought you said the man in the shed died of natural causes.'\n'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot. 'You still don't understand. You may have one\ncrime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential that you have\ntwo bodies.'\nThis observation of Poirot's seemed so strange to me, that I gazed at him\nwith some anxiety. But he seemed perfectly normal. Suddenly he stood up\nand went to the window, saying:\n\n\n'There he comes.'\n'Who?'\n'M. Jack Renauld. I sent him a note asking him to come here.'\nThis changed entirely the course of my thoughts. I asked Poirot if he\nknew that Jack Renauld had been at Merlinville on the night of the crime. I\nhad hoped to catch my astute little friend napping, but as usual he was\nomniscient. He, too, had inquired at the station.\n'And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The\nexcellent Giraud, he also has probably made inquiries.'\n'You don't think -' I said and then stopped. 'Ah no, it would be too\nhorrible!'\nPoirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred\nto me that though there were seven women, directly and indirectly\nconnected with the case - Mrs Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her\ndaughter, the mysterious visitor and the three servants - there was, with the\nexception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man - Jack\nRenauld. And only a man could have dug the grave.\nI had no time to develop farther the appalling idea that had occurred to\nme, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.\nPoirot greeted him in business-like manner.\n'Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will\nperhaps understand that the atmosphere of the Villa is not too congenial to\nme. Monsieur Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His\npoliteness to me has not been striking, and you will comprehend that I do\nnot intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.'\n'Exactly, Monsieur Poirot' said the lad. 'That fellow Giraud is an ill-\nconditioned brute, and I'd be delighted to see someone score at his expense.'\n'Then I may ask a little favour of you?'\n'Certainly.'\n'I will ask you to go to he railway station and take a train to the next\nstation along the line, Abbalac. Ask at the cloak-room whether two\nforeigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small\nstation, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?'\n'Of course I will,' said the boy mystified, though ready for the task.\n'I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,' explained\nPoirot. 'There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to\n\n\nreturn to the Villa as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your\nerrand.'\n'Very well, I will go straight to the station.'\nHe rose to his feet. Poirot's voice stopped him:\n'One moment, Monsieur Renauld - there is one little matter that puzzles\nme. Why did you not mention to Monsieur Hautet this morning that you\nwere in Merlinville on the night of the crime?'\nJack Renauld's face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.\n'You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg as I told the examining\nmagistrate this morning.'\nPoirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed cat-like until they only showed\na gleam of green.\n'Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there - for it is shared by\nthe station staff. They say you arrived by the 11.40 train.'\nFor a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.\n'And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating\nin my father's murder?' He asked the question haughtily, his head thrown\nback.\n'I should like an explanation of the reason that brought you here.'\n'That is simple enough. I came to see my fiancée, Mademoiselle\nDaubreuil. I was on the eve of a long voyage, uncertain as to when I should\nreturn. I wished to see her before I went, to assure her of my unchanging\ndevotion.'\n'And did you see her?' Poirot's eyes never left the other's face.\nThere was an appreciable pause before Renauld replied. Then he said:\n'Yes.'\n'And after?'\n'I found I had missed the last train. I walked to St Beauvais, where I\nknocked up a garage and got a car to take me back to Cherbourg.'\n'St Beauvais? That is fifteen kilometres. A long walk, M. Renauld.'\n'I - I felt like walking.'\nPoirot bowed his head as a sign that he accepted the explanation. Jack\nRenauld took up his hat and cane and departed. In a trice Poirot jumped to\nhis feet.\n'Quick, Hastings. We will go after him.'\nKeeping a discreet distance behind our quarry, we followed him through\nthe streets of Merlinville. But when Poirot saw that he took the turning to\n\n\nthe station he checked himself.\n'All is well. He has taken the bait. He will go to Abbalac, and will\ninquire for the mythical valise left by the mythical foreigners. Yes, mon\nami, all that was a little invention of mine.'\n'You wanted him out of the way!' I exclaimed.\n'Your penetration is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go\nup to the Villa Geneviève.'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 18\nGIRAUD ACTS\nWe went back by the road in the heat.\n'I was forgetting to tell you something, Poirot. I have a complaint to\nmake. I know your intentions were good, but you shouldn't go and\ninvestigate at the Hôtel du Phare without at least telling me.'\nPoirot threw me a quick glance before asking:\n'And how do you know I was there?'\nI felt that I was growing red in the face.\n'I happened to pass by and asked,' I explained with all the dignity I\ncould muster.\nI feared that Poirot would laugh but, to my relief, he only shook his\nhead in unexpected earnestness.\n'If I have offended you in any way, I ask you to forgive me. Soon you\nwill understand better.'\n'No problem,' I murmured, soothed by the apologies. 'I know you did it\nbecause you were concerned for me. But I can look after myself.'\nIt seemed that Poirot had something more to say, but then he changed\nhis mind and remained silent.\nArriving at the Villa Poirot led the way up to the shed where the second\nbody had been discovered. He did not, however, go in, but paused by the\nbench which I have mentioned before as being set some few yards away\nfrom it. After contemplating it for a moment or two, he paced carefully\nfrom it to the hedge which marked the boundary between the Villa\nGeneviève and the Villa Marguerite. Then he paced back again, nodding his\nhead as he did so. Returning again to the hedge, he parted the bushes with\nhis hands.\n'With good luck,' he remarked to me over his shoulder, 'Mademoiselle\nMarthe may find herself in the garden. I desire to speak to her and would\nprefer not to call formally at the Villa Marguerite. Ah, all is well, there she\nis. Pst, Mademoiselle! Pst! Un moment, s'il vous plaît.'\nI joined him at the moment that Marthe Daubreuil, looking slightly\nstartled, came running up to the hedge at his call.\n'A little word with you mademoiselle, if it is permitted?'\n'Certainly, Monsieur Poirot.'\nDespite her acquiescence, her eyes looked troubled and afraid.\n\n\n'Mademoiselle, do you remember running after me on the road the day\nthat I came to your house with the examining magistrate? You asked me if\nanyone was suspected of the crime.'\n'And you told me two Chileans.' Her voice sounded rather breathless,\nand her left hand stole to her breast.\n'Will you ask me the same question again, mademoiselle?'\n'What do you mean?'\n'This. If you were to ask me that question again, I should give you a\ndifferent answer. Someone is suspected - but not a Chilean.'\n'Who?' The word came faintly between her parted lips.\n'Monsieur Jack Renauld!'\n'What?' It was a cry. 'Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?'\n'Giraud.'\n'Giraud!' The girl's face was ashy. 'I am afraid of that man. He is cruel.\nHe will - he will -' She broke off. There was courage gathering in her face\nand determination. I realized in that moment that she was a fighter. Poirot\ntoo, watched her intently.\n'You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?' he\nasked.\n'Yes,' she replied mechanically. 'He told me.'\n'It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,' ventured Poirot.\n'Yes, yes' she replied impatiently. 'But we cannot waste time on regrets.\nWe must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course; but that will\nnot help him with a man like Giraud, who has his reputation to think of. He\nmust arrest someone, and that someone will be Jack.'\n'The facts will tell against him,' said Poirot. 'You realize that?'\nShe faced him squarely.\n'I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face. He\nis innocent, and we must save him.'\nShe spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as\nshe thought.\n'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, observing her keenly, 'is there not\nsomething that you are keeping back that you could tell us?'\nShe nodded perplexedly.\n'Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe it -\nit seems so absurd.'\n'At any rate, tell us, mademoiselle.'\n\n\n'It is this. M. Giraud sent for me, as an afterthought, to see if I could\nidentify the man in there.' She signed with her head towards the shed. 'I\ncould not. At least I could not at the moment. But since I have been\nthinking -'\n'Well?'\n'It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the\nmorning of the day Monsieur Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the\ngarden here, when I heard a sound of men's voices quarrelling. I pushed\naside the bushes and looked through. One of the men was Monsieur\nRenauld and the other was a tramp, a dreadful-looking creature in filthy\nrags. He was alternately whining and threatening. I gathered he was asking\nfor money, but at that moment maman called me from the house, and I had\nto go. That is all, only I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead man in\nthe shed are one and the same.'\nPoirot uttered an exclamation.\n'But why did you not say so at the time, mademoiselle?'\n'Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar in\nsome way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged to a\nsuperior station in life.'\nA voice called from the house.\n'Maman,' whispered Marthe. 'I must go.' And she slipped away through\nthe trees.\n'Come,' said Poirot, and taking my arm, he turned in the direction of the\nVilla.\n'What do you really think?' I asked in some curiosity. 'Was that story\ntrue, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from her lover?'\n'It is a curious tale,' said Poirot 'but I believe it to be the absolute truth.\nUnwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on another point - and\nincidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you notice his hesitation when I\nasked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on the night of the crime? He paused\nand then said “Yes”. I suspected that he was lying. It was necessary for me\nto see Mademoiselle Marthe before he could put her on her guard. Three\nlittle words gave me the information I wanted. When I asked her if she\nknew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered, “He told me”.\nNow, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening,\nand if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?'\n\n\n'Surely, Poirot,' I cried, aghast, 'you cannot believe that a boy like that\nwould murder his own father!'\n'Mon ami,' said Poirot. 'You continue to be of a sentimentality\nunbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the\nsake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.'\n'And the motive?'\n'Money of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would\ncome into half his father's fortune at the latter's death.'\n'But the tramp. Where does he come in?'\nPoirot shrugged his shoulders.\n'Giraud would say that he was an accomplice - an apache who helped\nyoung Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of\nthe way afterwards.'\n'But the hair round the dagger? The woman's hair?'\n'Ah!' said Poirot, smiling broadly. 'That is the cream of Giraud's little\njest. According to it is not a woman's hair at all. Remember that the youths\nof today wear their hair brushed straight back from the forehead with\npomade or hair wash to make it lie flat. Consequently some of the hairs are\nof considerable length.'\n'And you believe that too?'\n'No,' said Poirot, with a curious smile. 'For I know it to be the hair of a\nwoman - and more, which woman!'\n'Madame Daubreuil,' I announced positively.\n'Perhaps,' said Poirot, regarding me quizically. But I refused to allow\nmyself to get annoyed.\n'What are we going to do now?' I asked, as we entered the hall of the\nVilla Geneviève.\n'I wish to make a search among the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That is\nwhy I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.'\nNeatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined\nthe contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a singularly\ndull and uninteresting proceeding. Poirot waded on through collars,\npyjamas, and socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the window.\nInstantly I became galvanized into life.\n'Poirot!' I cried. 'A car has just driven up. Giraud is in it, and Jack\nRenauld, and two gendarmes.'\n\n\n'Sacré tonnerre!' growled Poirot. 'That animal of a Giraud, could he not\nwait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this last drawer with the\nproper method. Let us be quick.'\nUnceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and\nhandkerchiefs. Suddenly, with a cry of triumph, Poirot pounced on\nsomething, a small square of card-board, evidently a photograph. Thrusting\nit into his pocket, he returned the things pell-mell to the drawer, and seizing\nme by the arm dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. In the hall\nstood Giraud, contemplating his prisoner.\n'Good afternoon, Monsieur Giraud,' said Poirot. 'What have we here?'\nGiraud nodded his head towards Jack.\n'He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He's\nunder arrest for the murder of his father, Monsieur Paul Renauld.'\nPoirot wheeled round to confront the boy, who was leaning limply\nagainst the door, his face ashy pale.\n'What do you say to that, jeune homme?'\nJack Renauld stared at him stonily.\n'Nothing,' he said.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 19\nI USE MY GREY CELLS\nI was dumbfounded. Up to the last, I had not been able to bring myself\nto believe Jack Renauld guilty. I had expected a ringing proclamation of his\ninnocence when Poirot challenged him. But now, watching him as he stood,\nwhite and limp against the wall, and hearing the damning admission fall\nfrom his lips, I doubted no longer.\nBut Poirot had turned to Giraud.\n'What are your grounds for arresting him?'\n'Do you expect me to give them to you?'\n'As a matter of courtesy, yes.'\nGiraud looked at him doubtfully. He was torn between a desire to refuse\nrudely and the pleasure of triumphing over his adversary.\n'You think I have made a mistake, I suppose?' he sneered.\n'It would not surprise me,' replied Poirot, with a soupçon of malice.\nGiraud's face took on a deeper tinge of red.\n'Eh bien, come in here. You shall judge for yourself.'\nHe flung open the door of the salon, and we passed in, leaving Jack\nRenauld in the care of the two other men.\n'Now, Monsieur Poirot,' said Giraud, laying his hat on the table, and\nspeaking with the utmost sarcasm, 'I will treat you to a little lecture on\ndetective work. I will show how we moderns work.'\n'Bien!' said Poirot, composing himself to listen. 'I will show you how\nadmirably the Old Guard can listen.' And he leaned back and closed his\neyes, opening them for a moment to remark: 'Do not fear that I shall sleep. I\nwill attend most carefully.'\n'Of course,' began Giraud, 'I soon saw through all that Chilean\ntomfoolery. Two men were in it - but they were not mysterious foreigners!\nAll that was a blind.'\n'Very creditable so far, my dear Giraud,' murmured Poirot. 'Especially\nafter that clever trick of theirs with the match and cigarette end.'\nGiraud glared, but continued.\n'A man must have been connected with the case, in order to dig the\ngrave. There is no man who actually benefits by the crime, but there was a\nman who thought he would benefit. I heard of Jack Renauld's quarrel with\nhis father, and of the threats that he had used. The motive was established.\n\n\nNow as to means. Jack Renauld was in Merlinville that night. He concealed\nthe fact - which turned suspicion into certainty. Then we found a second\nvictim - stabbed with the same dagger. We know when that dagger was\nstolen. Captain Hastings here can fix the time. Jack Renauld, arriving from\nCherbourg, was the only person who could have taken it. I have accounted\nfor all the other members of the household.'\nPoirot interrupted.\n'You are wrong. There is one other person who could have taken the\ndagger.'\n'You refer to Monsieur Stonor? He arrived at the front door, in an\nautomobile which had brought him straight from Calais. Ah! believe me, I\nhave looked into everything. Monsieur Jack Renauld arrived by train. An\nhour elapsed between his arrival and the moment when he presented\nhimself at the house. Without doubt, he saw Captain Hastings and his\ncompanion leave the shed, slipped in himself and took the dagger, stabbed\nhis accomplice in the shed -'\n'Who was already dead!'\nGiraud shrugged his shoulders.\n'Possibly he did not observe that. He may have judged him to be\nsleeping. Without doubt they had a rendez-vous. In any case he knew this\napparent second murder would greatly complicate the case. It did.'\n'But it could not deceive Monsieur Giraud,' murmured Poirot.\n'You mock at me! But I will give you one last irrefutable proof. Madame\nRenauld's story was false - a fabrication from beginning to end. We believe\nMadame Renauld to have loved her husband - yet she lied to shield his\nmurderer. For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself, usually for\nthe man she loves, always for her children. That is the last - the irrefutable\nproof. You cannot get round it.'\nGiraud paused flushed and triumphant. Poirot regarded him steadily.\n'That is my case,' said Giraud. 'What have you to say to it?'\n'Only that there is one thing you have failed to take into account.'\n'What is that?'\n'Jack Renauld was presumably acquainted with the planning out of the\ngolf course. He knew that the body would be discovered almost at once\nwhen they started to dig the bunker.'\nGiraud laughed out loud.\n\n\n'But it is idiotic what you say there! He wanted the body to be found!\nUntil it was found, he could not presume death and would have been unable\nto enter into his inheritance.'\nI saw a quick flash of green in Poirot's eyes as he rose to his feet.\n'Then why bury it?' he asked very softly. 'Reflect, Giraud. Since it was\nto Jack Renauld's advantage that the body should he found without delay,\nwhy dig a grave at all?'\nGiraud did not reply. The question found him unprepared. He shrugged\nhis shoulders as though to intimate that it was of no importance.\nPoirot moved towards the door. I followed him.\n'There is one more thing that you have failed to take into account,' he\nsaid over his shoulder.\n'What is that?'\n'The piece of lead piping,' said Poirot, and left the room.\nJack Renauld still stood in the hall, with a white dumb face, but as we\ncame out of the salon he looked up sharply. At the same moment there was\nthe sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs Renauld was descending it. At\nthe sight of her son, standing between the two myrmidons of the law, she\nstopped as though petrified.\n'Jack,' she faltered. 'Jack, what is this?'\nHe looked up at her, his face set.\n'They have arrested me, mother.'\n'What?'\nShe uttered a piercing cry, and before anyone could get to her, swayed,\nand fell heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute Poirot\nstood up again.\n'She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there is\nslight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he will have to\nwait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a week.'\nDenise and Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their\ncharge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head down, frowning\nthoughtfully. For some time I did not speak, but at last I ventured to put a\nquestion to him:\n'Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that\nJack Renauld may not be guilty?'\nPoirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely:\n\n\n'I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud\nis all wrong - wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it is in\nspite of Giraud's arguments, not because of them. And the gravest\nindictment against him is known only to me.'\n'What is that?' I asked, impressed.\n'If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I do,\nyou too would perceive it, my friend.'\nThis was what I called one of Poirot's irritating answers. He went on,\nwithout waiting for me to speak:\n'Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there,\noverlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know,\nbut I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts -\nnot by my leading you by the hand.'\nWe established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested,\nlooking out to sea.\n'Think, my friend,' said Poirot's voice encouragingly. 'Arrange your\nideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.'\nI endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of\nthe case. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot\ninto my brain. Tremblingly I built up my hypothesis.\n'You have a little idea, I see, mon ami! Capital. We progress.'\nI sat up, and lit a pipe.\n'Poirot,' I said, 'it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say we -\nalthough I dare say I would be nearer the mark. But you must pay the\npenalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been strangely\nremiss. There is someone we have forgotten.'\n'And who is that?' inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.\n'Georges Conneau!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 20\nAN AMAZING STATEMENT\nThe next moment Poirot embraced me warmly on the cheek.\n'Enfin! You have arrived! And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue\nyour reasoning. You are right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget\nGeorges Conneau.'\nI was so flattered by the little man's approval that I could hardly\ncontinue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on.\n'Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason\nto believe that he is dead.'\n'Aucunement,' agreed Poirot. 'Proceed.'\n'Therefore we will assume that he is alive.'\n'Exactly.'\n'Or that he was alive until recently.'\n'De mieux en mieux!'\n'We will presume,' I continued, my enthusiasm rising, 'that he has fallen\non evil days. He has become a criminal, an apache, a tramp - a what you\nwill. He chances to come to Merlinville. There he finds the woman he has\nnever ceased to love.'\n'Careful! The sentimentality,' warned Poirot.\n'Where one hates one also loves,' I quoted or misquoted. 'At any rate he\nfinds her there, living under an assumed name. But she has a new lover, the\nEnglishman, Renauld. Georges Conneau, the memory of old wrongs rising\nin him, quarreled with this Renauld. He lies in wait for him as he comes to\nvisit his mistress, and stabs him in the back. Then, terrified at what he has\ndone, he starts to dig a grave. I imagine it likely that Madame Daubreuil\ncomes out to look for her lover. She and Conneau have a terrible scene. He\ndrags her into the shed, and there suddenly falls down in an epileptic fit.\nNow supposing Jack Renauld to appear. Madame Daubreuil tells him all,\npoints out to him the dreadful consequences to her daughter if this scandal\nof the past is revived. His father's murderer is dead - let them do their best\nto hush it up. Jack Renauld consents - goes to the house and has an\ninterview with his mother, winning her over to his point of view. Primed\nwith the story that Madame Daubreuil has suggested to him, she permits\nherself to be gagged and bound. There, Poirot, what do you think of that?'\nI leaned back, flushed with the pride of successful reconstruction.\n\n\nPoirot looked at me thoughtfully.\n'I think that you should write for the Kinema, mon ami,' he remarked at\nlast.\n'You mean -'\n'It would mean a good film, the story that you have recounted to me\nthere - but it bears no sort of resemblance to everyday life.'\n'I admit that I haven't gone into all the details, but -'\n'You have gone farther - you have ignored them magnificently. What\nabout the way the two men were dressed? Do you suggest that after\nstabbing his victim, Conneau removed his suit of clothes, donned it himself,\nand replaced the dagger?'\n'I don't see that that matters,' I objected rather huffily. 'He may have\nobtained clothes and money from Madame Daubreuil by threats earlier in\nthe day.'\n'By threats - eh? You seriously advance that supposition?'\n'Certainly. He could have threatened to reveal her identity to the\nRenaulds, which would probably have put an end to all hopes of her\ndaughter's marriage.'\n'You are wrong, Hastings. He could not blackmail her, for she had the\nwhip-hand. Georges Conneau, remember, is still wanted for murder. A word\nfrom her and he is in danger of the guillotine.'\nI was forced, rather reluctantly, to admit the truth of this.\n'Your theory,' I remarked acidly, 'is doubtless correct as to all the\ndetails?'\n'My theory is the truth,' said Poirot quietly. 'And the truth is necessarily\ncorrect. In your theory you made a fundamental error. You permitted your\nimagination to lead you astray with midnight assignations and passionate\nlove scenes. But in investigating crime we must take our stand upon the\ncommonplace. Shall I demonstrate my methods to you?'\n'Oh, by all means let us have a demonstration!'\nPoirot sat very upright and began wagging his forefinger emphatically\nto emphasize his points:\n'I will start as you started from the basic fact of Georges Conneau. Now\nthe story told by Madame Beroldy in court as to the “Russians” was\nadmittedly a fabrication. If she was innocent of connivance in the crime, it\nwas concocted by her, and by her only as she stated. If, on the other hand,\n\n\nshe was not innocent, it might have been invented by either her or Georges\nConneau.\n'Now, in this case we are investigating, we meet the same tale. As I\npointed out to you, the facts render it very unlikely that Madame Daubreuil\ninspired it. So we turn to the hypothesis that the story had its origin in the\nbrain of Georges Conneau. Very good. Georges Conneau, therefore,\nplanned the crime, with Mrs Renauld as his accomplice. She is in the\nlimelight, and behind her is a shadowy figure whose present alias is\nunknown to us.\n'Now let us go carefully over the Renauld Case from the beginning,\nsetting down each significant point in its chronological order. You have a\nnotebook and pencil? Good. Now what is the earliest point to note down?'\n'The letter to you?'\n'That was the first we knew of it, but it is not the proper beginning of the\ncase. The first point of any significance, I should say, is the change that\ncame over Monsieur Renauld shortly after arriving in Merlinville, and\nwhich is attested to by several witnesses. We have also to consider his\nfriendship with Madame Daubreuil, and the large sums of pounds he paid\nover to her. From thence we can come directly to the 23rd May.'\nPoirot paused, cleared his throat, and signed to me to write:\n'23rd May. M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter's wish to marry\nMarthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.\n'24th May. M. Renauld alters his will leaving entire control of his\nfortune in his wife's hands.\n'7th June. Quarrel with tramp in garden, witnessed by Marthe Daubreuil.\n'Letter written to M. Hercule Poirot, imploring assistance.\n'Telegram sent to M. Jack Renauld, bidding him proceed by the Anzora\nto Buenos Ayres.\n'Chauffeur, Masters, sent off on a holiday.\n'Visit of a lady that evening. As he is seeing her out, words are “Yes, yes\n- but for God's sake go now.”'\nPoirot paused.\n'There, Hastings, take each of those facts one by one, consider them\ncarefully by themselves and in relation to the whole, and see if you do not\nget new light on the matter.'\nI endeavoured conscientiously to do as he had said. After a moment or\ntwo, I said rather doubtfully:\n\n\n'As to the first points, the question seems to be whether we adopt the\ntheory of blackmail, or of an infatuation for this woman.'\n'Blackmail, decidedly. You heard what Stonor said as to his character\nand habits.'\n' Mrs Renauld did not confirm his view,' I argued.\n'We have already seen that Madame Renauld's testimony cannot be\nrelied upon in any way. We must trust to Stonor on that point.'\n'Still, if Renauld had an affair with a woman called Bella, there seems\nno inherent improbability in his having another with Madame Daubreuil.'\n'None whatever, I grant you, Hastings. But did he?'\n'The letter, Poirot. You forget the letter.'\n'No, I do not forget. But what makes you think that letter was written to\nMonsieur Renauld?'\n'Why, it was found in his pocket, and - and -'\n'And that is all!' cut in Poirot. 'There was no mention of any name to\nshow to whom the letter was addressed. We assumed it was to the dead man\nbecause it was in the pocket of his overcoat. Now, mon ami, something\nabout that overcoat struck me as unusual. I measured it and made the\nremark that he wore his overcoat very long. That remark should have given\nyou to think.'\n'I thought you were just saying it for the sake of saying something,' I\nconfessed.\n'Ah, quelle idée! Later you observed me measuring the overcoat of\nMonsieur Jack Renauld. Eh bien, Monsieur Jack Renauld wears his\novercoat very short. Put those two facts together with a third, namely, “that\nMonsieur Jack Renauld flung out of the house in a hurry on his departure\nfor Paris, and tell me what you make of it!”\n'I see,' I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot's remarks bore in upon\nme. 'That letter was written to Jack Renauld - not to his father. He caught up\nthe wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.'\nPoirot nodded.\n'Précisément! We can return to this point later. For the moment let us\ncontent ourselves with accepting the letter as having nothing to do with\nMonsieur Renauld père, and pass to the next chronological event.'\n'“23rd May,”' I read. '“M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter's\nwish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.” I don't see anything\n\n\nmuch to remark upon there, and the altering of the will the following day\nseems straightforward enough. It was the direct result of the quarrel.'\n'We agree, mon ami, at least as to the cause. But what exact motive\nunderlay this procedure of Monsieur Renauld's?'\nI opened my eyes in surprise.\n'Anger against his son of course.'\n'Yet he wrote him affectionate letters to Paris?'\n'So Jack Renauld says, but he cannot produce them.'\n'Well, let us pass from that.'\n'Now we come to the day of the tragedy. You have placed the event of\nthe morning in a certain order. Have you any justification for that?'\n'I have ascertained that the letter to me was posted at the same time as\nthe telegram was dispatched. Masters was informed he could take a holiday\nshortly afterwards. In my opinion the quarrel with the tramp took place\nanterior to these happenings.'\n'I do not see that you can fix that definitely unless you question\nMademoiselle Daubreuil again.'\n'There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see\nnothing, Hastings.'\nI looked at him for a moment.\n'Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was\nafter the stormy interview with him that Mr Renauld apprehended danger.\nHe sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the\nother's pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.'\nA faint smile crossed Poirot's lips.\n'You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same\nexpressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used later in her story? If the\nmention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it, and -\nwhat is more - send his son there?'\n'It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation later.\nWe come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious lady. I confess\nthat that fairly baffles me, unless it was indeed Madame Daubreuil, as\nFrançoise all along maintained.'\nPoirot shook his head.\n'My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the\nfragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly\nfamiliar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella Duveen\n\n\nis the full name of Jack's unknown correspondent, and that it was she who\ncame to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she intended to see Jack, or\nwhether she meant all along to appeal to his father, we cannot be certain,\nbut I think we may assume that this is what occurred. She produced her\nclaim upon Jack, probably showed letters that he had written her, and the\nolder man tried to buy her off by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore\nup. The terms of her letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she\nwould probably deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of\nher, and here the words that he used are significant.'\n'“Yes, yes, but for God's sake go now”,' I repeated. 'They seem to me a\nlittle vehement, perhaps, that is all.'\n'That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why?\nNot because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that was\nslipping by, and for some reason time was precious.'\n'Why should it be?' I asked, bewildered.\n'That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the\nincident of the wristwatch - which again shows us that time plays a very\nimportant part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual drama.\nIt is half past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the evidence of the\nwristwatch we know that the crime was committed, or at any rate that it was\nstaged, before twelve o'clock. We have reviewed all the events anterior to\nthe murder, there remains only one unplaced. By the doctor's evidence, the\ntramp, when found, had been dead at least forty-eight hours - with a\npossible margin of twenty-four hours more. Now, with no other facts to help\nme than those we have discussed, I place the death as having occurred on\nthe morning of 7th June.\nI stared at him, stupefied.\n'But how? Why? How can you possibly know?'\n'Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically\nexplained. Mon ami, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do you\nnot now see what is so glaringly plain?'\n'My dear Poirot, I can't see anything glaring about it. I did think I was\nbeginning to see my way before, but I'm now hopelessly fogged. For\ngoodness' sake, get on, and tell me who killed Mr Renauld.'\n'That is just what I am not sure of as yet.'\n'But you said it was glaringly clear?\n\n\n'We talk at cross-purposes, my friend. Remember, it is two crimes we\nare investigating - for which as I pointed out to you, we have the necessary\ntwo bodies. There - there, ne vous impatientez pas! I explain all. To begin\nwith, we apply our psychology. We find three points at which Monsieur\nRenauld displays a distinct change of view and action - three psychological\npoints therefore. The first occurs immediately after arriving in Merlinville,\nthe second after quarrelling with his son on a certain subject, the third on\nthe morning of 7th June. Now for the three causes. We can attribute No 1 to\nmeeting Madame Daubreuil. No 2 is indirectly connected with her, since it\nconcerns a marriage between Monsieur Renauld's son and her daughter. But\nthe cause of No 3 is hidden from us. We had to deduce it. Now, mon ami,\nlet me ask you a question: whom do we believe to have planned this crime?'\n'Georges Conneau,' I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot.\n'Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save\nherself, the man she loves, and her child. As we are satisfied that it was\nGeorges Conneau who did lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack\nRenauld, it follows that the third case is out of court. Attributing the crime\nto Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are forced to the second\npossibility - that Madam Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved - or\nin other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree?'\n'Yes,' I admitted. 'It seems logical enough.'\n'Bien! Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges\nConneau?'\n'The tramp.'\n'Do we have any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the\ntramp?'\n'No, but -'\n'Very well, then. Do not cling to theories where facts don't support them.\nAsk yourself instead whom Madame Renauld loved.'\nI shook my head perplexed.\n'Mais oui, you know perfectly. Whom did Madame love so dearly, that\nwhen she saw his dead body she sank in a swoon?'\nI was dumbfounded. 'Her husband?' I gasped.\nPoirot nodded.\n'Her husband - or Georges Conneau whichever you like to call him\nyourself.'\n'But it's impossible.'\n\n\n'How “impossible”? Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil\nwas in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?'\n'Yes but -'\n'And did she not very effectively blackmail Monsieur Renauld?'\n'That may he true enough, but -'\n'And is it not a fact that we know nothing of Monsieur Renauld's youth\nand upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French-\nCanadian exactly twenty-two years ago?'\n'All that is so,' I said more firmly, 'but you seem to me to be overlooking\none salient point.'\n'What is that, my friend?'\n'Why, we have admitted that Georges planned the crime. That brings us\nto the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!'\n'Eh bien, mon ami,' said Poirot placidly, 'that is just what he did do!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 21\nHERCULE POIROT ON THE CASE\nIn a measured voice Poirot began his exposition.\n'It seems strange to you, mon ami, that a man should plan his own\ndeath? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to\nrevert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, Monsieur\nRenauld planned his own death but there is one detail that perhaps escapes\nyou - he did not intend to die.'\nI shook my head bewildered.\n'But no, it is all most simple really,' said Poirot kindly. 'For the crime\nthat Monsieur Renauld proposed, a murderer was not necessary, as I told\nyou, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a\ndifferent angle.\n'Georges Conneau flies from justice - to Canada. There, under an\nassumed name, he marries, and finally acquires a vast fortune in South\nAmerica. But there is a nostalgia upon him for his own country. Twenty\nyears have elapsed, he is considerably changed in appearance, besides being\na man of such eminence that no one is likely to connect him with a fugitive\nfrom justice many years ago. He deems it quite safe to return. He takes up\nhis headquarters in England, but tends to spend the summers in France. And\nill fortune, or that obscure justice which shapes men's ends and will not\nallow them to evade the consequences of their acts, takes him to\nMerlinville. There, in the whole of France, is the one person who is capable\nof recognizing him. It is, of course, a gold mine to Madame Daubreuil, and\na gold mine of which she is not slow to take advantage. He is helpless -\nabsolutely in her power. And she bleeds him heavily.\n'And then the inevitable happens. Jack Renauld falls in love with the\nbeautiful girl he sees almost daily and wishes to marry her. That rouses his\nfather. At all costs, he will prevent his son marrying the daughter of this evil\nwoman. Jack Renauld knows nothing of his father's past, but Madame\nRenauld knows everything. She is a woman of great force of character and\npassionately devoted to her husband. They take counsel together. Renauld\nsees only one way of escape - death. He must appear to die, in reality\nescaping to another country where he will start again under an assumed\nname and where Madame Renauld, having played the widow's part for a\nwhile, can join him. It is essential that she should have control of the\n\n\nmoney, so he alters his will. How they meant to manage the body business\noriginally, I do not know - possibly an art student's skeleton and a fire - or\nsomething of the kind, but long before their plans have matured an event\noccurs which plays into their hands. A rough tramp, violent and abusive,\nfinds his way into the garden. There is a struggle, Renauld seeks to eject\nhim, and suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead.\nRenauld calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed - as we know\nthe event had occurred just outside - and they realize the marvellous\nopportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no resemblance\nto Renauld but he is middle-aged, of a usual French type. That is sufficient.\n'I rather fancy that they sat on the bench up there, out of earshot from\nthe house, discussing matters. Their plan was quickly made. The\nidentification must rest solely on Madame Renauld's evidence. Jack\nRenauld and the chauffeur (who had been with his master two years) must\nbe got out of the way. It was unlikely that the French women servants\nwould go near the body, and in any case Renauld intended to take measures\nto deceive anyone not likely to appreciate details. Masters was sent off, a\ntelegram dispatched to Jack, Buenos Ayres being selected to give credence\nto the story that Renauld had decided upon. Having heard of me as a rather\nobscure elderly detective, he wrote his appeal for help, knowing that when I\narrived, the production of the letter would have a profound effect upon the\nexamining magistrate - which, of course, it did.\n'They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of Renauld's and left his\nragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to take them\ninto the house. And then, to give credence to the tale Madame Renauld was\nto tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night\nRenauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a\ngrave in that particular plot of ground where he knows a - how do you call\nit? - bunkair? is to be made. It is essential that the body should be found -\nMadame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a little\ntime elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened. Then,\nRenauld will don the tramp's rags, and shuffle off to the station, where he\nwill leave, unnoticed, by the train. Since the crime will be supposed to have\ntaken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach to him.\n'You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl, Bella.\nEvery moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he\ncan, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create\n\n\nthe impression that assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame\nRenauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the\nlooseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but\nleaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented\nbefore, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The\nnight is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his under-clothing,\nintending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the\nwindow, smoothing over the flower-bed carefully, and thereby furnishing\nthe most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely\ngolf links, and he digs - And then -'\n'Yes?'\n'And then,' said Poirot gravely, 'the justice that he has so long eluded\novertakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. No, Hastings, you\nunderstand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the\ncrime that Monsieur Renauld, in his arrogances asked us to investigate, is\nsolved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult\n- since the criminal, in his wisdom, has been content to avail himself of the\ndevices prepared by Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and\nbaffling mystery to solve.'\n'You're marvellous, Poirot,' I said, with admiration. 'Absolutely\nmarvellous. No one on earth but you would have done it!'\nI think my praise pleased him. For once in his life he looked almost\nembarrassed.\n'That poor Giraud,' said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest.\n'Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or\ntwice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least,\nit was misleading.'\n'To tell you the truth, Poirot,' I said slowly, 'even now I don't quite see -\nwhose hair was it?'\n'Madame Renauld's, of course. That is where la mauvaise chance came\nin. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as\neasily have been a grey hair - and then, by no conceivable effort could\nGiraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But\nit is all of a piece; always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory!\n'Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The\npossibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her.\nHow should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Anzora?\n\n\nAh! voilà une femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only\nmade one slip. On his unexpected return: “It does not matter - now.” And\nno one noticed - no one realized the significance of those words. What a\nterrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she\ngoes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual\nlifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No\nwonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how\nresolutely she has played her part and how the anguish of it must wring her.\nShe cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her\nson's sake no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the\ncriminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame\nDaubreuil was her husband's mistress - for a hint of blackmail might be\nfatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt will the examining magistrate\nwhen he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband's past life.\n“Nothing so romantic I am sure, monsieur!” It was perfect, the indulgent\ntone, the soupçon of sad mockery. At once Monsieur Hautet felt himself\nfoolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a\ncriminal, she loved him royally.'\nPoirot lost himself in contemplation.\n'One thing more Poirot - what about the piece of lead-piping?'\n'You do not see? To disfigure the victim's face so that it would be\nunrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that\nimbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not\ntell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two\ninches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur\nRenauld? Someone who was near the Villa just before twelve o'clock that\nnight - someone who would benefit by his death - the description fits Jack\nRenauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And\nthen the dagger!'\nI started, I had not realized that point.\n'Of course,' I said, 'Mrs Renauld's dagger was the second one we found\nin the tramp. There were two, then?'\n'Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack\nRenauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I\nhad a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again\npsychological - heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son - Jack\nRenauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.'\n\n\nHis tone was grave and earnest and I was impressed in spite of myself.\n'What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?' I asked.\nFor answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked:\n'What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?'\n'About five, I believe.'\n'That will do very well. We shall just have time.'\n'You are going to England?'\n'Yes, my friend.'\n'Why?'\n'To find a possible - witness.'\n'Who?'\nWith a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied:\n'Miss Bella Duveen.'\n'But how will you find her - what do you know about her?'\n'I know nothing about her - but I can guess a good deal. We may take it\nfor granted that her name is Bella Duveen, and since that name was faintly\nfamiliar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connection with the\nRenauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a\nyoung man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure\nto have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur\nRenauld's attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all\nright - especially with the help of this!'\nAnd he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack\nRenauld's drawer. 'With love from Bella,' was scrawled across the corner,\nbut it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first\nrate - but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as\nthough some unutterable calamity had befallen me.\nIt was the face of Cinderella.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 22\nI FIND LOVE\nFor a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my\nhand. Then summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it\nback. At the same time I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed\nanything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything\nunusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.\nHe rose briskly to his feet.\n'We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all dispatch.\nAll is well - the sea, it will be calm!'\nIn the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board\nthe boat, secure from Poirot's observation, I pulled myself together, and\nattacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know, and why was\nhe bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld\ncommit the crime? Or did he suspect - But that was impossible! The girl\nhad no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible motive for wishing his\ndeath. What had brought her back to the scene of the murder? I went over\nthe facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais where I parted from\nher that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on the boat. If she had\ndined in Calais, and then taken a train out to Merlinville, she would have\narrived at the Villa Geneviève just about the time that Françoise said. What\nhad she done when she left the house just after ten? Presumably either gone\nto an hotel, or returned to Calais. And then? The crime had been committed\non Tuesday night. On Thursday morning she was once more in Merlinville.\nHad she ever left France at all? I doubted it very much. What kept her there\n- the hope of seeing Jack Renauld? I had told her (as at the time we\nbelieved) that he was on the high seas en route to Buenos Ayres. Possibly\nshe was aware that the Anzora had not sailed. But to know that she must\nhave seen Jack. Was that what Poirot was after? Had Jack Renauld,\nreturning to see Marthe Daubreuil, come face to face instead with Bella\nDuveen, the girl he had heartlessly thrown over?\nI began to see daylight. If that were indeed the case, it might furnish\nJack with the alibi he needed. Yet under those circumstances his silence\nseemed difficult to explain. Why could he not have spoken out boldly? Did\nhe fear for this former entanglement of his to come to the ears of Marthe\nDaubreuil? I shook my head, dissatisfied. The flirting had been harmless\n\n\nenough, a foolish boy-and-girl affair, and I reflected cynically that the son\nof a millionaire was not likely to be thrown over by a penniless French girl,\nwho moreover loved him devotedly, without a much graver cause.\nPoirot reappeared brisk and smiling at Dover, and our journey to\nLondon was uneventful. It was past nine o'clock when we arrived, and I\nsupposed that we should return straight away to our rooms and do nothing\ntill the morning.\nBut Poirot had other plans.\n'We must lose no time, mon ami. The news of the arrest will not be in\nthe English papers until the day after tomorrow, but still we must lose no\ntime.'\nI did not quite follow his reasoning, but I merely asked how he\nproposed to find the girl.\n'You remember Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent? No? I assisted him\nin a little matter of a Japanese wrestler. A pretty little problem, I must\nrecount it to you one day. He, without doubt, will be able to put us in the\nway of finding out what we want to know.'\nIt took us some time to run Mr Aarons to earth, and it was after\nmidnight when we finally managed it. He greeted Poirot with every\nevidence of warmth, and professed himself ready to be of service to us in\nany way.\n'There's not much about the profession I don't know,' he said, beaming\ngenially.\n'Eh bien, Monsieur Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella\nDuveen.'\n'Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for a moment I can't place it.\nWhat's her line?'\n'That I do not know - but here is her photograph.'\nMr Aarons studied it for a moment, then his face lighted.\n'Got it!' He slapped his thigh. 'The Dulcibella Kids, by the Lord!'\n'The Dulcibella Kids?'\n'That's it. They're sisters. Acrobats, dancers, and singers. Give quite a\ngood little number. They're in the provinces, somewhere, I believe - if\nthey're not resting. They've been on in Paris for the last two or three weeks.'\n'Can you find out for me exactly where they are?'\n'Easy as a bird. You go home, and I'll send you round the dope in the\nmorning.'\n\n\nWith this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word.\nAbout eleven o'clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us.\n'The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to\nyou.'\nWithout more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at\nthe theatre, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety\nperformance that evening.\nThe show was wearisome beyond words - or perhaps it was only my\nmood that made it seem so. Japanese families balanced themselves\nprecariously, would-be fashionable men, in a greenish evening dress and\nexquisitely slicked hair, reeled off society patter and danced marvellously.\nStout prima donnas sang at the top of the human register, a comic comedian\nendeavoured to be Mr George Robey and failed signally. At last the number\nwent up which announced the Dulcibella Kids. My heart beat sickeningly.\nThere she was - there they both were, the pair of them, one flaxen-haired,\none dark, matching as to size, with short fluffy skirts and immense 'Buster\nBrown' bows. They looked a pair of extremely piquant children. They\nbegan to sing. Their voices were fresh and true, rather thin and music-hally,\nbut attractive. It was quite a pretty little turn. They danced neatly, and did\nsome clever little acrobatic feats. The words of their songs were crisp and\ncatchy. When the curtain fell, there was a full hand of applause. Evidently\nthe Dulcibella Kids were a success.\nSuddenly I felt that I could remain no longer. I must get out into the air.\nI suggested leaving to Poirot.\n'Go by all means, mon ami. I amuse myself, and will stay to the end. I\nwill rejoin you later.'\nIt was only a few steps from the theatre to the hotel. I went up to the\nsitting-room, ordered a whisky and soda, and sat drinking it, staring\nmeditatively into the empty grate. I heard the door open, and turned my\nhead, thinking it was Poirot. Then I jumped to my feet. It was Cinderella\nwho stood in the doorway. She spoke haltingly, her breath coming in little\ngasps.\n'I saw you in front. You and your friend. When you got up to go, I was\nwaiting outside and followed you. Why are you here - in Coventry? What\nwere you doing there tonight? Is the man who was with you the - the\ndetective?'\n\n\nShe stood there, the cloak she had wrapped round her stage dress\nslipping from her shoulders. I saw the whiteness of her cheeks under the\nrouge, and heard the terror in her voice. And in that moment I understood\neverything - understood why Poirot was seeking her, and what she feared\nand understood at last my own heart.\n'Yes,' I said gently.\n'Is he looking for - me?' she half whispered.\nThen, as I did not answer for a moment, she slipped down by the big\nchair, and burst into violent bitter weeping.\nI knelt down by her, holding her in my arms, and smoothing the hair\nback from her face.\n'Don't cry, child, don't cry, for God's sake. You're safe here. I'll take care\nof you. Don't cry, darling. Don't cry. I know - I know everything.'\n'Oh, but you don't!'\n'I think I do.' And after a moment, as her sobs grew quieter, I asked: 'It\nwas you who took the dagger, wasn't it?'\n'Yes.'\n'That was why you wanted me to show you round? And why you\npretended to faint?'\nAgain she nodded.\n'Why did you take the dagger?' I asked presently.\nShe replied as simply as a child:\n'I was afraid there might be finger-marks on it.'\n'But didn't you remember that you had worn gloves?'\nShe shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:\n'Are you going to give me up to - to the police?'\n'Good God! no.'\nHer eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little\nquiet voice that sounded afraid of itself:\n'Why not?'\nIt seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of love -\nand God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming to\nme in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:\n'Because I love you, Cinderella.'\nShe bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken\nvoice:\n\n\n'You can't - you can't - not if you knew -' And then, as though rallying\nherself, she faced me squarely, and asked, 'What do you know, then?'\n'I know that you came to see M. Renauld that night. He offered you a\ncheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house -' I paused.\n'Go on - what next?'\n'I don't know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming\nthat night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him,\nbut you wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable and walked restlessly -\nbut at any rate -\n'Just before twelve you were still there, and you saw a man on the golf\nlinks -'\nAgain I paused. I had leaped to the truth in a flash as she entered the\nroom, but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw\nvividly the peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr\nRenauld, and I remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into\nbelieving for one instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when\nhis son burst into our conclave in the salon.\n'Go on,' repeated the girl steadily.\n'I fancy his back was to you, but you recognized him, or thought you\nrecognized him, the gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the\npattern of his overcoat -' I paused. You used a threat in one of your letters to\nJack Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you\nmad - and you struck. I don't believe for a minute that you meant to kill\nhim, but you did kill him, Cinderella.'\nShe had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she\nsaid:\n'You're right... you're right. I can see it all as you tell it.' Then she turned\non me almost savagely. 'And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can\nyou love me?'\n'I don't know,' I said a little wearily. 'I think love is like that - a thing one\ncannot help. I have tried, I know - ever since the first day I met you. And\nlove has been too strong for me.'\nAnd then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again,\ncasting herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.\n'Oh, I can't!' she cried. 'I don't know what to do. I don't know which way\nto turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, someone, and tell me what to do!'\nAgain I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.\n\n\n'Don't be afraid of me, Bella. For God's sake don't be afraid of me. I\nlove you, that's true - but I don't want anything in return. Only let me help\nyou. Love him still if you have to, but let me help you, as he can't.'\nIt was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised\nher head from her hands and stared at me.\n'You think that?' she whispered. 'You think that I love Jack Renauld?'\nThen, half laughing, half crying, she flung her arms passionately round\nmy neck, and pressed her sweet wet face to mine.\n'Not as I love you,' she whispered. 'Never as I love you!'\nHer lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me\nagain and again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it\n- and the wonder, I shall not forget - no, not as long as I live!\nIt was a sound in the doorway that made us look up.\nPoirot was standing there looking at us.\nI did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to\nhis sides.\n'Quick,' I said to the girl. 'Get out of here. As fast as you can. I'll hold\nhim.'\nWith one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a\ngrip of iron.\n'Mon ami,' observed the latter mildly, 'you do this sort of thing very\nwell. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless as a child. But\nall this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit down and be\ncalm.'\n'You won't pursue her?'\n'Mon Dieu, no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.'\nKeeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of\nknowing that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and\nhe sank into an armchair, feeling his arms tenderly.\n'It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings!\nEh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show\nyou the girl's photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.'\n'There was no need if you knew that I recognized it,' I said rather\nbitterly. So Poirot had known all along! I had not deceived him for an\ninstant.\n'Ta-ta! You did not know that I knew that. And tonight you help the girl\nto escape when we have found her with so much trouble. Eh bien, it comes\n\n\nto this - are you going to work with me or against me, Hastings?'\nFor a moment or two I did not answer. To break with my old friend gave\nme great pain. Yet I must definitely range myself against him. Would he\never forgive me, I wondered? He had been strangely calm so far but I knew\nhim to possess marvellous self-command.\n'Poirot,' I said, 'I'm sorry. I admit I've behaved badly to you over this.\nBut sometimes one has no choice. And in the future I must take my own\nline.'\nPoirot nodded his head several times.\n'I understand,' he said. The mocking light had quite died out of his eyes,\nand he spoke with a sincerity and kindness that surprised me. 'It is that, my\nfriend, is it not? It is love that has come - not as you imagined it, all cock-a-\nhoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding feet. Well, well, I warned\nyou. When I realized that this girl must have taken the dagger, I warned\nyou. Perhaps you remember. But already it was too late. But, tell me, how\nmuch do you know?'\nI met his eyes squarely.\n'Nothing that you could tell me would be any surprise to me, Poirot.\nUnderstand that. But in case you think of resuming your search for Miss\nDuveen, I should like you to know one thing clearly: If you have any idea\nthat she was concerned in this crime, or was the mysterious lady who called\nupon Mr Renauld that night, you are wrong. I travelled home from France\nwith her that day, and parted from her at Victoria that evening, so that it is\nclearly impossible for her to have been in Merlinville.'\n'Ah!' Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. 'And you would swear to that in\na court of law?'\n'Most certainly I would.'\nPoirot rose and bowed.\n'Mon ami! Vive l'amour! It can perform miracles. It is decidedly\ningenious what you have thought of there. It defeats even Hercule Poirot!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 23\nDIFFICULTIES AHEAD\nAfter a moment of stress, such as I have just described, reaction is\nbound to set in. I retired to rest that night on a note of triumph, but I awoke\nto realize that I was by no means out of the wood. True, I could see no flaw\nin the alibi I had so suddenly conceived. I had but to stick to my story, and I\nfailed to see how Bella could be convicted in face of it. But I felt the need\nof treading warily. Poirot would not take defeat lying down. Somehow or\nother, he would endeavour to turn the tables on me, and that in the way, and\nat the moment, when I least expected it.\nWe met at breakfast the following morning as though nothing had\nhappened. Poirot's good temper was imperturbable, yet I thought I detected\na kind of reserve in his manner which was new. After breakfast, I\nannounced my intention of going out for a stroll. A malicious gleam shot\nthrough Poirot's eyes.\n'If it is information you seek, you need not be at the pains of deranging\nyourself. I can tell you all you wish to know. The Dulcibella Sisters have\ncancelled their contract, and have left Coventry for an unknown\ndestination.'\n'Is that really so, Poirot?'\n'You can take it from me, Hastings. I made inquiries the first thing this\nmorning. After all, what else did you expect?'\nTrue enough, nothing else could be expected under the circumstances.\nCinderella had profited by the slight start I had been able to secure her, and\nwould certainly not lose a moment in removing herself from the reach of\nthe pursuer. It was what I had intended and planned. Nevertheless, I was\naware of being plunged into a network of fresh difficulties.\nI had absolutely no means of communicating with the girl, and it was\nvital that she should know the line of defence that had occurred to me, and\nwhich I was prepared to carry out. Of course it was possible that she might\ntry to send word to me in some way or another, but I hardly thought it\nlikely. She would know the risk she ran of a message being intercepted by\nPoirot, thus setting him on her track once more. Clearly her only course was\nto disappear utterly for the time being.\nBut, in the meantime, what was Poirot doing? I studied him attentively.\nHe was wearing his most innocent air, and staring meditatively into the far\n\n\ndistance. He looked altogether too placid and supine to give me\nreassurance. I had learned, with Poirot, that the less dangerous he looked,\nthe more dangerous he was. His quiescence alarmed me. Observing a\ntroubled quality in my face, he smiled benignantly.\n'You are puzzled, Hastings? You ask yourself why I do not launch\nmyself in pursuit?'\n'Well - something of the kind.'\n'It is what you would do, were you in my place. I understand that. But I\nam not of those who enjoy rushing up and down a country seeking a needle\nin a haystack, as you English say. No - let Mademoiselle Bella Duveen go.\nWithout doubt, I shall be able to find her when the time comes. Until then, I\nam content to wait.'\nI stared at him doubtfully. Was he seeking to mislead me? I had an\nirritating feeling that, even now, he was master of the situation. My sense of\nsuperiority was gradually waning. I had contrived the girl's escape, and\nevolved a brilliant scheme for saving her from the consequences of her rash\nact - but I could not rest easy in my mind. Poirot's perfect calm awakened a\nthousand apprehensions.\n'I suppose Poirot,' I said rather diffidently, 'I mustn't ask what your plans\nare? I've forfeited the right.'\n'But not at all. There is no secret about them. We return to France\nwithout delay.'\n'We?'\n'Precisely - “we”! You know very well that you cannot afford to let Papa\nPoirot out of your sight. Eh? is it not so, my friend? But remain in England\nby all means if you wish -'\nI shook my head. He had hit the nail on the head. I could not afford to\nlet him out of my sight. Although I could not expect his confidence after\nwhat had happened, I could still check his actions. The only danger to Bella\nlay with him. Giraud and the French police were indifferent to her\nexistence. At all costs I must keep near Poirot.\nPoirot observed me attentively as these reflections passed through my\nmind, and gave me a nod of satisfaction.\n'I am right, am I not? And as you are quite capable of trying to follow\nme, disguised with some absurdity such as a false beard - which everyone\nwould perceive, bien entendu - I much prefer that we should voyage\n\n\ntogether. It would annoy me greatly that anyone should mock themselves at\nyou.'\n'Very well, then. But it's only fair to warn you -'\n'I know - I know all. You are my enemy! Be my enemy then. It does not\nworry me at all.'\n'So long as it's all fair and above-board, I don't mind.'\n'You have to the full the English passion for “fair play”! Now your\nscruples are satisfied, let us depart immediately. There is no time to be lost.\nOur stay in England has been short but sufficient. I know - what I wanted to\nknow.'\nThe tone was light, but I read a veiled menace into the words.\n'Still -' I began, and stopped.\n'Still - as you say! Without doubt you are satisfied with the part you are\nplaying. Me, I preoccupy myself with Jack Renauld.'\nJack Renauld! The words gave me a start. I had completely forgotten\nthat aspect of the case. Jack Renauld, in prison, with the shadow of the\nguillotine looming over him. I saw the part I was playing in a more sinister\nlight. I could save Bella - yes, but in doing so I ran the risk of sending an\ninnocent man to his death.\nI pushed the thought from me with horror. It could not be. He would be\nacquitted. Certainly he would be acquitted. But the cold fear came back.\nSuppose he were not? What then? Could I have it on my conscience -\nhorrible thought! Would it come to that in the end? A decision. Bella or\nJack Renauld? The promptings of my heart were to save the girl I loved at\nany cost to myself. But, if the cost were to another the problem was altered.\nWhat would the girl herself say? I remembered that no word of Jack\nRenauld's arrest had passed my lips. As yet she was in total ignorance of the\nfact that her former lover was in prison charged with a hideous crime which\nhe had not committed. When she knew, how would she act? Would she\npermit her life to be saved at the expense of his? Certainly she must do\nnothing rash. Jack Renauld might, and probably would, be acquitted\nwithout any intervention on her part. If so, good. But if he was not! That\nwas the terrible, the unanswerable problem. I fancied that she ran no risk of\nthe extreme penalty. The circumstances of the crime were quite different in\nher case. She could plead jealousy and extreme provocation, and her youth\nand beauty would go for much. The fact that by a tragic mistake it was Mr\nRenauld, and not his son, who paid the penalty would not alter the motive\n\n\nof the crime. But in any case, however lenient the sentence of the Court, it\nmust mean a long term of imprisonment.\nNo! Bella must be protected. And, at the same time, Jack Renauld must\nbe saved. How this was to be accomplished I did not see clearly. But I\npinned my faith to Poirot. He knew. Come what might, he would manage to\nsave an innocent man. He must find some pretext other than the real one. It\nmight be difficult, but he would manage it somehow. And with Bella\nunsuspected, and Jack Renauld acquitted, all would end satisfactorily.\nSo I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still\nremained a cold fear.\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n'SAVE HIM!'\nWe crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following\nmorning saw us in St Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot\nlost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any\nobjections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.\nAfter various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the\nexamining magistrate's room. He greeted us cordially.\n'I was told that you had returned to England, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad\nto find that such is not the case.'\n'It is true that I went there, monsieur, but it was only for a flying visit. A\nside issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.'\n'And it did - eh?'\nPoirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.\n'We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are\nabominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one\nmaking a mistake.'\n'You think not?'\nIt was the examining magistrate's turn to shrug his shoulders.\n'Oh, well, speaking frankly - in confidence, of course, can you come to\nany other conclusion?'\n'Frankly, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.'\n'Such as -?'\nBut Poirot was not to be drawn.\n'I have not yet tabulated them,' he remarked. 'It was a general reflection\nthat I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe\nhim guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for\nhimself on the matter?'\nThe magistrate frowned.\n'I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of\ndefence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He\ncontents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a\nmost obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow, perhaps you\nwould like to be present?'\nWe accepted the invitation with empressement.\n\n\n'A distressing case,' said the magistrate with a sigh. 'My sympathy for\nMadame Renauld is profound.'\n'How is Madame Renauld?'\n'She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor\nwoman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger,\nbut that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It\nwas, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused present\nstate. It would be terrible if her brain became hinged; but I should not\nwonder at all - no, really, not at all.'\nM. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful\nenjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect. He roused himself at\nlength, and observed with a start:\n'That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, Monsieur Poirot. Let me\nsee, where did I put it?'\nHe proceeded to rummage among his papers. At last he found the\nmissive, and handed it to Poirot.\n'It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,' he\nexplained. 'But as you left no address I could not do so.'\nPoirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping,\nforeign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman's. Poirot did not open\nit. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.\n'Till tomorrow then. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.'\n'But not at all. I am always at your service.'\nWe were just leaving the building when we came face to face with\nGiraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with\nhimself.\n'Aha! Monsieur Poirot,' he cried airily. 'You have returned from England\nthen?'\n'As you see,' said Poirot.\n'The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.'\n'I agree with you, Monsieur Giraud.'\nPoirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crestfallen manner seemed to\ndelight the other.\n'Of all the milk-and-water criminals! Not an idea of fending himself. It\nis extraordinary!'\n'So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?' suggested Poirot\nmildly.\n\n\nBut Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.\n'Well, good day, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad you're satisfied of young\nRenauld's guilt at last.'\n'Pardon! But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is innocent.'\nGiraud stared for a moment - then burst out laughing, tapping his head\nsignificantly with the brief remark: 'Toqué!'\nPoirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.\n'Monsieur Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been\ndeliberately insulting. You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager\nyou five hundred francs that I find the murderer of Monsieur Renauld\nbefore you do. Is it agreed?'\nGiraud stared helplessly at him and murmured again:\n'Come now,' urged Poirot, 'is it agreed?'\n'I have no wish to take your money from you.'\n'Make your mind easy - you will not.'\n'Oh, well then - I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting.\nWell, once or twice, your manner has annoyed me.'\n'I am enchanted to hear it,' said Poirot. 'Good morning, Monsieur\nGiraud. Come, Hastings.'\nI said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy.\nPoirot had displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than\never my powers of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This\nunlucky encounter with Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle.\nSuddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel\nStonor. We stopped and greeted and he proposed strolling with us back to\nour hotel.\n'And what are you doing here, Monsieur Stonor?' inquired Poirot.\n'One must stand by one's friends,' replied the other dryly. 'Especially\nwhen they are unjustly accused.'\n'Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?' I\nasked eagerly.\n'Certainly I don't. I know the lad. I admit that there have been one or\ntwo things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none the\nless, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I'll never believe that Jack Renauld\nis a murderer.'\nMy heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret\nweight from my heart.\n\n\n'I have no doubt that many people feel like you do,' I exclaimed. 'There\nis really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that there was no\ndoubt of his acquittal - no doubt whatever.'\nBut Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished.\n'I'd give a lot to think as you do,' he said gravely. He turned to Poirot.\n'What's your opinion, monsieur?'\n'I think that things look very black against him,' said Poirot quietly.\n'You believe him guilty?' said Stonor sharply.\n'No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.'\n'He's behaving so damned queerly,' muttered Stonor. ' Of course, I\nrealize that there's a lot more in this affair than meets the eye. Giraud's not\nwise to that because he's an outsider, but the whole thing has been damned\nodd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs Renauld wants to hush\nanything up, I'll take my cue from her. It's her show, and I've too much\nrespect for her judgement to shove my oar in, but I can't get behind this\nattitude of Jack's. Anyone would think he wanted to be thought guilty.'\n'But it's absurd,' I cried, bursting in. 'For one thing, the dagger -' I\npaused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would wish me to reveal. I\ncontinued, choosing my words carefully, 'We know that the dagger could\nnot have been in Jack Renauld's possession that evening. Mrs Renauld\nknows that.'\n'True,' said Stonor. 'When she recovers, she will doubtless say all this\nand more. Well, I must be leaving you.'\n'One moment.' Poirot's hand arrested his departure. 'Can you arrange for\nword to be sent to me at once should Mrs Renauld recover consciousness?'\n'Certainly. That's easily done.'\n'That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,' I urged as we went\nupstairs. 'I couldn't speak very plainly before Stonor.'\n'That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to\nourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack\nRenauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before\nwe started from London?'\n'Yes?'\n'Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed\nto convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult. Eh bien, Hasting, they\nmade to his order not two paper knives, but three.'\n'So that -'\n\n\n'So that, after giving one to his mother and one to Bella Duveen, there\nwas a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear\nthe dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.'\n'It won't come to that,' I cried, stung.\nPoirot shook his head uncertainly.\n'You will save him,' I cried positively.\nPoirot glanced at me dryly.\n'Have you not rendered it impossible, mon ami?'\n'Some other way,' I muttered.\n'Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No - say no more. Let\nus instead see what is in this letter.'\nAnd he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket. His face\ncontracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.\n'There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.'\nThe writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great\nagitation.\nDear M. Poirot,\nIf you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. I have no one to turn to,\nand at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help\nus.\nI handed it back, moved.\n'You will go?'\n'At once. We will command an auto.'\nHalf an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the\ndoor to meet us, and let Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.\n'Ah, you have come - it is good of you. I have been in despair, not\nknowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I\nsuffer horribly. I am nearly mad.\n'Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the crime? But that is\nmadness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never for one minute\nwill I believe it.'\n'Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,' said Poirot gently.\n'But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.'\n'Perhaps because he is screening someone,' suggested Poirot, watching\nher.\nMarthe frowned.\n\n\n'Screening someone? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning\nI have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy\nto wear widow's weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he\nwas arrested she fell down like that!' She made a dramatic gesture. 'And\nwithout doubt, Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, he helped her. They are thick\nas thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he - but what do men care -\nif a woman is rich.'\nThere was a hint of bitterness in her tone.\n'Stonor was in England,' I put in.\n'He says so - but who knows?'\n'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot quietly, 'if we are to work together, you and\nI, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.'\n'Yes, monsieur?'\n'Are you aware of your mother's real name?'\nMarthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on\nher arms, she burst into tears.\n'There, there,' said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. 'Calm yourself,\npetite, I see that you know. Now a second question - did you know who\nMonsieur Renauld was?'\n'Monsieur Renauld,' she raised her head from her hands and looked at\nhim wonderingly.\n'Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.'\nStep by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the\nday of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had\nfinished, she drew a long breath.\n'But you are wonderful - magnificent! You are the greatest detective in\nthe world.'\nWith a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him with\nan abandonment that was wholly French.\n'Save him, monsieur,' she cried. 'I love him so. Oh, save him - save him\n- save him!'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 25\nAN UNEXPECTED DÉNOUEMENT\nWe were present the following morning at the examination of Jack\nRenauld. Short as the time had been, I was shocked at the change that had\ntaken place in the young prisoner. His cheeks had fallen in, there were deep\nblack circles round his eyes, and he looked haggard and distraught, as one\nwho had wooed sleep in vain for several nights. He betrayed no emotion at\nseeing us.\n'Renauld,' began the magistrate 'do you deny that you were in\nMerlinville on the night of the crime?'\nJack did not reply at once, then he said with a hesitancy of manner\nwhich was piteous:\n'I - I - told you that I was in Cherbourg.'\nThe magistrate turned sharply.\n'Send in the station witnesses.'\nIn a moment or two the door opened to admit a man whom I recognized\nas being a porter at Merlinville station.\n'You were on duty on the night of 7th June?'\n'Yes, monsieur.'\n'You witnessed the arrival of the 11.40 train?'\n'Yes, monsieur.'\n'Look at the prisoner. Do you recognize him as having been one of the\npassengers to alight?'\n'Yes, monsieur.'\n'There is no possibility of your being mistaken?'\n'No, monsieur. I know Monsieur Jack Renauld well.'\n'Nor of your being mistaken as to the date?'\n'No, monsieur. Because it was the following morning, 8th June, that we\nheard of the murder.'\nAnother railway officer was brought in, and confirmed the first one's\nevidence. The magistrate looked at Jack Renauld.\n'These men have identified you positively. What have you to say?'\nJack shrugged his shoulders.\n'Nothing.'\n'Renauld,' continued the magistrate, 'do you recognize this?'\n\n\nHe took something from the table by his side and held it out to the\nprisoner. I shuddered as I recognized the aeroplane dagger.\n'Pardon,' cried Jack's counsel, Maître Grosier. 'I demand to speak to my\nclient before he answers that question.'\nBut Jack Renauld had no consideration for the feelings of the wretched\nGrosier. He waved him aside, and replied quietly:\n'Certainly I recognize it. It was a present given by me to my mother, as a\nsouvenir of the war.'\n'Is there, as far as you know, any duplicate of that dagger in existence?'\nAgain Maître Grosier burst out, and again Jack overrode him.\n'Not that I know of. The setting was my own design.'\nEven the magistrate almost gasped at the boldness of the reply. It did, in\nvery truth, seem as though Jack was rushing on his fate. I realized, of\ncourse, the vital necessity he was under of concealing, for Bella's sake, the\nfact that there was a duplicate dagger in the case. So long as there was\nsupposed to be only one weapon, no suspicion was likely to attach to the\ngirl who had had the second paper-knife in her possession. He was valiantly\nshielding the woman he had once loved - but at what cost to himself! I\nbegan to realize the magnitude of the task I had so lightly set Poirot. It\nwould not be easy to secure the acquittal of Jack Renauld by anything short\nof the truth.\nM. Hautet spoke again with a peculiarly biting inflection:\n'Madame Renauld told us that this dagger was on her dressing-table on\nthe night of the crime. But Madame Renauld is a mother! It will doubtless\nastonish you, Renauld, but I consider it highly likely that Madame Renauld\nwas mistaken, and that, by inadvertence perhaps, you had taken it with you\nto Paris. Doubtless you will contradict me.'\nI saw the lad's handcuffed hands clench themselves. The perspiration\nstood out in beads upon his brow, as with a supreme effort he interrupted M.\nHautet in a hoarse voice:\n'I shall not contradict you. It is possible.'\nIt was a stupefying moment. Maître Grosier rose to his feet protesting:\n'My client has undergone a considerable nervous strain. I should wish it\nput on record that I do not consider him answerable for what he says.'\nThe magistrat quelled him angrily. For a moment a doubt seemed to\narise in his own mind. Jack Renauld had almost overdone his part. He\nleaned forward, and gazed at the prisoner searchingly.\n\n\n'Do you fully understand, Renauld, that on the answers you have given\nme I shall have no alternative but to commit you for trial?'\nJack's pale face flushed. He looked steadily back.\n'Monsieur Hautet, I swear that I did not kill my father.'\nBut the magistrate's brief moment of doubt was over. He laughed a short\nunpleasant laugh.\n'Without doubt, without doubt - they are always innocent, our prisoners!\nBy your own mouth you are condemned. You can offer no defence, no alibi\n- only a mere assertion which would not deceive a baby! - that you are not\nguilty. You killed your father, Renauld - a vile and cowardly murder - for\nthe sake of the money which you believed would come to you at his death.\nYour mother was an accessory after the fact. Doubtless, in view of the fact\nthat she acted as a mother, the courts will extend an indulgence to her that\nthey will not accord to you. And rightly so! Your crime was a horrible one -\nto be held in abhorrence by gods and men!'\nHautet was interrupted - to his intense annoyance.\nThe door was pushed open.\n'Monsieur le juge, Monsieur le juge,' stammered the attendant, 'there is a\nlady who says - who says -'\n'Who says what?' cried the justly incensed magistrate. 'This is highly\nirregular. I forbid it - I absolutely forbid it.'\nBut a slender figure pushed the stammering gendarme aside. Dressed all\nin black, with a long veil that hid her face, she advanced into the room.\nMy heart gave a sickening throb. She had come then! All my efforts\nwere in vain. Yet I could not but admire the courage that had led her to take\nthis step so unfalteringly.\nShe raised her veil - and I gasped. For, though as like her as two peas,\nthis girl was not Cinderella! On the other hand, now that I saw her without\nthe fair wig she had worn on the stage, I recognized her as the girl of the\nphotograph in Jack Renauld's room.\n'You are the Juge d'Instruction, Monsieur Hautet?' she queried.\n'Yes, but I forbid -'\n'My name is Bella Duveen. I wish to give myself up for the murder of\nMr Renauld.'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 26\nI RECEIVE A LETTER\n'My friend,\n'You will know all when you get this. Nothing that I can say will move\nBella. She has gone out to give herself up. I am tired out with struggling.\n'You will know now that I deceived you, that where you gave me trust I\nrepaid you with lies. It will seem, perhaps, indefensible to you, but I should\nlike, before I go out of your life for ever, to show you just how it all came\nabout. If I knew that you forgave me it would make life easier for me. It\nwasn't for myself I did it - that's the only thing I can put forward to say for\nmyself.\n'I'll begin from the day I met you in the boat train from Paris. I was\nuneasy then about Bella. She was just desperate about Jack Renauld she'd\nhave lain down on the ground for him to walk on, and when he began to\nchange, and to stop writing so often she began getting in a state. She got it\ninto her head that he was keen on another girl - and of course, as it turned\nout afterwards, she was quite right there. She'd made up her mind to go to\ntheir Villa at Merlinville, and try and see Jack. She knew I was against it\nand tried to give me the slip. I found she was not on the train at Calais, and\ndetermined I would not go on to England without her. I'd an uneasy feeling\nthat something awful was going to happen if I couldn't prevent it.\n'I met the next train from Paris. She was on it, and set upon going out\nthen and there to Merlinville. I argued with her for all I was worth, but it\nwasn't any good. She was all strung up and set upon having her own way.\nWell, I washed my hands of it. I'd done all I could. It was getting late. I\nwent to an hotel and Bella started for Merlinville. I still couldn't shake off\nmy feeling of what the books call “impending disaster”.\n'The next day came - but no Bella. She'd made a date with me to meet at\nthe hotel, but she didn't keep it. No sign of her all day. I got more and more\nanxious. Then came an evening paper with the news.\n'It was awful! I couldn't be sure, of course, but I was terribly afraid. I\nfigured it out that Bella had met Papa Renauld and told him about her and\nJack, and that he'd insulted her or something like that. We've both got\nterribly quick tempers.\n'Then all the masked foreigner business came out, and I began to feel\nmore at ease. But it still worried me that Bella hadn't kept her date with me.\n\n\n'By the next morning I was so rattled that I'd just got to go and see what\nI could. First thing, I ran up against you. You know all that... When I saw\nthe dead man, looking so like Jack, and wearing Jack's fancy overcoat, I\nknew! And there was the identical paper-knife - wicked little thing! - that\nJack had given Bella! Ten to one it had her finger-marks on it. I can't hope\nto explain to you the sort of helpless horror of that moment. I only saw one\nthing clearly - I must get hold of that dagger, and get right away with it\nbefore they found out it was gone. I pretended to faint, and while you were\naway getting water I took the thing and hid it away in my dress.\n'I told you that I was staying at the Hôtel du Phare, but of course really I\nmade a bee-line back to Calais, and then on to England by the first boat.\nWhen we were in mid-Channel I dropped that little devil of a dagger into\nthe sea. Then I felt I could breathe again.\n'Bella was in our digs in London. She looked like nothing on God's\nearth. I told her what I'd done, and that she was pretty safe for the time\nbeing. She stared at me, and then began laughing... laughing... laughing... it\nwas horrible to hear her! I felt that the best thing to do was to keep busy.\nShe'd go mad if she had time to brood on what she'd done. Luckily we got\nan engagement at once.\n'And then, I saw you and your friend watching us that night... I was\nfrantic. You must suspect, or you wouldn't have tracked us down. I had to\nknow the worst, so I followed you. I was desperate. And then, before I'd\nhad time to say anything, I tumbled to it that it was me you suspected, not\nBella! Or at least that you thought I was Bella, since I'd stolen the dagger.\n'I wish, honey, that you could see back to my mind at that moment...\nyou'd forgive me, perhaps - I was so frightened, and muddled, and\ndesperate... All I could get clearly was that you would try and save me. I\ndidn't know whether you'd be willing to save her. I thought very likely not -\nIt wasn't the same thing! And I couldn't risk it! Bella's my twin - I'd got to\ndo the best for her. So I went on lying. I felt mean - I feel mean still... That's\nall - enough too, you'll say, I expect. I ought to have trusted you. If I had -\n'As soon as the news was in the paper that Jack Renauld had been\narrested, it was all up. Bella wouldn't wait to see how things went...\n'I'm very tired. I can't write any more.'\nShe had begun to sign herself Cinderella, but had crossed that out and\nwritten instead 'Dulcie Duveen'.\nIt was an ill-written, blurred epistle - but I have kept it to this day.\n\n\nPoirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I\nlooked across at him.\n'Did you know all the time that it was - the other?'\n'Yes, my friend.'\n'Why did you not tell me?\n'To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could\nmake such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very\nalike, but by no means incapable of distinguishment.'\n'But the fair hair?'\n'A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it\nconceivable that with twins one should be fair, and one dark?'\n'Why didn't you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?'\n'You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,' said Poirot\ndryly. 'You did not give me a chance.'\n'But afterwards?'\n'Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in\nme. And then, I wanted to see whether your feelings would stand the test of\ntime. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan, with you. I should\nnot have left you long in your error.'\nI nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I\nlooked down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the\nfloor, and pushed them across to him.\n'Read that,' I said. 'I'd like you to.'\nHe read it through in silence, then he looked up at me.\n'What is it that worries you, Hastings?'\nThis was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid\nquite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.\n'She doesn't say - she doesn't say- well, not whether she cares for me or\nnot?'\nPoirot turned back the pages.\n'I think you are mistaken, Hastings.'\n'Where?' I cried, leaning forward eagerly.\nPoirot smiled.\n'She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.'\n'But where am I to find her? There's no address on the letter. There's a\nFrench stamp, that's all.'\n\n\n'Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as\nsoon as I have five little minutes.'\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 27\nJACK RENAULD'S STORY\n'Congratulations, Monsieur Jack,' said Poirot, wringing the lad warmly\nby the hand.\nYoung Renauld had come to us as soon as he was liberated - before\nstarting for Merlinville to rejoin Marthe and his mother. Stonor\naccompanied him. His heartiness was in strong contrast to the lad's wan\nlooks. It was plain that the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.\nHe smiled mournfully at Poirot, and said in a low voice:\n'I went through it to protect her, and now it's all no use.'\n'You could hardly expect the girl to accept the price of your life,'\nremarked Stonor dryly. 'She was bound to come forward when she saw you\nheading straight for the guillotine.'\n'Eh, ma foi! and you were heading for it too,' added Poirot, with a slight\ntwinkle. 'You would have had Maître Grosier's death from rage on your\nconscience if you had gone on.'\n'He was a well meaning ass, I suppose,' said Jack. 'But he worried me\nhorribly. You see, I couldn't very well take him into my confidence. But, my\nGod! what's going to happen about Bella?'\n'If I were you,' said Poirot frankly, 'I should not distress myself unduly.\nThe French Courts are very lenient to youth and beauty, and the crime\npassionnel! A clever lawyer will make out a great case of extenuating\ncircumstances. It will not be pleasant for you -'\n'I don't care about that. You see, Monsieur Poirot, in a way I do feel\nguilty of my father's murder. But for me, and my entanglement with this\ngirl, he would be alive and well today. And then my cursed carelessness in\ntaking away the wrong overcoat. I can't help feeling responsible for his\ndeath. It will haunt me for ever!'\n'No, no,' I said soothingly.\n'Of course it's horrible to me to think that Bella killed my father,'\nresumed Jack. 'But I'd treated her shamefully. After I met Martha and\nrealized I'd made a mistake, I ought to have written and told her honestly.\nBut I was so terrified of a row and of its coming to Martha's ears and her\nthinking there was more in it than there ever had been, that - well, I was a\ncoward, and went on hoping the thing would die down of itself. I was - in\nfact - not realizing that I was driving the poor kid desperate. If she'd really\n\n\nknifed me, as she meant to, I should have got no more than my deserts. And\nthe way she's come forward now is downright plucky. I'd have stood the\nracket - you know - up to the end.'\nHe was silent for a moment or two, and then burst out:\n'What gets me is why the Guvernor should be wandering about in\nunderclothes and my overcoat at that time of night. I suppose he'd just given\nthe foreign johnnies the slip, and my mother must have made a mistake\nabout its being two o'clock when they came. Or - or, it wasn't all a frame-\nup, was it? I mean, my mother didn't think - couldn't think - that - that it\nwas me?'\nPoirot reassured him quickly.\n'No, no, Monsieur Jack. Have no fears on that score. As for the rest, I\nwill explain it to you one of these days. It is rather curious. But will you\nrecount to us exactly what did occur on that terrible evening?'\n'There's very little to tell. I came from Cherbourg, as I told you, in order\nto see Marthe before going to the other end of the world. The train was late\nand I decided to take the short cut across the golf links. I could easily get\ninto the grounds of the Villa Marguerite from there. I had nearly reached the\nplace when -'\nHe paused and swallowed.\n'I heard a terrible cry. It wasn't loud - a sort of choke and gasp - but it\nfrightened me. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot. Then I came round\nthe corner of a bush. There was moonlight. I saw the grave, and a figure\nlying face downwards with a dagger sticking in the back. And then - and\nthen - I looked up and saw her. She was looking at me as though she saw a\nghost - it's what she must have thought me at first - all expression seemed\nfrozen out of her face by horror. And then she gave a cry and turned and\nran.'\nHe stopped, trying to master his emotion.\n'And afterwards?' asked Poirot gently.\n'I really don't know. I stayed there for a time, dazed. And then I realized\nI'd better get away as fast as I could. It didn't occur to me that they would\nsuspect me, but I was afraid of being called upon to give evidence against\nher. I walked to St Beauvais as I told you and got a car from there back to\nCherbourg.'\nA knock came at the door, and a page entered with a telegram which he\ndelivered to Stonor. He tore it open. Then he got up from his seat.\n\n\n'Mrs Renauld has regained consciousness,' he said.\n'Ah!' Poirot sprang to his feet. 'Let us all go to Merlinville at once.'\nA hurried departure was made forthwith. Stonor, at Jack's instance,\nagreed to stay behind and do all that could be done for Bella Duveen.\nPoirot, Jack Renauld, and I set off in the Renauld car.\nThe run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of\nthe Villa Marguerite Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot.\n'How would it be if you went on first - to break the news to my mother\nthat I am free -'\n'While you break it in person to Mademoiselle Marthe, eh?' finished\nPoirot, with a twinkle. 'But yes, by all means, I was about to propose such\nan arrangement myself.'\nJack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself\nout, and ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa\nGeneviève.\n'Poirot,' I said, 'do you remember how we arrived here that first day?\nAnd were met by the news of Mr Renauld's murder?'\n'Ah, yes, truly. Not so long ago either. But what a lot of things have\nhappened since then - especially for you.'\n'Yes, indeed,' I sighed.\n'You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That\nwas not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt\nwith leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls! I\nspoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and\nregular, such as a detective delights in. The mise en scéne designed by\nGeorges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the denouement - ah, no! A\nman killed by accident in a girl's fit of anger - ah, indeed, what order or\nmethod is there in that?'\nAnd in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot's peculiarities,\nthe door was opened by Françoise.\nPoirot explained that he must see Mrs Renauld at once, and the old\nwoman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time\nbefore Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.\n'Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre! but there are squalls ahead!'\n'What do you mean?' I cried.\n'I would hardly have credited it,' said Poirot thoughtfully, 'but women\nare very unexpected.'\n\n\n'Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,' I exclaimed, looking out of the\nwindow.\nPoirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps\noutside.\n'Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.'\n'I know, I know,' said Jack Renauld. 'I must go up to her at once.'\n'But no, I tell you. It is better not.'\n'But Marthe and I -'\n'In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must,\nbut you would be wise to be guided by me.'\nA voice on the stairs behind made us all start.\n'I thank you for your good offices, Monsieur Poirot but I will make my\nown wishes clear.'\nWe stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning on Léonie's\narm, was Mrs Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was\nweeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.\n'Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor's orders!'\nBut Mrs Renauld came on.\n'Mother,' cried Jack, starting forward.\nBut with a gesture she drove him back.\n'I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and\nhour I renounce you.'\n'Mother!' cried the lad, stupefied.\nFor a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his\nvoice. Poirot made a mediating gesture. But instantly she regained\ncommand of herself.\n'Your father's blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death.\nYou thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment\nof another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house.\nTomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall\nnever touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you\ncan with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father's bitterest\nenemy!'\nAnd slowly, painfully she retraced her way upstairs.\nWe were all dumbfounded - totally unprepared for such a\ndemonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone\nthrough, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.\n\n\n'He is overdone,' murmured Poirot to Marthe. 'Where can we take him?'\n'But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and\nI. My poor Jack!'\nWe got the lad to the Villa where he dropped limply on to a chair in a\nsemi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands.\n'He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top\nof it. Get him to bed and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.'\nA doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as\nhis opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and\nquiet, the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there\nwas a chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for someone to sit up all\nnight with him.\nFinally, having done all we could we left him in the charge of Marthe\nand her mother, and set out for the town. It was past our usual hour of\ndining, and we were both famished. The first restaurant we came to\nassuaged the pangs of hunger with an excellent omelette and an equally\nexcellent entrecôte to follow.\n'And now for quarters for the night.' said Poirot, when at length café\nnoir had completed the meal. 'Shall we try our old friend, the Hôtel des\nBains?'\nWe traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be\naccommodated with two good rooms over-looking the sea. Then Poirot\nasked a question which surprised me:\n'Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?'\n'Yes, monsieur. She is in the little salon.'\n'Ah!'\n'Poirot,' I cried, keeping pace with him, as he walked along the corridor,\n'who on earth is Miss Robinson?'\nPoirot beamed kindly on me.\n'It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.'\n'But I say -'\n'Bah!' said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the\ndoor. 'Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of\nDuveen?'\nIt was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hand in both of\nmine. My eyes said the rest.\nPoirot cleared his throat.\n\n\n'Mes enfants,' he said, 'for the moment we have no time for sentiment.\nThere is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked\nyou?'\nIn response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in\npaper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start\n- for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the\nsea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most\ncompromising of objects and documents!\n'Très bien, mon enfant,' said Poirot. 'I am pleased with you. Go now and\nrest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him\ntomorrow.'\n'Where are you going?' asked the girl, her eyes widening.\n'You shall hear all about it tomorrow.'\n'Because wherever you're going, I'm coming too.'\n'But, mademoiselle -'\n'I'm coming too, I tell you.'\nPoirot realized that it was futile to argue. He gave in.\n'Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability\nnothing will happen.'\nThe girl made no reply.\nTwenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close\noppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of\nthe Villa Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused.\n'I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld.\nCome with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside.\nMadame Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.'\nWe unlatched the gate, and walked up the path. As we went round to the\nside of the house, I drew Poirot's attention to a window on the first floor.\nThrown sharply on the blind was the profile of Marthe Daubreuil.\n'Ah!' said Poirot. 'I figure to myself that that is the room where we shall\nfind Jack Renauld.'\nMadame Daubreuil opened the door to us. She explained that Jack was\nmuch the same but perhaps we would like to see for ourselves. She led us\nupstairs and into the bedroom. Marthe Daubreuil was sitting by a table with\na lamp on it, working. She put her finger to her lips as we entered.\nJack Renauld was sleeping an uneasy, fitful sleep, his head turning from\nside to side and his face still unduly flushed.\n\n\n'Is the doctor coming again?' asked Poirot in a whisper.\n'Not unless we send. He is sleeping - that is the great thing. Maman\nmade him a tisane.'\nShe sat down again with her embroidery as we left the room. Madame\nDaubreuil accompanied us down the stairs. Since I had learned of her past\nhistory, I viewed this woman with increased interest. She stood there with\nher eyes cast down, the same very faint enigmatical smile that I\nremembered on her lips. And suddenly I felt afraid of her, as one might feel\nafraid of a beautiful poisonous snake.\n'I hope we have not deranged you, madame,' said Poirot politely, as she\nopened the door for us to pass out.\n'Not at all, monsieur.'\n'By the way,' said Poirot, as though struck by an afterthought, 'Monsieur\nStonor has not been in Merlinville today, has he?'\nI could not at all fathom the point of this question, which I well knew to\nbe meaningless as far as Poirot was concerned.\nMadame Daubreuil replied quite composedly:\n'Not that I know of.'\n'He has not had an interview with Madame Renauld?'\n'How should I know that, monsieur?'\n'True,' said Poirot. 'I thought you might have seen him coming or going,\nthat is all. Good-night, madame.'\n'Why -' I began.\n'No whys, Hastings. There will be time for that later.'\nWe rejoined Cinderella and made our way rapidly in the direction of the\nVilla Geneviève. Poirot looked over his shoulder once at the lighted\nwindow and the profile of Marthe as she bent over her work.\n'He is being guarded at all events,' he muttered.\nArrived at the Villa Geneviève, Poirot took up his stand behind some\nbushes to the left of the drive, where, while enjoying a good view ourselves,\nwe were completely hidden from sight. The Villa itself was in total\ndarkness, everybody was without doubt in bed and asleep. We were almost\nimmediately under the window of Mrs Renauld's bedroom, which window,\nI noticed, was open. It seemed to me that it was upon this spot that Poirot's\neyes were fixed.\n'What are we going to do?' I whispered.\n'Watch.'\n\n\n'But -'\n'I do not expect anything to happen for at least an hour, probably two\nhours, but the -'\nHis words were interrupted by a long, thin drawn cry:\n'Help!'\nA light flashed up in the first-floor room on the right-hand side of the\nfront door. The cry came from there. And even as we watched there came a\nshadow on the blind as of two people struggling.\n'Mille tonnerres!' cried Poirot. 'She must have changed her room.'\nDashing forward, he battered wildly on the front door. Then rushing to\nthe tree in the flower-bed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I\nfollowed him, as with a bound he sprang in through the open window.\nLooking over my shoulder, I saw Dulcie reaching the branch behind me.\n'Take care,' I exclaimed.\n'Take care of your grandmother!' retorted the girl. 'This is child's play to\nme.'\nPoirot had rushed through the empty room and was pounding on the\ndoor.\n'Locked and bolted on the outside,' he growled. 'And it will take time to\nburst it open.'\nThe cries for help were getting noticeably fainter. I saw despair in\nPoirot's eyes. He and I together put our shoulders to the door.\nCinderella's voice, calm and dispassionate, came from the window:\n'You'll be too late. I guess I'm the only one who can do anything.'\nBefore I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap from the\nwindow into space. I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her\nhanging by her hands from the roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the\ndirection of the lighted window.\n'Good heavens! She'll be killed,' I cried.\n'You forget. She's a professional acrobat, Hastings. It was the\nprovidence of the good God that made her insist on coming with us tonight.\nI only pray that she may be in time. Ah!'\nA cry of absolute terror floated out on to the night, as the girl\ndisappeared through the window, and then in Cinderella's clear tones came\nthe words:\n'No, you don't! I've got you - and my wrists are just like steel.'\n\n\nAt the same moment the door of our prison was opened cautiously by\nFrançoise. Poirot brushed her aside unceremoniously and rushed down the\npassage to where the other maids were grouped round the farther door.\n'It's locked on the inside, monsieur.'\nThere was the sound of a heavy fall within. After a moment or two the\nkey turned and the door swung slowly open. Cinderella, very pale,\nbeckoned us in.\n'She is safe?' demanded Poirot.\n'Yes, I was just in time. She was exhausted.'\nMm. Renauld was half sitting, half lying on the bed. She was gasping\nfor breath.\n'Nearly strangled me,' she murmured painfully.\nThe girl picked up something from the floor and handed it to Poirot. It\nwas a rolled-up ladder of silk rope, very fine, but quite strong.\n'A getaway,' said Poirot. 'By the window, while we were battering at the\ndoor. Where is - the other?'\nThe girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the ground lay a figure\nwrapped in some dark material, a fold of which hid the face.\n'Dead?'\nShe nodded.\n'I think so. Head must have struck the marble fender.'\n'But who is it?' I cried.\n'The murderer of Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of\nMadame Renauld.'\nPuzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down, and lifting the fold of\ncloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!\n\n\nMurder on the Links\n\n\n\n\nChapter 28\nJOURNEY'S END\nI have confused memories of the further events of that night. Poirot\nseemed deaf to my repeated questions. He was engaged in overwhelming\nFrançoise with reproaches for not having told him of Mrs Renauld's change\nof sleeping quarters.\nI caught him by the shoulder, determined to attract his attention, and\nmake myself heard.\n'But you must have known,' I expostulated. 'You were taken up to see\nher this afternoon.'\nPoirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment.\n'She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room - her boudoir,' he\nexplained.\n'But, monsieur,' cried Françoise, 'Madame changed her room almost\nimmediately after the crime: the associations they were too distressing!'\n'Then why was I not told?' vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and\nworking himself into a first-class passion. 'I demand of you - why - was - I -\nnot - told? You are an old woman completely imbecile! And Léonie and\nDenise are no better. All of you are triple idiots! Your stupidity has nearly\ncaused the death of your mistress. But for this courageous child -'\nHe broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was\nbending over ministering to Mrs Renauld, he braced her with Gallic fervour\n- slightly to my annoyance. I was aroused from my condition of mental fog\nby a sharp command from Poirot to fetch the doctor immediately on Mrs\nRenauld's behalf. After that, I might summon the police.\nAnd he added to complete my dudgeon:\n'It will hardly be worth your while to return here. I shall be too busy to\nattend to you, and of Mademoiselle here I make a garde-malade.'\nI retired with what dignity I could command. Having done my errands, I\nreturned to the hotel. I understood next to nothing of what had occurred.\nThe events of the night seemed fantastic and impossible. Nobody would\nanswer my questions. Nobody had seemed to hear them. Angrily, I flung\nmyself into bed, and slept the sleep of the bewildered and utterly exhausted.\nI awoke to find the sun pouring in through the open windows and\nPoirot, neat and smiling, sitting beside the bed.\n\n\n'Enfin, you wake! But it is that you are a famous sleeper, Hastings! Do\nyou know that it is nearly eleven o'clock?'\nI groaned and put a hand to my head.\n'I must have been dreaming,' I said. 'Do you know, I actually dreamt that\nwe found Marthe Daubreuil's body in Mrs Renauld's room, and that you\ndeclared her to have murdered Mr Renauld?'\n'You were not dreaming. All that is quite true.'\n'But Bella Duveen killed Mr Renauld?'\n'Oh no, Hastings, she did not! She said she did - yes - but that was to\nsave the man she loved from the guillotine.'\n'What?'\n'Remember Jack Renauld's story. They both arrived on the scene on the\nsame instant and each took the other to be the perpetrator of the crime. The\ngirl stares at him in horror, and then with a cry rushes away. But when she\nhears that the crime has been brought home to him, she cannot bear it and\ncomes forward to accuse herself and save him from certain death.'\nPoirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers\ntogether in familiar style.\n'The case was not quite satisfactory to me,' he observed judicially. 'All\nalong I was strongly under the impression that we were dealing with a cold-\nblooded and premeditated crime committed by someone who had contented\nthemselves (very cleverly) with using Monsieur Renauld's own plans for\nthrowing the police off the track. The great criminal (as you may remember\nmy remarking to you once) is always supremely simple.'\nI nodded.\n'Now, to support this theory, the criminal must have been fully\ncognizant of Monsieur Renauld's plans. That leads us to Mrs Renauld. But\nfacts fail to support any theory of her guilt. Is there anyone else who might\nhave known of them? Yes. From Marthe Daubreuil's own lips we have the\nadmission that she overheard Mr Renauld's quarrel with the tramp. If she\ncould overhear that, there is no reason why she should not have heard\neverything else, especially if Mr and Madame Renauld were imprudent\nenough to discuss their plans sitting on the bench. Remember how easily\nyou overheard Marthe's conversation with Jack Renauld from that spot.'\n'But what possible motive could Marthe have for murdering Mr\nRenauld?' I argued.\n\n\n'What motive! Money! Renauld was a millionaire several times over,\nand at his death (or so she and Jack believed) half that vast fortune would\npass to his son. Let us reconstruct the scene from the standpoint of Marthe\nDaubreuil.\n'Marthe Daubreuil overhears what passes between Renauld and his wife.\nSo far he has been a nice little source of income to the Daubreuil mother\nand daughter, but now he proposes to escape from their toils. At first,\npossibly, her idea is to prevent that escape. But a bolder idea takes its place,\nand one that fails to horrify the daughter of Jeanne Beroldy! At present\nRenauld stands inexorably in the way of her marriage with Jack. If the latter\ndefies his father, he will be a pauper - which is not at all to the mind of\nMademoiselle Marthe. In fact, I doubt if she has ever cared a straw for Jack\nRenauld. She can simulate emotion but in reality she is of the same cold,\ncalculating type as her mother. I doubt, too, whether she was really very\nsure of her hold over the boy's affections. She had dazzled and captivated\nhim, but separated from her, as his father could so easily manage to separate\nhim, she might lose him. But with Renauld dead, and Jack the heir to half\nhis millions, the marriage can take place at once, and at a stroke she will\nattain wealth - not the beggarly thousands that have been extracted from\nhim so far. And her clever brain takes in the simplicity of the thing. It is all\nso easy. Renauld is planning all the circumstances of his death - she has\nonly to step in at the right moment and turn the farce into a grim reality.\nAnd here comes in the second point which led me infallibly to Marthe\nDaubreuil - the dagger: Jack Renauld had three souvenirs made. One he\ngave to his mother, one to Bella Duveen - was it not highly probable that he\nhad given the third one to Marthe Daubreuil?\n'So, then to sum up, there were four points of note against Marthe\nDaubreuil:\n'1 - Marthe Daubreuil could have overheard Renauld's plans.\n'2 - Marthe Daubreuil had a direct interest in causing Renauld's death.\n'3 - Marthe Daubreuil was the daughter of the notorious Madame\nBeroldy who in my opinion was morally and virtually the murderess of her\nhusband, although it may have been Georges Conneau's hand which struck\nthe actual blow.\n'4 - Marthe Daubreuil was the only person, besides Jack Renauld, likely\nto have the third dagger in her possession.'\nPoirot paused and cleared his throat.\n\n\n'Of course, when I learned of the existence of the other girl, Bella\nDuveen, I realized that it was quite possible that she might have killed\nRenauld. The solution did not commend itself to me, because, as I pointed\nout to you, Hastings, an expert, such as I am, likes to meet a foeman worthy\nof his steel. Still, one must take crimes as one finds them, not as one would\nlike them to be. It did not seem very likely that Bella Duveen would be\nwandering about carrying a souvenir paper-knife in her hand, but of course\nshe might have had some idea all the time of revenging herself on Jack\nRenauld. When she actually came forward and confessed to the murder, it\nseemed that all was over. And yet - I was not satisfied, mon ami! I was not\nsatisfied...\n'I went over the case again minutely, and I came to the same conclusion\nas before. If it was not Bella Duveen, the only other person who could have\ncommitted the crime was Marthe Daubreuil. But I had not one single proof\nagainst her!\n'And then you showed me that letter from Mademoiselle Dulcie, and I\nsaw a chance of settling the matter once and for all. The original dagger was\nstolen by Dulcie Duveen and thrown into the sea - since, as she thought, it\nbelonged to her sister. But if, by any chance, it was not her sister's, but the\none given by Jack to Marthe Daubreuil - why then, Bella Duveen's dagger\nwould be still intact! I said no word to you, Hastings (it was no time for\nromance), but I sought out Mademoiselle Dulcie, told her as much as I\ndeemed needful, and set her to search among the effects of her sister.\nImagine my elation, when she sought me out (according to my instructions)\nas Miss Robinson with the precious souvenir in her possession!\n'In the meantime I had taken steps to force Mademoiselle Marthe into\nthe open. By my orders, Madame Renauld repulsed her son, and declared\nher intention of making a will on the morrow which should cut him off from\never enjoying even a portion of his father's fortune. It was a desperate step,\nbut a necessary one, and Madame Renauld was fully prepared to take the\nrisk - though unfortunately she also never thought of mentioning her change\nof room, I suppose she took it for granted that I knew. All happened as I\nthought. Marthe Daubreuil made a last bold bid for the Renauld millions -\nand failed!'\n'What absolutely bewilders me,' I said, 'is how she ever got into the\nhouse without our seeing her. It seems an absolute miracle. We left her\n\n\nbehind at the Villa Marguerite, we go straight to the Villa Geneviève - and\nyet she is there before us!'\n'Ah, but we did not leave her behind. She was out of the Villa\nMarguerite by the back way while we were talking to her mother in the hall.\nThat is where, as the Americans say, she “put it over” on Hercule Poirot!'\n'But the shadow on the blind? We saw it from the road.'\n'Eh bien, when we looked up, Madame Daubreuil had just had time to\nrun upstairs and take her place.'\n'Madame Daubreuil?'\n'Yes. One is old, and one is young, one dark, and one fair, but, for the\npurpose of a silhouette on a blind, their profiles are singularly alike. Even I\ndid not suspect - triple imbecile that I was! I thought I had plenty of time\nbefore me - that she would not try to gain admission to the Villa until much\nlater. She had brains, that beautiful Mademoiselle.'\n'And her object was to murder Mrs Renauld?'\n'Yes. The whole fortune would then pass to her son. But it would have\nbeen suicide, mon ami! On the floor by Marthe Daubreuil's body, I found a\npad and a little bottle of chloroform and a hypodermic syringe containing a\nfatal dose of morphine. You understand? The chloroform first - then when\nthe victim is unconscious the prick of the needle. By the morning the smell\nof the chloroform has quite disappeared and the syringe lies where it has\nfallen from Madame Renauld's hand. What would he say, the excellent\nMonsieur Hautet? “Poor woman! What did I tell you? The shock of joy, it\nwas too much on top of the rest! Did I not say that I should not be surprised\nif her brain became unhinged. Altogether a most tragic case, the Renauld\nCase!”\n'However, Hastings, things did not go quite as Mademoiselle Marthe\nhad planned. To begin with, Madame Renauld was awake and waiting for\nher. There is a struggle. But Madame Renauld is terribly weak still. There is\na last chance for Marthe Daubreuil. The idea of suicide is at an end, but if\nshe can silence Madame Renauld with her strong hands, make a getaway\nwith her little silk ladder while we are still battering on the inside of the\nfarther door, and be back at the Villa Marguerite before we return there, it\nwill be hard to prove anything against her. But she was check-mated, not by\nHercule Poirot, but by la petite acrobate with her wrists of steel.'\nI mused over the whole story.\n\n\n'When did you first begin to suspect Marthe Daubreuil, Poirot? When\nshe told us she had overheard the quarrel in the garden?'\nPoirot smiled.\n'My friend, do you remember when we drove into Merlinville that first\nday? And the beautiful girl we saw standing at the gate? You asked me if I\nhad not noticed a young goddess, and I replied to you that I had seen only a\ngirl with anxious eyes. That is how I have thought of Marthe Daubreuil\nfrom the beginning. The girl with the anxious eyes! Why was she anxious?\nNot on Jack Renauld's behalf, for she did not know then that he had been in\nMerlinville the previous evening.'\n'By the way,' I exclaimed, 'how is Jack Renauld?'\n'Much better. He is still at the Villa Marguerite. But Madame Daubreuil\nhas disappeared. The police are looking for her.'\n'Was she in with her daughter, do you think?'\n'We shall never know. Madame is a lady who can keep her secrets. And\nI doubt very much if the police will ever find her.'\n'Has Jack Renauld been told?'\n'Not yet.'\n'It will be a terrible shock to him.'\n'Naturally. And yet, do you know, Hastings, I doubt if his heart was ever\nseriously engaged? So far we have looked upon Bella Duveen as a siren,\nand Marthe Daubreuil as the girl he really loved. But I think that if we\nreversed the terms we should come nearer to the truth. Marthe Daubreuil\nwas very beautiful. She set herself to fascinate Jack, and she succeeded, but\nremember his curious reluctance to break with the other girl. And see how\nhe was willing to go to the guillotine rather than implicate her. I have a little\nidea that when he learns the truth, he will be horrified - revolted, and his\nfalse love will wither away.'\n'What about Giraud?'\n'He has a crise of the nerves, that one! He has been obliged to return to\nParis.'\nWe both smiled.\nPoirot proved a fairly true prophet. When at length the doctor\npronounced Jack Renauld strong enough to hear the truth, it was Poirot who\nbroke it to him. The shock was indeed terrific. Yet Jack rallied better than I\ncould have supposed possible. His mother's devotion helped him to live\nthrough those difficult days. The mother and son were inseparable now.\n\n\nThere was a further revelation to come. Poirot had acquainted Mrs\nRenauld with the fact that he knew her secret, and had represented to her\nthat Jack should not be left in ignorance of his father's past.\n'To hide the truth, never does it avail, madame! Be brave and tell him\neverything.'\nWith a heavy heart Mrs Renauld consented, and her son learned that the\nfather he had loved had been in actual fact a fugitive from justice. A halting\nquestion was promptly answered by Poirot.\n'Reassure yourself, Monsieur Jack. The world knows nothing. As far as\nI can see, there is no obligation for me to take the police into my\nconfidence. Throughout the case I have acted, not for them, but for your\nfather. Justice overtook him at last, but no one need ever know that he and\nGeorges Conneau were one and the same.'\nThere were, of course, various points in the case that remained puzzling\nto the police, but Poirot explained things in so plausible a fashion that all\nquery about them was gradually stilled.\nShortly after we got back to London, I noticed a magnificent model of a\nfoxhound adorning Poirot's mantelpiece.\nIn answer to my inquiring glance, Poirot nodded.\n'Mais oui! I got my five hundred francs! Is he not a splendid fellow? I\ncall him Giraud!'\nA few days later Jack Renauld came to see us with a resolute expression\non his face.\n'Monsieur Poirot, I've come to say goodbye. I'm sailing for South\nAmerica almost immediately. My father had large interests over the\ncontinent, and I mean to start a new life out there.'\n'You go alone, Monsieur Jack?'\n'My mother comes with me - and I shall keep Stonor on as my secretary.\nHe likes out-of-the-way parts of the world.'\n'No one else goes with you?'\nJack flushed.\n'You mean?'\n'A girl who loves you very dearly - who has been willing to lay down\nher life for you.'\n'How could I ask her?' muttered the boy. 'After all that has happened,\ncould I go to her and - Oh, what sort of a lame story could I tell?'\n\n\n'Les femmes - they have a wonderful genius for manufacturing crutches\nfor stories like that.'\n'Yes, but - I've been such a damned fool.'\n'So have all of us, one time and another,' observed Poirot\nphilosophically.\nBut Jack's face had hardened.\n'There's something else. I'm my father's son. Would anyone marry me,\nknowing that?'\n'You are your father's son, you say. Hastings here will tell you that I\nbelieve in heredity -'\n'Well, then -'\n'Wait. I know a woman, a woman of courage and endurance, capable of\ngreat love, of supreme self-sacrifice -'\nThe boy looked up. His eyes softened.\n'My mother!'\n'Yes. You are your mother's son as well as your father's. Then go to\nMademoiselle Bella. Tell her everything. Keep nothing back - and see what\nshe will say!'\nJack looked irresolute.\n'Go to her as a boy no longer, but a man - a man bowed by the fate of\nthe Past, and the fate of Today, but looking forward to a new and wonderful\nlife. Ask her to share it with you. You may not realize it, but your love for\neach other has been tested in the fire and not found wanting. You have both\nbeen willing to lay down your lives for each other.'\nAnd what of Captain Arthur Hastings, humble chronicler of these\npages?\nThere is some talk of his joining the Renaulds on a ranch across the\nseas, but for the end of this story I prefer to go back to a morning in the\ngarden of the Villa Geneviève.\n'I can't call you Bella,' I said, 'since it isn't your name. And Dulcie seems\nso unfamiliar. So it's got to be Cinderella. Cinderella married the Prince,\nyou remember. I'm not a Prince, but -'\nShe interrupted me.\n'Cinderella warned him, I'm sure. You see, she couldn't promise to turn\ninto a princess. She was only a little scullion after all -'\n'It's the Prince's turn to interrupt,' I interpolated. 'Do you know what he\nsaid?'\n\n\n'No?'\n'“Hell!” said the Prince - and kissed her.'\nAnd I suited the action to the word.","difficulty":"easy","domain":"Single-Document QA","length":"medium","question":"In Agatha Christie's \"The Murder on the Links,\" which statement is true?","sub_domain":"Literary"}

Source: https://huggingface.co/datasets/zai-org/LongBench-v2

initial import

Posting: /agents

GET /api/v1/write?intent=publish&task_id=1b19248d-652a-585b-a546-08303ba07f09&body={url_encoded_text}&agent_name={optional_name}&nonce={optional_random_id}