LongBench v2 / 66ec3aff821e116aacb1c52e / In Agatha Christie's "The Murder on the Links," which statement is true?

Murder on the Links

Chapter 1
A FELLOW-TRAVELLER
I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young
writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and
original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors,
penned the following sentence:
'“Hell!” said the Duchess.'
Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion.
Only the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a duchess.
It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris
and was returning by the morning service to London, where I was still
sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.
The Calais express was singularly empty - in fact, my own compartment
held only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure
from the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all
my traps, when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my
companion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her existence.
Jumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck her head out,
withdrawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible ejaculation 'Hell!'
Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I
have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning
till night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a
Billingsgate fishwoman blush!
I looked up, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face, surmounted
by a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls hid each ear. I judged
that she was little more than seventeen, but her face was covered with
powder, and her lips were quite impossibly scarlet.
Nothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive
grimace.
'Dear me, we've shocked the kind gentleman!' she observed to an
imaginary audience. 'I apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and all
that, but, oh, Lord, there's reason enough for it! Do you know I've lost my
only sister?'
'Really?' I said politely. 'How unfortunate.'
'He disapproves.' remarked the lady. 'He disapproves utterly - of me, and
my sister - which last is unfair, because he hasn't seen her!'


I opened my mouth, but she forestalled me.
'Say no more! Nobody loves me! I shall go into the garden and eat
worms! Boohoo. I am crushed!'
She buried herself behind a large comic French paper. In a minute or
two, I saw her eyes stealthily peeping at me over the top. In spite of myself
I could not help smiling, and in a minute she had tossed the paper aside, and
had burst into a merry peal of laughter.
'I knew you weren't such a mutt as you looked,' she cried.
Her laughter was so infectious that I could not help joining in, though I
hardly cared for the word 'mutt'.
'There! Now we're friends!' declared the minx. 'Say you're sorry about
my sister -'
'I am desolated!'
'That's a good boy!'
'Let me finish. I was going to add that, although I am desolated, I can
manage to put up with her absence very well.' I made a little bow.
But this most unaccountable of damsels frowned and shook her head.
'Cut it out. I prefer the “dignified disapproval” stunt. Oh, your face!
“Not one of us”, it said. And you were right there - though, mind you, it's
pretty hard to tell nowadays. It's not everyone who can distinguish between
a 'demi' and a duchess. There now, I believe I've shocked you again! You've
been dug out of the backwoods, you have. Not that I mind that. We could do
with a few more of your sort. I just hate a fellow who gets fresh. It makes
me mad.'
She shook her head vigorously.
'What are you like when you're mad?' I inquired with a smile.
'A regular little devil! Don't care what I say, or what I do, either! I
nearly did a chap in once. Yes, really. He'd have deserved it, too.'
'Well,' I begged, 'don't get mad with me.'
'I shan't. I like you - did the first moment I set eyes on you. But you
looked so disapproving that I never thought we should make friends.'
'Well, we have. Tell me something about yourself.'
'I'm an actress. No - not the kind you're thinking of. I've been on the
boards since I was a kid of six - tumbling.'
'I beg your pardon,' I said, puzzled.
'Haven't you ever seen child acrobats?'
'Oh, I understand!'


'I'm American born, but I've spent most of my life in England. We've
got a new show now -'
'We?'
'My sister and I. Sort of song and dance, and a bit of patter, and a dash
of the old business thrown in. It's quite a new idea, and it hits them every
time. There's going to be money in it...'
My new acquaintance leaned forward, and discoursed volubly, a great
many of her terms being quite unintelligible to me. Yet I found myself
evincing an increasing interest in her. She seemed such a curious mixture of
child and woman. Though perfectly wordly-wise, and able, as she expressed
it, to take care of herself, there was yet something curiously ingenuous in
her single-minded attitude towards life, and her whole-hearted
determination to 'make good'.
We passed through Amiens. The name awakened many memories. My
companion seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of what was in my mind.
'Thinking of the War?'
I nodded.
'You were through it, I suppose?'
'Pretty well. I was wounded once, and after that they invalided me out
altogether. I'm a sort of private secretary now to an MP.'
'My! That's brainy!'
'No, it isn't. There's really awfully little to do. Usually a couple of hours
every day sees me through. It's dull work too. In fact, I don't know what I
should do if I hadn't got something to fall back upon.'
'Don't say you collect bugs!'
'No. I share rooms with a very interesting man. He's a Belgian - an ex-
detective. He's set up as a private detective in London, and he's doing
extraordinarily well. He's really a very marvellous little man. Time and
again he has proved to be right where the official police have failed.'
My companion listened with widening eyes.
'Isn't that interesting, now? I just adore crime. I go to all the mysteries
on the movies. And when there's a murder on I just devour the papers.'
'Do you remember the Styles Case?' I asked.
'Let me see, was that the old lady who was poisoned? Somewhere down
in Essex?'
I nodded.


'That was Poirot's first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him the murderer
would have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of detective
work.'
Warming to my subject, I ran over the heads of the affair, working up to
the triumphant and unexpected denouement.
The girl listened spellbound. In fact, we were so absorbed that the train
drew into Calais station before we realized it.
I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform.
My companion held out her hand.
'Goodbye, and I'll mind my language better in future.'
'Oh, but surely you'll let me look after you on the boat?'
'Mayn't be on the boat. I've got to see whether that sister of mine got
aboard after all anywhere. But thanks, all the same.'
'Oh, but we're going to meet again, surely? Aren't you even going to tell
me your name.' I cried as she turned away.
She looked over her shoulder.
'Cinderella,' she said, and laughed.
But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again!


Murder on the Links




Chapter 2
AN APPEAL FOR HELP
It was five minutes past nine when I entered our joint sitting-room for
breakfast on the following morning. My friend Poirot, exact to the minute
as usual, was just tapping the shell of his second egg.
He beamed upon me as I entered.
'You have slept well, yes? You have recovered from the crossing so
terrible? It is a marvel, almost you are exact this morning. Pardon, but your
tie is not symmetrical. Permit that I rearrange him.'
Elsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little
man! Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one
side, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache,
air of dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For
neatness of any kind he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set
crookedly, or a speck of dust, or a slight disarray in one's attire, was torture
to the little man until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter.
'Order' and 'Method' were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible
evidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that
taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a
problem. Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency,
and remark with great satisfaction:
'The true work, it is done from within. The little grey cells - remember
always the little grey cells, mon ami!'
I slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirot's greeting,
that an hour's sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be dignified by
the epitet 'terrible'.
'Anything interesting come by the post?' I asked.
Poirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air.
'I have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives
nowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist.'
He shook his head despondently, and I roared with laughter.
'Cheer up, Poirot, the luck will change. Open your letters. For all you
know, there may be a great case looming on the horizon.'
Poirot smiled, and taking up the neat little letter opener with which he
opened his correspondence he slit the tops of the several envelopes that lay
by his plate.


'A bill. Another bill. It is that I grow extravagant in my old age. Aha! a
note from Japp.'
'Yes?' I pricked up my ears. The Scotland Yard Inspector had more than
once introduced us to an interesting case.
'He merely thanks me (in his fashion) for a little point in the
Aberystwyth Case on which I was able to set him right. I am delighted to
have been of service to him.'
Poirot continued to read his correspondence placidly.
'A suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local Boy Scouts. The
Countess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another
lap-dog without doubt! And now for the last. Ah -'
I looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading
attentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me.
'This is out of the ordinary, mon ami. Read for yourself.'
The letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic
hand:
'Villa Geneviève
Merlinville-sur-Mer
France
Dear Sir,
I am in need of the services of a detective and for reasons which I will
give you here, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard of you
from several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only a
man of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be discreet. I do not
wish to trust details to the post, but, on account of a secret I possess, I go in
daily fear of my life. I am convinced that the danger is imminent, and
therefore I beg that you will lose no time in crossing to France. I will send a
car to meet you at Calais, if you will wire me when you are arriving. I shall
be obliged if you will drop all cases you have on hand, and devote yourself
solely to my interests. I am prepared to pay any compensation necessary. I
shall probably need your services for a considerable period of time, as it
may be necessary for you to go out to Santiago where I spent several years
of my life. I shall be content for you to name your own fee.
Assuring you once more that the matter is urgent.
Yours faithfully,
P.T. Renauld'
Below the signature was a hastily scrawled line, almost illegible:


'For God's sake, come!'
I handed the letter back with quickened pulses.
'At last!' I said. 'Here is something distinctly out of the ordinary.'
'Yes, indeed,' said Poirot meditatively.
'You will go of course,' I continued.
Poirot nodded. He was thinking deeply. Finally he seemed to make up
his mind, and glanced up at the clock. His face was very grave.
'See you, my friend, there is no time to lose. The Continental express
leaves Victoria at 11 o'clock. Do not agitate yourself. There is plenty of
time. We can allow ten minutes for discussion. You accompany me, n'est-ce
pas?'
'Well...'
'You told me yourself that your employer needed you not for the next
few weeks.'
'Oh, that's all right. But this Mr Renauld hints strongly that his business
is private.'
'Ta-ta-ta - I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, you seem to know the
name?'
'There's a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His name's
Renauld. I don't know whether it could be the same.'
'But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is
in Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah, but we progress finely! You
remarked the postscript? How did it strike you?'
I considered.
'Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end
his self-control snapped and on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled
those four desperate words.'
But my friend shook his head energetically.
'You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is nearly
black, that of the postscript is quite pale?'
'Well?' I said, puzzled.
'Mon Dieu, mon ami, but use your little grey cells! Is it not obvious? M.
Renauld wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he re-read it carefully. Then,
not on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last words, and blotted the
sheet.'
'But why?'


'Parbleu! so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has upon
you.'
'What?'
'Mais oui - to make sure of my coming! He re-read the letter and was
dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!'
He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light
that always betokened inward excitement:
'And so, mon ami, since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but
soberly, in cold blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as
soon as possible.'
'Merlinville,' I murmured thoughtfully. 'I've heard of it, I think.'
Poirot nodded.
'It is a quiet little place - but chic! It lies about midway between
Boulogne and Calais. Mr Renauld has a house in England, I suppose?'
'Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the
country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about
him, he doesn't do much in a social way. I believe he has large South
American interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile
and the Argentine.'
'Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack.
A small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.'
Eleven o'clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover.
Before starting Poirot had dispatched a telegram to Mr Renauld giving the
time of our arrival at Calais.
On the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend's solitude. The
weather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond so
I was hardly surprised when a smiling Poirot joined me on disembarking at
Calais. A disappointment was in store for us, as no car had been sent to
meet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram having been delayed in
transit.
'We will hire a car,' he said cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us
creaking and jolting along, in the most ram-shackle of automobiles that ever
plied for hire, in the direction of Merlinville.
My spirits were at their highest, but my little friend was observing me
gravely.
'You are what the Scotch people call “fey”, Hastings. It presages
disaster.'


'Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.'
'No, but I am afraid.'
'Afraid of what?'
'I do not know. But I have a premonition - a je ne sai quoi!'
He spoke so gravely that I was impressed in spite of myself.
'I have a feeling,' he said slowly, 'that this is going to be a big affair - a
long, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work out.'
I would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the
little town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the Villa
Geneviève.
'Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève is about
half a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big Villa, over-looking the
sea.'
We thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A
fork in the road brought us to a second halt.
A peasant was trudging towards us, and we waited for him to come up
to us in order to ask the way again. There was a tiny Villa standing right by
the road, but it was too small and dilapidated to be the one we wanted. As
we waited, the gate of it swung open and a girl came out.
The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his
seat and asked for direction.
'The Villa Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right,
monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.'
The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were
fascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate, watching
us. I am an admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody could have
passed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a young goddess,
her uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I swore to myself that
she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. As we swung up the
rough road, I turned my head to look after her.
'By jove, Poirot,' I exclaimed, 'did you see that young goddess?'
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
'Ça commence?' he murmured. 'Already you have seen a goddess!'
'But, hang it all, wasn't she?'
'Possibly, I did not remark the fact.'
'Surely you noticed her?'


'Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a
goddess. I -' He hesitated.
'Yes?'
'I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,' said Poirot gravely.
But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously,
we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing sergent de
ville. He held up his hand to bar our way.
'You cannot pass, messieurs.'
'But we wish to see Mr Renauld,' I cried. 'We have an appointment. This
is his Villa, isn't it?'
'Yes, monsieur, but -'
Poirot leaned forward.
'But what?'
'Monsieur Renauld was murdered this morning.'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 3
AT THE VILLA GENEVIÈVE
In a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with
excitement.
'What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?'
The sergent de ville drew himself up.
'I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.'
'True. I comprehend.' Poirot reflected for a minute. 'The Commissary of
Police, he is without doubt within?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.
'Voilà! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the
commissary at once?'
The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a
few seconds a comrade joined him, and was handed Poirot's message. There
was a wait of some minutes, and then a short, stout man with a huge
moustache came bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and
stood aside.
'My dear Monsieur Poirot,' cried the newcomer, 'I am delighted to see
you. Your arrival is most opportune.'
Poirot's face had lighted up.
'Monsieur Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.' He turned to me. 'This is an
English friend of mine, Captain Hastings - Monsieur Lucien Bex.'
The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex
turned once more to Poirot.
'Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. You
have information to give which may assist us?'
'Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent for?'
'No. By whom?'
'The dead man. It seems that he knew an attempt was going to be made
on his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.'
'Sacré tonnerre,' ejaculated the Frenchman. 'So he foresaw his own
murder. That upsets our theories considerably! But come inside.'
He held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house.
M. Bex continued to talk:


'The examining magistrate, Monsieur Hautet, must hear of this at once.
He has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin
his interrogations.'
'When was the crime committed?' asked Poirot.
'The body was discovered this morning about nine o'clock. Madame
Renauld's evidence and that of the doctors goes to show that death must
have occurred about 2 a.m. But enter, I pray of you.'
We had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the Villa.
In the hall another sergent de ville was sitting. He rose at sight of the
commissary.
'Where is Monsieur Hautet now?' inquired the latter.
'In the hall, monsieur.'
M. Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M.
Hautet and his clerk were sitting at a big round table. They looked up as we
entered. The commissary introduced us, and explained our presence.
M. Hautet, the Juge d'Instruction, was a tall gaunt man, with piercing
dark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of caressing as
he talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man, with slightly
stooping shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr Durand.
'Most extraordinary,' remarked M. Hautet as the commissary finished
speaking. 'You have the letter here, monsieur?'
Poirot handed it to him, and the magistrate read it.
'H'm! He speaks of a secret. What a pity he was not more explicit. We
are much indebted to you, Monsieur Poirot. I hope you will do us the
honour of assisting us in our investigations. Or are you obliged to return to
London?'
'Monsieur le juge, I propose to remain. I did not arrive in time to
prevent my client's death, but I feel myself bound in honour to discover the
assassin.'
The magistrate bowed.
'These sentiments do you honour. Also, without doubt, Madame
Renauld will wish to retain your services. We are expecting M. Giraud from
the Sûreté in Paris any moment, and I am sure that you and he will be able
to give each other mutual assistance in your investigations. In the
meantime, I hope that you will do me the honour to be present at my
interrogations, and I need hardly say that if there is any assistance you
require it is at your disposal.'


'I thank you, monsieur. You will comprehend that at present I am
completely in the dark. I know nothing whatever.'
M. Hautet nodded to the commissary, and the latter took up the tale:
'This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her
work, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to burglars,
she looked into the dining-room, but seeing the silver was safe she thought
no more about it, concluding that her master had, without doubt, risen early,
and gone for a stroll.'
'Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of
his?'
'No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the
English - that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable things
at any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a young maid, Léonie,
was horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and almost at the same
moment news was brought that Monsieur Renauld's body had been
discovered, stone-dead, stabbed in the back.'
'Where?'
'That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. Monsieur
Poirot, the body was lying face downwards, on an open grave.'
'What?'
'Yes. The pit was freshly dug - just a few yards outside the boundary of
the Villa.'
'And it had been dead how long?'
Dr Durand answered.
'I examined the body this morning at ten o'clock. Death must have taken
place at least seven and possibly ten hours previously.'
'H'm! that fixes it at between midnight and 3 am.'
'Exactly, and Mrs Renauld's evidence places it at after 2 am, which
narrows the field still farther. Death must have been instantaneous, and
naturally could not have been self-inflicted.'
Poirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:
'Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by
the horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost
unconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men
entered the bed-room, gagged and bound her, while forcibly abducting her
husband. This we know at second hand from the servants. On hearing the
tragic news she fell at once into an alarming state of agitation. On arrival,


Dr Durand immediately prescribed a sedative, and we have not yet been
able to question her. But without doubt she will awake more calm, and be
equal to bearing the strain of the interrogation.'
The commissary paused.
'And the inmates of the home, monsieur?'
'There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with
the former owners of the Villa Geneviève. Then there are two young girls,
sisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville, and they
come of most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom
Monsieur Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is away on
a holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, Monsieur Jack
Renauld. He, too, is away from home at present.'
Poirot bowed his head. M. Hautet spoke:
'Marchaud!'
The sergent de ville appeared.
'Bring in the woman Françoise.'
The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two he returned,
escorting the frightened Françoise.
'Your name is Françoise Arrichet?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?'
'Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the
Villa this spring, I consented to remain on with the English tailor. Never did
I imagine -'
The magistrate cut her short.
'Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the
front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?'
'Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.'
'And last night?'
'I fastened it as usual.'
'You are sure of that?'
'I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.'
'What time would that be?'
'The same time as usual, half past ten, monsieur.'
'What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?'
'Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with
me. Monsieur was still in his study.'


'Then, if anyone unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been
Monsieur Renauld himself.'
Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.
'What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every
minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he
had had to let the lady out -'
The magistrate interrupted sharply:
'The lady? What lady do you mean?'
'Why, the lady who came to see him.'
'Had a lady been to see him that evening?'
'But yes monsieur - and many other evenings as well.'
'Who was she? Did you know her?'
A rather cunning look spread over the woman's face.
'How should I know who it was?' she grumbled. 'I did not let her in last
night.'
'Aha!' roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a
bang on the table. 'You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand
that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit
Monsieur Renauld in the evenings.'
'The police - the police,' grumbled Françoise. 'Never did I think that I
should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was.
It was Madame Daubreuil -'
The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though
in utter astonishment.
'Madame Daubreuil - from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?'
'That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one.'
The old woman tossed her head scornfully.
'Madame Daubreuil,' murmured the commissary. 'Impossible.'
'Voilà,' grumbled Françoise. 'That is all you get for telling the truth.'
'Not at all,' said the examining magistrate soothingly. 'We were
surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they
were - ?' He paused delicately. 'Eh? It was that without doubt?'
'How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was milord
anglais - très riche - and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one - and
très chic, for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it,
she has had her history! She is no longer young, but ma foi! I who speak to
you have seen the men's heads turn after her as she goes down the street.


Besides lately, she has had more money to spend - all the town knows it.
The little economies, they are at an end.' And Françoise shook her head
with an air of unalterable certainty.
M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.
'And Madame Renauld?' he asked at length. 'How did she take this -
friendship?'
Françoise shrugged her shoulders.
'She was always most amiable - most polite. One would say that she
suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur?
Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not
the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has
changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the
brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair
conducted in such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. Style anglais -
without doubt!'
I bounded indignantly in my seat but the examining magistrate was
continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.
'You say that Monsieur Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out?
Had she left, then?'
'Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door.
Monsieur said good-night and shut the door after her.'
'What time was that?'
'About twenty-five minutes after midnight, monsieur.'
'Do you know when Monsieur Renauld went to bed?'
'I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so
that one hears everyone who goes up and down.'
'And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?'
'Nothing whatever, monsieur.'
'Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?'
'I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.'
'What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?'
'Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place
anywhere.'
'Good. Françoise, you can go.'
The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked
back.


'I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad
one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember
that.' And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.
'Léonie Oulard,' called the magistrate.
Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M.
Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the
discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an
exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the
night.
Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had
changed greatly of late.
'Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was
always depressed.' But Denise had her own theory. 'Without doubt it was
the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men - who else could it be? A
terrible society that!'
'It of course, possible,' said the magistrate smoothly. 'Now, my girl, was
it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last night?'
'Not last night, monsieur, the night before.'
'But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last
night?'
'No, monsieur. A lady did come to see Monsieur Renauld last night, but
it was not Madame Daubreuil.'
Surprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew
Madame Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but shorter,
and much younger. Nothing could shake her statement.
'Had you ever seen this lady before?'
'Never, monsieur.' And then the girl added diffidently: 'But I think she
was English.'
'English?'
'Yes, monsieur. She asked for Monsieur Renauld in quite good French,
but the accent - however slight - one can always tell it. Besides, when they
came out of the study they were speaking in English.'
'Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?'
'I speak the English very well,' said Denise with pride. 'The lady was
speaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I heard Monsieur's last
words as he opened the door for her.' She paused, and then repeated
carefully and laboriously: '“Yeas - yeas - but for Gaud's saike go nouw!”'


'Yes, yes, but for God's sake go now!' repeated the magistrate. He
dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled
Françoise. To her he put the question as to whether she had not made a
mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil's visit. Françoise,
however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame
Daubreuil had been. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make
herself interesting, voilà tout! So she had cooked up this fine tale about a
strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English, too! Probably Monsieur had
never spoken that sentence in English at all, and, even if he had, it proved
nothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used
that language when talking to Monsieur and Madame Renauld. 'You see,
Monsieur Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the
French very badly.'
The magistrate did not insist. Instead, he inquired about the chauffeur,
and learned that only yesterday Monsieur Renauld had declared that he was
not likely to use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a holiday.
A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot's eyes.
'What is it?' I whispered.
He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:
'Pardon, Monsieur Bex, but without doubt Monsieur Renauld could
drive the car himself?'
The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied
promptly:
'No, Monsieur did not drive himself.'
Poirot's frown deepened.
'I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,' I said impatiently.
'See you not? In his letter Monsieur Renauld speaks of sending the car
for me to Calais.'
'Perhaps he meant a hired car,' I suggested.
'Doubtless, that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your
own? Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday -
suddenly, at a moment's notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him
out of the way before we arrived?'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 4
THE LETTER SIGNED 'BELLA'
Françoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully
on the table.
'Monsieur Bex,' he said at length, 'here we have directly conflicting
testimony. Which are we to believe, Françoise or Denise?'
'Denise,' said the commissary decidedly. 'It was she who let the visitor
in. Françoise is old and obstinate and has evidently taken a dislike to
Madame Daubreuil. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that
Renauld was entangled with another woman.'
'Tiens!' cried M. Hautet. 'We have forgotten to inform Monsieur Poirot
of that.' He searched among the papers on the table, and finally handed the
one he was in search of to my friend. 'This letter, Monsieur Poirot, we
found in the pocket of the dead man's overcoat.'
Poirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumpled, and
was written in English in a rather unformed hand:
My Dear,
Why have you not written for so long? You do love me still, don't you?
Your letters lately have been so different, cold, and strange, and now this
long silence. It makes me afraid. If you were to stop loving me! But that's
impossible - what a silly kid I am - always imagining things! But if you did
stop loving me, I don't know what I should do - kill myself perhaps! I
couldn't live without you. Sometimes I fancy another woman is coming
between us. Let her look out, that's all - and you too! I'd as soon kill you as
let her have you! I mean it.
But there, I'm writing high-flown nonsense. You love me, and I love
you - yes, love you, love you, love you!
Your own adoring,
Bella.
There was no address or date. Poirot handed it back with a grave face.
'And the assumption is - ?'
The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
'Obviously Monsieur Renauld was entangled with this Englishwoman -
Bella! He comes over here, meets Madame Daubreuil, and starts an intrigue
with her. He cools off to the other, and she instantly suspects something.
This letter contains a distinct threat. Monsieur Poirot, at first sight the case


seemed simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that Monsieur Renauld was
stabbed in the back seemed to point distinctly to its being a woman's crime.'
Poirot nodded.
'The stab in the back, yes - but not the grave! That was laborious work,
hard work - no woman dug that grave, Monsieur. That was a man's doing.'
The commissary exclaimed excitedly:
'Yes, yes, you are right. We did not think of that.'
'As I said,' continued M. Hautet, 'at first sight the case seemed simple,
but the masked men, and the letter you received from Monsieur Renauld,
complicate matters. Here we seem to have an entirely different set of
circumstances with no relationship between the two. As regards the letter
written to yourself, do you think it is possible that it referred in any way to
this “Bella” and her threats?'
Poirot shook his head.
'Hardly. A man like Monsieur Renauld, who has led an adventurous life
in out-of-the-way places, would not be likely to ask for protection against a
woman.'
The examining magistrate nodded his head emphatically.
'My view exactly. Then we must look for the explanation of the letter -'
'In Santiago,' finished the commissary. 'I shall cable without delay to the
police in that city, requesting full details of the murdered man's life out
there, his love affairs, his business transactions, his friendships, and any
enmities he may have incurred. It will be strange if, after that, we do not
hold a clue to his mysterious murder.'
The commissary looked round for approval.
'Excellent!' said Poirot appreciatively.
'You have found no other letters from Mrs Bella among Monsieur
Renauld's effects?' asked Poirot.
'No. Of course one of our first proceedings was to search through his
private papers in the study. We found nothing of interest, however. All
seemed square and aboveboard. The only thing at all out of the ordinary
was his will. Here it is.'
Poirot ran through the document.
'So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr Stonor - who is he, by the
way?'
'Monsieur Renauld's secretary. He remained in England, but was over
here once or twice for a weekend.'


'And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise.
Simply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants,
Denise and Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.' He handed it
back.
'Perhaps,' began Bex, 'you did not notice -'
'The date?' twinkled Poirot. 'But, yes, I noticed it. A fortnight ago.
Possibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men die intestate
through never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it is
dangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his
having a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous
intrigues.'
'Yes,' said M. Hautet doubtfully. 'But it is possibly a little unfair on his
son, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother. If she were to
marry again, and her second husband obtained an ascendancy over her, this
boy might never touch a penny of his father's money.'
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'Man is a vain animal. Monsieur Renauld figured to himself, without
doubt, that his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have
been a wise precaution to leave the money in his mother's hands. The sons
of rich men are proverbially wild.'
'It may be as you say. Now, Monsieur Poirot, you would without doubt
like to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been
removed, but of course photographs have been taken from every
conceivable angle, and will be at your disposal as soon as they are
available.'
'I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.'
The commissary rose.
'Come with me, messieurs.'
He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him.
Poirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.
'Monsieur.'
'Monsieur.'
At last they got out into the hall.
'That room there, it is the study, hein?' asked Poirot suddenly, nodding
towards the door opposite.
'Yes. You would like to see it?' He threw open the door as he spoke, and
we entered.


The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was
small, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A business-like writing-
desk, with many pigeon-holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-
covered arm-chairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table
covered with the latest books and magazines.
Poirot stood a moment taking in the room, then he stepped forward,
passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a
magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the
oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.
'No dust?' I asked, with a smile.
He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.
'Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.'
His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.
'Ah!' he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. 'The hearth-rug
is crooked,' and he bent down to straighten it.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a
small fragment of pink paper.
'In France, as in England,' he remarked, 'the domestics omit to sweep
under the mats?'
Bex took the fragment from him, and I came close to examine it.
'You recognize it - eh, Hastings?'
I shook my head, puzzled - and yet that particular shade of pink paper
was very familiar.
The commissary's mental processes were quicker than mine.
'A fragment of a cheque,' he exclaimed.
The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was
written in ink the word 'Duveen'.
'Bien,' said Bex. 'This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, someone
named Duveen.'
'The former, I fancy,' said Poirot. 'For, if I am not mistaken, the
handwriting is that of Monsieur Renauld.'
That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from
the desk.
'Dear me,' murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, 'I really
cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.'
Poirot laughed.


'The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings
here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As
soon as I saw that the hearth-rug was out of the straight, I said to myself:
“Tiens! The legs of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly there
may be something beneath it which the good Françoise overlooked.”'
'Françoise?'
'Or Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust,
the room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like
this. Yesterday, possibly last night, Monsieur Renauld drew a cheque to the
order of someone named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered
on the floor. This morning -'
But M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell. Françoise
answered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What
had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What
else? With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face
lightening, he ran to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead
man's cheque book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last
counterfoil was blank.
'Courage!' cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. 'Without doubt,
Madame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person
named Duveen.'
The commissary's face cleared. 'That is true. Let us proceed.'
As we turned to leave the room, Poirot remarked casually:
'It was here that Monsieur Renauld received his guest last night, eh?'
'It was - but how did you know?'
'By this. I found it on the back of the leather chair.' And he held up
between his finger and thumb a long black hair - a woman's hair!
M. Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small
shed leaning against the house. He produced a key from his pocket and
unlocked it.
'The body is here. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before
you arrived, as the photographers had done their job.'
He opened the door and we passed. The murdered man lay on the
ground, with a sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the
covering. Renauld was a man of medium height, slender, and lithe figure.
He looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully
streaked with grey. He was clean shaven, with a long thin nose, and eyes set


rather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who
had spent most of his life beneath tropical skies. His lips were drawn back
from his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was
stamped on the livid features.
'One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the back,' remarked
Poirot.
Very gently, he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder-
blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the
middle of it there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.
'Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?'
'It was left in the wound.' The commissary reached down a large glass
jar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper-knife than
anything else. It had a black handle and a narrow shining blade. The whole
thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured point
gingerly with his finger-tip.
'Ma foi! It is sharp! A nice easy little tool for murder.'
'Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,' remarked
Bex regretfully. 'The murderer must have worn gloves.'
'Of course he did,' said Poirot contemptuously. 'Even in Santiago they
know enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English knows it - thanks
to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the
same, it interests me very much that there were no fingerprints. It is so
amazingly simple to leave the fingerprints of someone else! And then the
police are happy.' He shook his head. 'I very much fear our criminal is not a
man of method - either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.'
He let the body fall back into its original position.
'He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,' he remarked.
'Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious point.'
At this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after
him. He strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She
endeavoured to peep in with ghoulish curiosity.
'Well, what is it?' demanded Box impatiently.
'Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered and is quite
ready to receive the examining magistrate.'
'Good,' said M. Bex briskly. 'Tell Monsieur Hautet and say that we will
come at once.'


Poirot fingered a moment looking back towards the body. I thought for a
moment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his
determination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But when he
spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously
inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.
'He wore his overcoat very long,' he said constrainedly.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 5
MRS RENAULD'S STORY
We found M. Hautet awaiting us in the hall, and we all proceeded
upstairs together, Françoise marching ahead to show us the way. Poirot
went up in a zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a
grimace:
'No wonder the servants heard M. Renauld mounting the stairs, not a
board of them but creaks fit to awake the dead!'
At the head of the staircase, a small passage branched off.
'The servants' quarters,' explained Bex.
We continued along a corridor, and Françoise tapped on the last door to
the right of it.
A faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large, sunny apartment
looking out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a
quarter of a mile distant.
On a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr Durand, lay
a tall, striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark
hair was now almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality, and strength
of her personality would have made itself felt anywhere. You knew at once
that you were in the presence of what the French call une maîtresse femme.
She greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head. 'Pray be seated,
messieurs.'
We took chairs, and the magistrate's clerk established himself at a round
table.
'I hope, madame,' began M. Hautet, 'that it will not distress you unduly
to relate to us what occurred last night?'
'Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if the scoundrelly
assassins are to be caught and punished.'
'Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you
questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did
you go to bed last night?'
'At half past nine monsieur. I was tired.'
'And your husband?'
'About an hour later, I fancy.'
'Did he seem disturbed - upset in any way?'
'No, not more than usual.'


'What happened then?'
'We slept. I was awakened by a hand being pressed over my mouth. I
tried to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the
room. They were both masked.'
'Can you describe them at all, madame?'
'One was very tall, and had a long black beard, the other was short and
stout. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their
eyes.'
'H'm!' said the magistrate thoughtfully. 'Too much beard, I fear.'
'You mean they were false?'
'Yes, madame. But continue your story.'
'It was the short man who was holding me. He forced a gag into my
mouth, and then bound me with rope hand and foot. The other man was
standing over my husband. He had caught up my little dagger paper-knife
from the dressing-table and was holding it with the point just over his heart.
When the short man had finished with me he joined the other and they
forced my husband to get up and accompany them into the dressing-room
next door. I was nearly fainting with terror, nevertheless I listened
desperately.
'They were speaking in too low a tone for me to hear what they said.
But I recognized the language, a bastard Spanish such as is spoken in some
parts of South America. They seemed to be demanding something from my
husband, and presently they grew angry and their voices rose a little. I think
the tall man was speaking. “You know what we want?” he said. “The secret!
Where is it?” I do not know what my husband answered, but the other
replied fiercely: “You lie! We know you have it. Where are your keys?”
'Then I heard sounds of drawers being pulled out. There is a safe on the
wall of my husband's dressing-room in which he always keeps a fairly large
amount of ready money. Léonie tells me this has been rifled and the money
taken, but evidently what they were looking for was not there, for presently
I heard the tall man, with an oath, command my husband to dress himself.
Soon after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them,
for they hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed.'
'Pardon,' interrupted Poirot, 'but is there then no other egress from the
dressing-room?'
'No, monsieur there is only the communicating door into my room.
They hurried my husband through, the short man in front and the tall man


behind him with the dagger still in his hand. Paul tried to break away to
come to me. I saw his agonized eyes. He turned to his captors. “I must
speak to her,” he said. Then, coming to the side of the bed, “It is all right,
Eloise,” he said. “Do not be afraid. I shall return before morning.” But,
although he tried to make his voice confident, I could see the terror in his
eyes. Then they hustled him out of the door the tall man saying: “One sound
- and you are a dead man, remember.”
'After that,' continued Mrs Renauld, 'I must have fainted. The next thing
I recollect is Léonie rubbing my wrists and giving me brandy.'
'Madame Renauld,' said the magistrate, 'had you any idea what it was
for which the assassins were searching?'
'None whatever, monsieur.'
'Had you any knowledge that your husband feared something?'
'Yes. I had seen the change in him.'
'How long ago was that?'
Mrs Renauld reflected.
'Ten days, perhaps.'
'Not longer?'
'Possibly. I only noticed it then.'
'Did you question your husband at all as to the cause?'
'Once. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he
was suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to
conceal the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing.'
'Were you aware that he had called in the services of a detective?'
'A detective?' exclaimed Mrs Renauld, very much surprised.
'Yes, this gentleman - Monsieur Hercule Poirot.' Poirot bowed. 'He
arrived today in response to a summons from your husband.' And taking the
letter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady.
She read it with apparently genuine astonishment.
'I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the danger.'
'Now, madame I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any
incident in your husband's past life in South America which might throw
light on his murder?'
Mm. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head.
'I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people
he had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one


distinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident - only that I am not
aware of it.'
The examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately. 'And you
can fix the time of this outrage?'
'Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike
two.' She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case
which stood in the centre of the chimney-piece.
Poirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded,
satisfied.
'And here too,' exclaimed M. Bex, 'is a wristwatch, knocked off the
dressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms. Little
did they know it would testify against them.'
Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass.
Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction.
'Mon Dieu!' he ejaculated.
'What is it?'
'The hands of the watch point to seven o'clock!'
'What?' cried the examining magistrate, astonished.
But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled
commissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.
'The glass is broken, yes but the watch itself is still going.'
The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But
the magistrate bethought himself of another point.
'But surely it is not seven o'clock now?'
'No,' said Poirot gently, 'it is a few minutes after five. Possibly the watch
gains, is that so, madame?'
Mrs Renauld was frowning perplexedly.
'It does gain,' she admitted. 'But I've never known it gain quite so much
as that.'
With a gesture of impatience the magistrate left the matter of the watch
and proceeded with his interrogatory.
'Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the
murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you
suggest any explanation?'
'Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to
latch it when he came in.'
'Is that a likely thing to happen?'


'Very. My husband was the most absent-minded of men.'
There was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke as though this trait in
the dead man's character had at times vexed her.
'There is one inference I think we might draw,' remarked the
commissary suddenly. 'Since the men insisted on Monsieur Renauld
dressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the
place where “the secret” was concealed, lay some distance away.'
The magistrate nodded.
'Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.'
'What time does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?' asked
Poirot.
'11.50 one way, and 12.17 the other, but it is more probable that they
had a motor waiting.'
'Of course,' agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.
'Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,' continued the
magistrate, brightening. 'A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely
to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, Monsieur Bex.'
He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to
Mrs Renauld:
'There is another question. Do you know anyone of the name of
“Duveen”?'
'Duveen?' Mrs Renauld repeated thoughtfully. 'No, for the moment, I
cannot say I do.'
'You have never heard your husband mention anyone of that name.'
'Never.'
'Do you know anyone whose Christian name is Bella?'
He watched Mrs Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any
signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a
natural manner. He continued his questions.
'Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?'
Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied
composedly:
'No, who was that?'
'A lady.'
'Indeed?'
But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It
seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the


crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs Renauld more than necessary.
He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod.
Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had
seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this he took the dagger.
'Madame,' he said gently, 'do you recognize this?'
She gave a little cry.
'Yes, that is my little dagger.' Then she saw the stained point, and she
drew back, her eyes widening with horror.
'Is that - blood?'
'Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.'
He removed it hastily from sight. 'You are quite sure about it being the
one that was on your dressing-table last night?'
'Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during
the War. He gave his age as older than it was.' There was a touch of the
proud mother in her voice. 'This was made from a streamline aeroplane
wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.'
'I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he
now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.'
'Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Ayres.'
'What?'
'Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on
business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for
him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving
Cherbourg for Buenos Ayres last night, and he wired him to catch it.'
'Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Ayres was?'
'No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Ayres is not my
son's final destination. He was going over-land from there to Santiago.'
And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed:
'Santiago! Again Santiago!'
It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that
word, that Poirot approached Mrs Renauld. He had been standing by the
window like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what
had passed. He paused by the lady's side with a bow.
'Pardon, madame, but may I examine your wrists?'
Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs Renauld held them out to
him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten


into the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of
excitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared.
'They must cause you great pain,' he said, and once more he looked
puzzled.
But the magistrate was speaking excitedly.
'Young Monsieur Renauld must be communicated with at once by
wireless. It is vital that we should know anything he can tell us about this
trip to Santiago.' He hesitated. 'I hoped he might have been near at hand, so
that we could have saved you pain, madame.' He paused.
'You mean,' she said in a low voice, 'the identification of my husband's
body?'
The magistrate bowed his head.
'I am a strong woman, monsieur. I can bear all that is required of me. I
am ready - now.'
'Oh, tomorrow will be quite soon enough, I assure you -'
'I prefer to get it over,' she said in a low tone, a spasm of pain crossing
her face. 'If you will be so good as to give me your arms doctor?'
The doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs Renauld's
shoulders, and a slow procession went down the stairs. M. Box hurried on
ahead to open the door of the shed. In a minute or two Mrs Renauld
appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but resolute. She raised her
hand to her face.
'A moment, messieurs, while I steel myself.'
She took her hand away and looked down at the dead man. Then the
marvellous self-control which had upheld her so far deserted her.
'Paul!' she cried. 'Husband! Oh, God!' And pitching forward she fell
unconscious to the ground.
Instantly Poirot was beside her, he raised the lid of her eye, felt her
pulse. When he had satisfied himself that she had really fainted, he drew
aside. He caught me by the arm.
'I am an imbecile, my friend! If ever there was love and grief in a
woman's voice, I heard it then. My little idea was all wrong. Eh bien! I must
start again!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 6
THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
Between them, the doctor and M. Hautet carried the unconscious
woman into the house. The commissary looked after them, shaking his
head.
'Pauvre femme,' he murmured to himself. 'The shock was too much for
her. Well, well, we can do nothing. Now, Monsieur Poirot, shall we visit the
place where the crime was committed?'
'If you please, Monsieur Bex.'
We passed through the house, and out by the front door. Poirot had
looked up at the staircase in passing, and shook his head in a dissatisfied
manner.
'It is to me incredible that the servants heard nothing. The creaking of
that staircase, with three people descending it, would awaken the dead!'
'It was the middle of the night, remember. They were sound asleep by
then.'
But Poirot continued to shake his head as though not fully accepting the
explanation. On the sweep of the drive he paused, looking up at the house.
'What moved them in the first place to try if the front door were open? It
was a most unlikely thing that it should be. It was far more probable that
they should at once try to force a window.'
'But all the windows on the ground floor are barred with iron shutters,'
objected the commissary.
Poirot pointed to a window on the first floor.
'That is the window of the bedroom we have just come from, is it not?
And see - there is a tree by which it would be the easiest thing in the world
to mount.'
'Possibly,' admitted the other. 'But they could not have done so without
leaving footprints in the flower-bed.'
I saw the justice of his words. There were two large oval flower-beds
planted with scarlet geraniums, one each side of the steps leading up to the
front door. The tree in question had its roots actually at the back of the bed
itself, and it would have been impossible to reach it without stepping on the
bed.
'You see,' continued the commissary, 'owing to the dry weather no prints
would show on the drive or paths; but, on the soft mould of the flower-bed,


it would have been very different affair.'
Poirot went close to the bed and studied it attentively. As Bex had said,
the mould was perfectly smooth. There was not an indentation on it
anywhere.
Poirot nodded, as though convinced, and we turned away; but he
suddenly darted off and began examining the other flower-bed.
'Monsieur Bex!' he called. 'See here. Here are plenty of traces for you.'
The commissary joined him - and smiled.
'My dear Monsieur Poirot, those are without doubt the footprints of the
gardener's large hobnailed boots. In any case, it would have no importance,
since this side we have no tree, and consequently no means of gaining
access to the upper storey.'
'True,' said Poirot, evidently crestfallen. 'So you think these footprints
are of no importance?'
'Not the least in the world.'
Then to my utter astonishment, Poirot pronounced these words:
'I do not agree with you. I have a little idea that these footprints are the
most important things we have seen yet.'
M. Bex said nothing, merely shrugged his shoulders. He was far too
courteous to utter his real opinion.
'Shall we proceed?' he asked, instead.
'Certainly. I can investigate this matter of the footprints later,' said
Poirot cheerfully.
Instead of following the drive down to the gate, M. Bex turned up a path
that branched off at right angles. It led, up a slight incline, round to the right
of the house, and was bordered on either side by a kind of shrubbery.
Suddenly it emerged into a little clearing from which one obtained a view
of the sea. A seat had been placed here, and not far from it was a rather
ramshackle shed. A few steps farther on, a neat line of small bushes marked
the boundary of the Villa grounds. M. Bex pushed his way through these,
and we found ourselves on a wide stretch of open downs. I looked round,
and saw something that filled me with astonishment.
'Why, this is a Golf Course,' I cried.
Bex nodded.
'The links are not completed yet,' he explained. 'It is hoped to be able to
open them some time next month. It was some of the men working on them
who discovered the body early this morning.'


I gave a gasp. A little to my left, where for the moment I had
overlooked it, was a long narrow pit and by it, face downwards, was the
body of a man! For a moment, my heart gave a terrible leap, and I had a
wild fancy that the tragedy had been duplicated. But the commissary
dispelled my illusion by moving forward with a sharp exclamation of
annoyance:
'What have my police been about? They had strict orders to allow no
one near the place without proper credentials!'
The man on the ground turned his head over his shoulder.
'But I have proper credentials,' he remarked and rose slowly to his feet.
'My dear Monsieur Giraud,' cried the commissary. 'I had no idea that
you had arrived, even. The examining magistrate has been awaiting you
with the utmost impatience.'
As he spoke, I was scanning the newcomer with the keenest curiosity.
The famous detective from the Paris Sûreté was familiar to me by name and
I was extremely interested to see him in the flesh. He was very tall, perhaps
about thirty years of age, with auburn hair and moustache, and a military
carriage. There was a trace of arrogance in his manner which showed that
he was fully alive to his own importance. Bex introduced us, presenting
Poirot as a colleague. A flicker of interest came into the detective's eye.
'I know you by name, Monsieur Poirot,' he said. 'You cut quite a figure
in the old days, didn't you? But methods are very different now.'
'Crimes, though, are very much the same,' remarked Poirot gently.
I saw at once that Giraud was prepared to be hostile. He resented the
other being associated with him, and I felt that if he came across any clue of
importance he would be more than likely to keep it to himself.
'The examining magistrate -' began Bex again.
But Giraud interrupted rudely:
'A fig for the examining magistrate! The light is the important thing. For
all practical purposes it will be gone in another half hour or so. I know all
about the case, and the people at the house will do very well until
tomorrow; but, if we're going to find a clue to the murderers, here is the
spot we shall find it. Is it your police who have been trampling all over the
place? I thought they knew better nowadays.'
'Assuredly they do. The marks you complain of were made by the
workmen who discovered the body.'
The other grunted disgustedly.


'I can see the tracks where the three of them came through the hedge -
but they were cunning. You can just recognize the centre foot-marks as
those of Monsieur Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully
obliterated. Not that there would really be much to see anyway on this hard
ground, but they weren't taking any chances.'
'The external sign,' said Poirot. 'That is what you seek, eh?'
The other detective stared.
'Of course.'
A very faint smile came to Poirot's lips. He seemed about to speak, but
checked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying.
'That's what the grave was dug with, right enough,' said Giraud. 'But
you'll get nothing from it. It was Renauld's own spade, and the man who
used it wore gloves. Here they are.' He gesticulated with his foot to where
two soil-stained gloves were lying. 'And they're Renauld's too - or at least
his gardener's. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking
no chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have
been buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces! But I'll
beat them. There's always something! And I mean to find it.'
But Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short,
discoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade. He touched it
delicately with his finger.
'And does this, too, belong to the murdered man?' he asked, and I
thought I detected a subtle flavour of irony in the question.
Giraud shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he neither knew nor
cared.
'May have been lying around here for weeks. Anyway, it doesn't interest
me.'
'I, on the contrary, find it very interesting,' said Poirot suavely.
I guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and if
so, he succeeded. The other walked away rudely remarking that he had no
time to waste, and bending down he resumed his minute search of the
ground.
Meanwhile, Poirot, as though struck by a sudden idea, stepped back
over the boundary, and tried the door of the little shed.
'That's locked,' said Giraud over his shoulder. 'But it's only a place
where the gardener keeps his rubbish. The spade didn't come from there,
but from the tool-shed up by the house.'


'Marvellous,' murmured M. Bex ecstatically to me. 'He has been here
but half an hour, and he already knows everything! What a man!
Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today!'
Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly
impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help
feeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it
vexed me. He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly puerile
points that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he
suddenly asked:
'Monsieur Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this white-washed
line that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?'
'No, Monsieur Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that
there is here to be a “bunkair”, as you call it.'
'A bunkair?' Poirot turned to me. 'That is the irregular hole filled with
sand and a bank at one side is it not?'
I concurred.
'Monsieur Renauld, without doubt he played the golf?'
'Yes, he was a keen golfer. It's mainly owing to him, and to his large
subscriptions, that this work is being carried forward. He even had a say in
the designing of it.'
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he remarked:
'It was not a very good choice they made - for a spot to bury the body?
When the men began to dig up the ground, all would have been discovered.'
'Exactly,' cried Giraud triumphantly. 'And that proves that they were
strangers to the place. It's an excellent piece of indirect evidence.'
'Yes,' said Poirot doubtfully. 'No one who knew would bury a body there
- unless they wanted it to be discovered. And that is clearly absurd, is it
not?'
Giraud did not even trouble to reply.
'Yes,' said Poirot, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice. 'Yes undoubtedly -
absurd!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 7
THE MYSTERIOUS MADAME DAUBREUIL
As we retraced our steps to the house, M. Bex excused himself for
leaving us, explaining that he must immediately acquaint the examining
magistrate with the fact of Giraud's arrival. Giraud himself had been
obviously delighted when Poirot declared that he had seen all he wanted.
The last thing we observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud, crawling about
on all fours, with a thoroughness in his search that I could not but admire.
Poirot guessed my thoughts, for as soon as we were alone he remarked
ironically:
'At last you have seen the detective you admire - the human foxhound!
Is it not so, my friend?'
'At any rate, he's doing something,' I said, with asperity. 'If there's
anything to find he'll find it. Now you -'
'Eh bien! I also have found something! A piece of lead-piping.'
'Nonsense, Poirot. You know very well that's got nothing to do with it. I
meant little things - traces that may lead us infallibly to the murderers.'
'Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one
measuring two millimeters! But it is the romantic idea that all important
clues must be infinitesimal. As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to
do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so. No -' as I was
about to interpose a question - 'we will say no more. Leave Giraud to his
search, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough - and
yet - and yet, mon ami, I am not satisfied! And do you know why? Because
of the wrist-watch that is two hours fast. And then there are several curious
little points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the
murderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and
have done with it?'
'They wanted the “secret”,' I reminded him.
Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.
'Well, where is this “secret”? Presumably some distance away, since
they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand,
almost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a
weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.'
He paused, frowning, and then went on:


'Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an
accomplice, and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should
remain open? I wonder if -'
He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house.
Suddenly he turned to me.
'My friend, I am about to surprise you - to please you! I have taken your
reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!'
'Where?'
'In that right-hand bed yonder. Monsieur Bex says that they are the foot-
marks of the gardener. Let us see if this is so. See, he approaches with his
wheelbarrow.'
Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of
seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came
hobbling towards us.
'You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the foot-
marks?' I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he
said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they
were.
'Exactly,' said Poirot.
'But won't he think it very odd?'
'He will not think about it at all.'
We could say no more, for the old man had joined us.
'You want me for something, monsieur?'
'Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven't you?'
'Twenty-four years, monsieur.'
'And your name is -'
'Auguste, monsieur.'
'I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb.
They have been planted long?'
'Some times monsieur. But of courses to keep the beds looking smart,
one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are
over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.'
'You put in some new plants yesterday, didn't you? Those in the middle
there and in the other bed also.'
'Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to “pick
up”. Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As monsieur doubtless


knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot.' Auguste was
charmed with Poirot's interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous.
'That is a splendid specimen there,' said Poirot, pointing. 'Might I
perhaps have a cutting of it?'
'But certainly, monsieur.' The old fellow stepped into the bed, and
carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.
Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.
'You see?' said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine
the indentation of the gardener's hobnailed boot. 'It is quite simple.'
'I did not realize -'
'That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent
mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?'
I examined the bed carefully.
'All the bootmarks in the bed were made by the same boot,' I said at
length after a careful study.
'You think so? Eh bien! I agree with you,' said Poirot.
He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of
something else.
'At any rate,' I remarked, 'you will have one bee less in your bonnet
now.'
'Mon Dieu! But what an idiom! What does it mean?'
'What I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these foot-
marks.'
But to my surprise Poirot shook his head.
'No, no, mon ami. At last I am on the right track. I am still in the dark,
but, as I hinted just now to Monsieur Bex, these foot-marks are the most
important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud - I should not
be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever.'
At that moment the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the
commissary came down the steps.
'Ah, Monsieur Poirot, we were coming to look for you,' said the
magistrate. 'It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil.
Without doubt she will be very much upset by Monsieur Renauld's death,
and we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that he
did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the
woman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are
weak, don't we?'


We said no more, but fell into line. Poirot walked with the examining
magistrate, and the commissary and I followed a few paces behind.
'There is no doubt that Françoise's story is substantially correct,' he
remarked to me in a confidential tone. 'I have been telephoning
headquarters. It seems that three times in the last six weeks - that is to say
since the arrival of Monsieur Renauld at Merlinville - Madame Daubreuil
has paid a large sum in notes into her banking account. Altogether the sum
totals two hundred thousand francs!'
'Dear me,' I said, considering, 'that must be something like four
thousand pounds.'
'Precisely. Yes, there can be no doubt that he was absolutely infatuated.
But it remains to be seen whether he confided his secret to her. The
examining magistrate is hopeful, but I hardly share his views.'
During this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the
fork in the road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in
another moment I realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the
mysterious Madame Daubreuil, was the small house from which the
beautiful girl had emerged.
'She has lived here for many years,' said the commissary nodding his
head towards the house. 'Very quietly, very unobtrusively. She seems to
have no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she had made in
Merlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not
even know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you
comprehend.'
I nodded, my interest growing.
'And - the daughter?' I ventured.
'A truly beautiful young girl - modest, devout, all that she should be.
One pities her, for, though she may know nothing of the past, a man who
wants to ask her hand in marriage must necessarily inform himself, and then
-' The commissary shrugged his shoulders cynically.
'But it would not be her fault,' I cried, with rising indignation.
'No. But what will you? A man is particular about his wife's
antecedents.'
I was prevented from further argument by our arrival at the door. M.
Hautet rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed, and then we heard a footfall
within, and the door was opened. On the threshold stood my young goddess
of that afternoon. When she saw us, the colour left her cheeks, leaving her


deathly white, and her eyes widened with apprehension. There was no
doubt about it, she was afraid!
'Mademoiselle Daubreuil,' said M. Hautet, sweeping off his hat, 'we
regret infinitely to disturb you, but the exigencies of the Law, you
comprehend? My compliments to madame your mother, and will she have
the goodness to grant me a few moments' interview?'
For a moment the girl stood motionless. Her left hand was pressed to
her side, as though to still the sudden unconquerable agitation of her heart.
But she mastered herself, and said in a low voice:
'I will go and see. Please come inside.'
She entered a room on the left of the hall, and we heard the low murmur
of her voice. And then another voice, much the same in timbre, but with a
slightly harder inflection behind its mellow roundness, said:
'But certainly. Ask them to enter.'
In another minute we were face to face with the mysterious Madame
Daubreuil.
She was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her
figure had all the grace of full maturity. Her hair, again unlike her
daughter's, was dark, and parted in the middle in the Madonna style. Her
eyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. Though very well
preserved, she was certainly no longer young, but her charm was of the
quality which is independent of age.
'You wished to see me, monsieur?' she asked.
'Yes, madame.' M. Hautet cleared his throat. 'I am investigating the
death of Monsieur Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?'
She bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change.
'We came to ask you whether you can - er- throw any light upon the
circumstances surrounding it?'
'I?' The surprise of her tone was excellent.
'Yes, madame. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of
visiting the dead man at his Villa in the evenings. Is that so?'
The colour rose in the lady's pale cheeks, but she replied quietly:
'I deny your right to ask me such a question!'
'Madame, we are investigating a murder.'
'Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder!'
'Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man
well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?'


'Never.'
'Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have
made there?'
'No.'
'Then you can give us no help at all?'
'I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his
wife tell you what you want to know?' Her voice held a slender inflection of
irony.
'Mrs Renauld has told us all she can.'
'Ah!' said Madame Daubreuil. 'I wonder -'
'You wonder what, madame?'
'Nothing.'
The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was
fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.
'You persist in your statement that Monsieur Renauld confided nothing
to you?'
'Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?'
'Because, madame,' said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality, 'a man
tells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his wife.'
'Ah!' She sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. 'Monsieur, you insult
me! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to
leave my house!'
The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa
Marguerite like a shame-faced pack of schoolboys. The magistrate muttered
angry ejaculations to himself. Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he
came out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a
good hotel near at hand.
'There is a small place, the Hôtel des Bains, on this side of the town. A
few hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations.
We shall see you in the morning, then, I presume?'
'Yes, I thank you, Monsieur Hautet.'
With mutual civilities we parted company, Poirot and I going towards
Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.
'The French police system is very marvellous,' said Poirot, looking after
them. 'The information they possess about everyone's life, down to the most
commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little
over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with Monsieur Renauld's


tastes and pursuits, and at a moment's notice they can produce information
as to Madame Daubreuil's banking account, and the sums that have lately
been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is
that?' He turned sharply.
A figure was running hatless down the road after us. It was Marthe
Daubreuil.
'I beg your pardon,' she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. 'I - I
should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what
the people say, that Monsieur Renauld called in a detective before he died,
and - and that you are he?'
'Yes, mademoiselle,' said Poirot gently. 'It is quite true. But how did you
learn it?'
'Françoise told our Amélie,' explained Marthe with a blush.
Poirot made a grimace.
'The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters.
Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?'
The gift hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last,
almost in a whisper, she asked: 'Is - anyone suspected?'
Poirot eyed her keenly.
Then he replied evasively:
'Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.'
'Yes, I know - but - anyone in particular?'
'Why do you want to know?'
The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot's words
about her earlier in the day occurred to me. The 'girl with the anxious eyes'.
'Monsieur Renauld was always very kind to me,' she replied at last. 'It is
natural that I should be interested.'
'I see,' said Poirot. 'Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering
round two persons.'
'Two?'
I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.
'Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chileans from
Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and
beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!'
The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.
'I must run back now. Mama will miss me.'


And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern
Atalanta. I stared after her.
'Mon ami,' said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, 'is it that we are to
remain planted here all night - just because you have seen a beautiful young
woman, and your head is in a whirl.'
I laughed and apologized.
'But she is beautiful, Poirot. Anyone might be excused for being bowled
over by her.'
But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly.
'Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for
you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!'
'Why,' I cried, 'the commissary assured me that she was as good as she
is beautiful! A perfect angel!'
'Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,'
remarked Poirot cheerfully. 'A malformation of the grey cells may coincide
quite easily with the face of a Madonna.'
'Poirot,' I cried, horrified, 'you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent
child like this!'
'Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her.
But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat
unusual.'
'For once I see farther than you do,' I said. 'Her anxiety is not for herself
- but for her mother.'
'My friend,' said Poirot, 'as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame
Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter
worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I
repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl! She is not for
you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. Sacré! if only I could remember where I
had seen that face?'
'What face?' I asked, surprised. 'The daughter's?'
'No. The mother's.'
Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically.
'But yes - it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with
the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I
have seen her picture - and in connection with some case. I rather fancy -"
'Yes?'
'I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 8
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the
gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and
we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the
stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.
Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs Renauld. Léonie shook her head.
'She is terribly upset, the poor lady! She will eat nothing - but nothing!
And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heart-rending to see her. Ah, it is not I
who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another
woman!'
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
'What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman
who loves will forgive many blows. Still undoubtedly there must have been
many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?'
Again Léonie shook her head.
'Never, monsieur. Never have I heard madame utter a word of protest -
of reproach even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel - quite
different to monsieur.'
'Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?'
'Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The
day that he quarrelled with Monsieur Jack - ma foi!, they might have been
heard in the marketplace, they shouted so loud!'
'Indeed,' said Poirot. 'And when did this quarrel take place?'
'Oh, it was just before Monsieur Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed
his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had
left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for
the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was
white - white - with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!'
Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.
'And the dispute, what was it about?'
'Ah, that I do not know,' confessed Léonie. 'It is true that they shouted,
but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one
well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But monsieur, he
was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!'
The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie's loquacity.


'And Françoise who awaits me!' she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy
remembrance of her duties. 'That old one, she always scolds.'
'One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?'
'They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur
the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of
the murder.'
'Quelle idée!' murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.
'You will go out and join them?'
'No, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool there on this hot
morning.'
This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.
'If you don't mind -' I said, and hesitated.
'Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?'
'Well, I'd rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he's anywhere about,
and see what he's up to.'
'The human foxhound,' murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a
comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. 'By all means, my friend. Au revoir.'
I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I walked up the path
we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime
myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the
bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so farther to
the right. The shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to
force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite
unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young
lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation. She not
unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of
surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!
The surprise was mutual.
'You?' we both exclaimed simultaneously.
The young lady recovered herself first.
'My old friend,' she exclaimed. 'What are you doing here?'
'For the matter of that, what are you?' I retorted.
'When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home
to England like a good little boy.'
'When last I saw you,' I said, 'you were trotting home with your sister,
like a good little girl. By the way, how is your sister?'
A flash of white teeth rewarded me.


'How kind of you to ask! My sister is well, I thank you.'
'She is here with you?'
'She remained in town,' said the minx with dignity.
'I don't believe you've got a sister,' I laughed. 'If you have, her name is
Harris!'
'Do you remember mine?' she asked with a smile.
'Cinderella. But you're going to tell me the real one now, aren't you?'
She shook her head with a wicked look.
'Not even why you're here?'
'Oh, that! I suppose you've heard of members of my profession
“resting”.'
'At expensive French watering-places?'
'Damn cheap if you know where to go.'
I eyed her keenly.
'Still, you'd no intention of coming here when I met you two days ago?'
'We all have our disappointments,' said Miss Cinderella sententiously.
'There now, I've told you quite as much as is good for you. Little boys
should not be inquisitive. You've not yet told me what you're doing here?'
'You remember my telling you that my great friend was a detective?'
'Yes?'
'And perhaps you've heard about this crime - at the Villa Geneviève?'
She stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.
'You don't mean - that you're in on -'
I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as
she regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds she remained
silent, staring at me. Then she nodded her head emphatically.
'Well, if that doesn't beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see all the
horrors.'
'What do you mean?'
'What I say. Bless the boy, didn't I tell you I doted on crimes? I've been
nosing round for hours. It's a real piece of luck happening on you this way.
Come on, show me all the sights.'
'But look here - wait a minute - I can't. Nobody's allowed in.'
'Aren't you and your friend the big bugs?'
I loath to relinquish my position of importance.
'Why are you so keen?' I asked weakly. 'And what is it you want to see?'


'Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the
body, and any fingerprints or interesting things like that. I've never had a
chance before of being right in on a murder like this. It'll last me all my
life.'
I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The
girl's ghoulish excitement nauseated me.
'Come off your high horse,' said the lady suddenly. 'And don't give
yourself airs. When you got called to this job, did you put your nose in the
air and say it was a nasty business, and you wouldn't be mixed up in it?'
'No, but -'
'If you'd been here on a holiday, wouldn't you be nosing round just the
same as I am? Of course you would.'
'I'm a man. You're a woman.'
'Your idea of a woman is someone who gets on a chair and shrieks if she
sees a mouse. That's all prehistoric. But you will show me round, won't
you? You see, it might make a big difference to me.'
'In what way?'
'They're keeping all the reporters out. I might make a big scoop with one
of the papers. You don't know how much they pay for a bit of inside stuff.'
I hesitated. She slipped a small soft hand into mine. 'Please - there's a
dear.'
I capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of
showman.
We repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A
man was on guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight,
and raised no questions as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as
vouched for by me. I explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had
been made, and she listened attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent
question. Then we turned our steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded
rather cautiously, for, truth to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet anyone. I
took the girl through the shrubbery round to the back of the house where the
small shed was. I recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the
door, M. Bex had left the key with the sergent de ville, Marchaud, 'In case
Monsieur Giraud should require it while we are upstairs.' I thought it quite
likely that the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud
again. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house.


Marchaud was on duty outside the door of the salon. From within came the
murmur of voices.
'Monsieur desires Monsieur Hautet? He is within. He is again
interrogating Françoise.'
'No,' I said hastily, 'I don't want him. But I should very much like the
key of the shed outside if it is not against regulations.'
'But certainly, monsieur.' He produced it. 'Here it is. Monsieur Hautet
gave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You will
return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.'
'Of course.'
I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud's eyes, at least,
I ranked equally in importance with Poirot.
The girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she
saw the key in my hand.
'You've got it then?'
'Of course,' I said coolly. 'All the same, you know, what I'm doing is
highly irregular.'
'You've been a perfect darling and I shan't forget it. Come along. They
can't see us from the house, can they?'
'Wait a minute.' I arrested her eager advance. 'I won't stop you if you
really wish to go in. But do you? You've seen the grave, and the grounds,
and you've heard all the details of the affair. Isn't that enough for you? This
is going to be gruesome, you know, and unpleasant.'
She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite
fathom. Then she laughed.
'I'm for the horrors,' she said. 'Come along.'
In silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed
in. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as Bex had
done the preceding afternoon. A little gasping sound escaped from the girl's
lips, and I turned and looked at her. There was horror on her face now, and
those debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly. She had not
chosen to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard
of it. I felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it
now. I turned the corpse over gently.
'You see,' I said. 'He was stabbed in the back.'
Her voice was almost soundless. 'With what?'
I nodded towards the glass jar.


'That dagger.'
Suddenly the girl reeled, and then sank down in a heap. I sprang to her
assistance.
'You are faint. Come out of here. It has been too much for you.'
'Water,' she murmured. 'Quick. Water.'
I left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants
were about and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a
few drops of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again.
The girl was lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water
revived her in a marvellous manner.
'Take me out of here - oh quickly, quickly!' she cried, shuddering.
Supporting her with my arm, I led her out into the air, and she pulled the
door to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath.
'That's better. Oh, it was horrible! Why did you ever let me go in?'
I felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I
was not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so
callous as I had thought her. After all she was little more than a child, and
her curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order.
'I did my best to stop you, you know,' I said gently.
'I suppose you did. Well, goodbye.'
'Look here, you can't start off like that - all alone. You're not fit for it. I
insist on accompanying you back to Merlinville.'
'Nonsense. I'm quite all right now.'
'Supposing you felt faint again? No, I shall come with you.'
But this she combated with a good deal of energy. In the end, however, I
prevailed so far as to be allowed to accompany her to the outskirts of the
town. We retraced our steps over our former route, passing the grave again,
and making a detour on to the road. Where the first straggling line of shops
began, she stopped and held out her hand.
'Goodbye, and thank you ever so much for coming with me.'
'Are you sure you're all right now?'
'Quite, thanks. I hope you won't get into any trouble over showing me
things.'
I disclaimed the idea lightly.
'Well, good-bye.'
'Au revoir,' I corrected. 'If you're staying here, we shall meet again.'
She flashed a smile at me.


'That's so. Au revoir, then.'
'Wait a second, you haven't told me your address.'
'Oh, I'm staying at the Hôtel du Phare. It's a little place, but quite good.
Come and look me up tomorrow.'
'I will,' I said, with perhaps rather unnecessary empressement.
I watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the
Villa. I remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed.
Fortunately no one had noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed
it and returned it to the sergent de ville. And, as I did so, it came upon me
suddenly that though Cinderella had given me her address I still did not
know her name.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 9
M. GIRAUD FINDS SOME CLUES
In the salon I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the
old gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present,
greeted me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into
a seat. M. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did
not succeed in eliciting anything of importance.
The gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his. He wore them when
handling a certain species of primula plant which was poisonous to some
people. He could not say when he had worn them last. Certainly he had not
missed them. Where were they kept? Sometimes in one place, sometimes in
another. The spade was usually to be found in the small tool-shed. Was it
locked? Of course it was locked. Where was the key kept? Parbleu, it was
in the door of course. There was nothing of value to steal. Who would have
expected a party of bandits, or assassins? Such things did not happen in
Madame la Vicomtesse's time.
M. Hautet signifying that he had finished with him, the old man
withdrew, grumbling to the last. Remembering Poirot's unaccountable
insistence on the footprints in the flower-beds, I scrutinized him narrowly as
he gave his evidence. Either he had nothing to do with the crime or he was a
consummate actor. Suddenly just as he was going out of the door an idea
struck me.
'Pardon, Monsieur Hautet,' I cried, 'but will you permit me to ask him
one question?'
'But certainly monsieur.'
Thus encouraged, I turned to Auguste.
'Where do you keep your boots?'
'On my feet,' growled the old man. 'Where else?'
'But when you go to bed at night?'
'Under my bed.'
'But who cleans them?'
'Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on
the front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, but
otherwise -' He shrugged his shoulders.
I shook my head, discouraged.


'Well, well,' said the magistrate, 'we do not advance very much.
Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago.
Has anyone seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very
good mind to send for him and -'
'You will not have to send far.'
The quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in
through the open window.
He leapt lightly into the room and advanced to the table.
'Here I am, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting
myself sooner.'
'Not at all - not at all!' said the magistrate, rather confused.
'Of course I am only a detective,' continued the other. 'I know nothing of
interrogatories. Were I conducting one, I should be inclined to do so without
an open window. Anyone standing outside can so easily hear all that passes.
But no matter.'
M. Hautet flushed angrily. There was evidently going to be no love lost
between the examining magistrate and the detective in charge of the case.
They had taken foul of each other at the start. Perhaps in any event it would
have been much the same. To Giraud, all examining magistrates were fools,
and to M. Hautet, who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the
Paris detective could not fail to give offence.
'Eh bien, Monsieur Giraud,' said the magistrate rather sharply. 'Without
doubt you have been employing your time to a marvel! You have the names
of the assassins for us, have you not? And also the precise spot where they
find themselves now?'
Unmoved by this irony, M. Giraud replied:
'I know at least where they have come from.'
Giraud took two small objects from his pocket and laid them down on
the table. We crowded round. The objects were very simple ones: the stub
of a cigarette and an unlighted match. The detective wheeled round on
Poirot.
'What do you see there?' he asked.
There was something almost brutal in his tone. It made my cheeks flush.
But Poirot remained unmoved. He shrugged his shoulders.
'A cigarette end and a match.'
'And what does that tell you?'
Poirot spread out his hands.


'It tells me - nothing.'
'Ah!' said Giraud, in a satisfied voice. 'You haven't made a study of
these things. That's not an ordinary match - not in this country at least. It's
common enough in South America. Luckily it's unlighted. I mightn't have
recognized it otherwise. Evidently one of the men threw away his cigarette
and lit another, spilling one match out of the box as he did so.'
'And the other match?' asked Poirot.
'Which match?'
'The one he did light his cigarette with. You have found that also?'
'No.'
'Perhaps you didn't search very thoroughly.'
'Not search thoroughly -' For a moment it seemed as though the
detective was going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled
himself. 'I see you love a joke, Monsieur Poirot. But in any case, match or
no match, the cigarette end would be sufficient. It is a South American
cigarette with liquorice pectoral paper.'
Poirot bowed. The commissary spoke:
'The cigarette end and match might have belonged to Monsieur
Renauld. Remember, it is only two years since he returned from South
America.'
'No,' replied the other confidently. 'I have already searched among the
effects of Monsieur Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he
used are quite different.'
'You do not think it odd,' asked Poirot, 'that these strangers should come
unprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and that they should
so conveniently find all these things?'
Giraud smiled in a rather superior manner.
'Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it
would be inexplicable.'
'Aha!' said M. Hautet. 'An accomplice within the house!'
'Or outside it,' said Giraud, with a peculiar smile. 'But someone must
have admitted them. We cannot allow that, by an unparalleled piece of good
fortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk in?'
'The door was opened for them; but it could just as easily be opened
from outside - by someone who possessed a key.'
'But who does possess a key?'
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.


'As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if he
can help it. But several people might have had one. Monsieur Jack Renauld,
the son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but
he might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the
gardener - he has been here many years. One of the younger servants may
have a lover. It is easy to take an impression of a key and have one cut.
There are many possibilities. Then there is another person who, I should
judge, is exceedingly likely to have such a thing.'
'Who is that?'
'Madame Daubreuil,' said the detective.
'Eh, bien,' said the magistrate. 'So you have heard about that, have you?'
'I hear everything,' said Giraud imperturbably.
'There is one thing I could swear you have not heard,' said Hautet,
delighted to be able to show superior knowledge, and without more ado he
retailed the story of the mysterious visitor the night before. He also touched
on the cheque made out to 'Duveen', and finally handed Giraud the letter
signed 'Bella'.
'All very interesting. But my theory remains unaffected.'
'And your theory is?'
'For the moment I prefer not to say. Remember, I am only just beginning
my investigations.'
'Tell me one thing, Monsieur Giraud,' said Poirot suddenly. 'Your theory
allows for the door being opened. It does not explain why it was still open.
When they departed, would it not have been natural for them to close it
behind them. If a sergent had chanced to come up to the house, as is
sometimes done to see that all is well, they might have been discovered and
overtaken almost at once.'
'Bah! They forgot it. A mistake, I grant you.'
Then to my surprise Poirot uttered almost the same words as he had
uttered to Bex the previous evening:
'I do not agree with you. The door being left open was the result of
either design or necessity, and any theory that does not admit that fact is
bound to prove vain.'
We all regarded the little man with a good deal of astonishment. The
confession of ignorance drawn from him over the match end had, I thought,
been bound to humiliate him, but here he was self-satisfied as ever, lying
down the great Giraud without a tremor.


The detective twisted his moustache, eyeing my friend in a somewhat
bantering fashion.
'You don't agree with me, eh? Well, what strikes you particularly about
the case? Let's hear your views.'
'One thing presents itself to me as being significant. Tell me, Monsieur
Giraud, does nothing strike you as familiar about this case? Is there nothing
it reminds you of?'
'Familiar? Reminds me of? I can't say off-hand. I don't think so, though.'
'You are wrong,' said Poirot quietly. 'A crime almost precisely similar
has been committed before.'
'When? And where?'
'Ah, that, unfortunately, I cannot for the moment remember, but I shall
do so. I had hoped you might be able to assist me.'
Giraud snorted incredulously.
'There have been many affairs of masked men. I cannot remember the
details of them all. The crimes all resemble each other more or less.'
'There is such a thing as the individual touch.' Poirot suddenly assumed
his lecturing manner, and addressed us collectively. 'I am speaking to you
now of the psychology of crime. Monsieur Giraud knows quite well that
each criminal has his particular method, and that the police, when called in
to investigate, say, a case of burglary, can often make a shrewd guess at the
offender, simply by the peculiar methods he has employed. (Japp would tell
you the same, Hastings.) Man is an unoriginal animal. Unoriginal within the
law in his daily respectable life, equally unoriginal outside the law. If a man
commits a crime, any other crime he commits will resemble it closely. The
English murderer who disposed of his wives in succession by drowning
them in their baths was a case in point. Had he varied his methods, he might
have escaped detection to this day. But he obeyed the common dictates of
human nature, arguing that what had once succeeded would succeed again,
and he paid the penalty of his lack of originality.'
'And the point of all this?' sneered Giraud.
'That, when you have two crimes precisely similar in design and
execution, you find the same brain behind them both. I am looking for that
brain, Monsieur Giraud, and I shall find it. Here we have a true clue - a
psychological clue. You may know all about cigarettes and match ends,
Monsieur Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man.'
Giraud remained singularly unimpressed.


'For your guidance,' continued Poirot, 'I will also advise you of one fact
which might fail to be brought to your notice. The wristwatch of Madame
Renauld, on the day following the tragedy, had gained two hours.'
Giraud stared.
'Perhaps it was in the habit of gaining?'
'As a matter of fact, I am told it did.'
'Very well, then.'
'All the same, two hours is a good deal,' said Poirot softly. 'Then there is
the matter of the footprints in the flower-bed.'
He nodded his head towards the open window. Giraud took two eager
strides, and looked out.
'But I see no footprints?'
'No,' said Poirot, straightening a little pile of books on a table. 'There are
none.'
For a moment an almost murderous rage obscured Giraud's face. He
took two strides towards his tormentor, but at that moment the salon door
was opened, and Marchaud announced:
'Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, has just arrived from England. May he
enter?'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 10
GABRIEL STONOR
The man who now entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall,
with a well-knit, athletic frame and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he
dominated the assembly. Even Giraud seemed anaemic beside him. When I
knew him better I realized that Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual
personality. English by birth, he had knocked about all over the world. He
had shot big game in Africa, travelled in Korea, ranched in California, and
traded in the South Sea islands.
His unerring eye picked out M. Hautet.
'The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you,
sir. This is a terrible business. How's Mrs Renauld? Is she bearing up fairly
well? It must have been an awful shock to her.'
'Terrible, terrible,' said M. Hautet. 'Permit me to introduce Monsieur
Bex, our commissary of police Monsieur Giraud of the Sûreté. This
gentleman is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. Mr Renauld sent for him, but he
arrived too late to do anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of Monsieur
Poirot's, Captain Hastings.'
Stonor looked at Poirot with some interest.
'Sent for you, did he?'
'You did not know, then, that Monsieur Renauld contemplated calling in
a detective?' interposed M. Bex.
'No, I didn't. But it doesn't surprise me a bit.'
'Why?'
'Because the old man was rattled. I don't know what it was all about. He
didn't confide in me. We weren't on those terms. But rattled he was - and
badly.'
'H'm!' said M. Hautet. 'But you have no notion of the cause?'
'That's what I said, sir.'
'You will pardon me, Monsieur Stonor, but we must begin with a few
formalities. Your name?'
'Gabriel Stonor.'
'How long ago was it that you became secretary to Monsieur Renauld?'
'About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met
him through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering good
boss he was too.'


'Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?'
'Yes, a good bit.'
'Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?'
'Several times, I believe.'
'He never mentioned any special incident that occurred there - anything
that might have provoked some vendetta against him?'
'Never.'
'Did he speak of any secret that he had acquired while sojourning there?'
'Not that I can remember. But for all that, there was a mystery about
him. I've never heard him speak of his boyhood, for instance, or of any
incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French-Canadian
by birth, I believe, but I've never heard him speak of his life in Canada. He
could shut up like a clam if he liked.'
'So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue
as to any secret to obtain posession of which he might have been
murdered?'
'That's so.'
'Monsieur Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in
connection with Monsieur Renauld?'
'Duveen. Duveen.' He tried the name over thoughtfully. 'I don't think I
have. And yet it seems familiar.'
'Do you know a lady, a friend of Monsieur Renauld's, whose Christian
name is Bella?'
Again Mr Stonor shook his head.
'Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It's curious. I'm sure I know it. But
for the moment I can't remember in what connection.
The magistrate coughed.
'You understand, Monsieur Stonor… the case is like this. There must be
no reservations. You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration for
Madame Renauld - for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and
affection - you might - in fact!' said M. Hautet, getting rather tied up in his
sentence, 'there must absolutely be no reservations.'
Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.
'I don't quite get you,' he said gently. 'Where does Mrs Renauld come
in? I've an immense respect and affection for that lady; she's a very
wonderful and unusual type, but I don't quite see how my reservations or
otherwise, could affect her?'


'A lot if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more
than a friend to her husband?'
'Ah!' said Stonor. 'I get you now. But I'll bet my bottom dollar that
you're wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He just
adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.'
M. Hautet shook his head gently.
'Monsieur Stonor. I hold absolute proof - a love-letter written by this
Bella to Monsieur Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover,
we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an
intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the
adjoining Villa.'
The secretary's eyes narrowed.
'Hold on, sir. You're barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld.
What you've just been saying is plumb impossible. There's some other
explanation.'
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
'What other explanation could there be?'
'What leads you to think it was a love affair?'
'Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the
evenings. Also, since Monsieur Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève,
Madame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In
all, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.'
'I guess that's right,' said Stonor quietly. 'I transmitted him those sums in
notes at his request. But it wasn't an love affair.'
'What else could it be?'
'Blackmail,' said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a slam on
the table. 'That's what it was.'
'Ah!' cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.
'Blackmail,' repeated Stonor. 'The old man was being bled - and at a
good rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just
now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame Daubreuil
knew enough of it to put the screw on.'
'It is possible,' the commissary cried exaltedly. 'Decidedly it is possible.'
'Possible?' roared Stonor. 'It's certain. Tell me, have you asked Mm.
Renauld about this love-affair stunt of yours?'
'No, monsieur. We did not wish to occasion her any distress if it could
reasonably be avoided.'


'Distress? Why, she'd laugh in your face. I tell you, she and Renauld
were a couple in a hundred.'
'Ah, that reminds me of another point,' said M. Hautet. 'Did Monsieur
Renauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his
will?'
'I know all about it - took it to the lawyers for him after he'd drawn it
out. I can give you the name of his solicitors if you want to see it. They've
got it there. Quite simple. Half in trust to his wife for her lifetime, the other
half to his son. A few legacies. I rather think he left me a thousand.'
'When was this will drawn up?'
'Oh, about a year and a half ago.'
'Would it surprise you very much, Monsieur Stonor, to hear that
Monsieur Renauld had made another will, less than a fortnight ago?'
Stonor was obviously very much surprised.
'I'd no idea of it. What's it like?'
'The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There is
no mention of his son.'
Mr Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle.
'I call that rather rough on the lad! His mother adores him of course, but
to the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on his father's
part. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it all goes to prove what I
told you, that Renauld and his wife were on first-rate terms.'
'Quite so, quite so,' said M. Hautet. 'It is possible we shall have to revise
our ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to Santiago, and are
expecting a reply from there any minute. In all probability, everything will
then be perfectly clear and straightforward. On the other hand, if your
suggestion of blackmail is true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to give
us valuable information.'
Poirot interjected a remark:
'Monsieur Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with
Monsieur Renauld?'
'Over a year.'
'Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?'
'I'm quite sure he hasn't. Before coming to M. Renauld he had been for
many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.'
'In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?'
'Absolutely.'


Poirot seemed somewhat crestfallen.
Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.
'My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to
her for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her
upstairs.'
Marchaud saluted and disappeared.
We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened,
and Mrs Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.
M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and
she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his
with an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs Renauld
turned to M. Hautet.
'You wish to ask me something?'
'With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a
French-Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth or
upbringing?'
She shook her head.
'My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He
came from the North-West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy
childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived
entirely in the present and the future.'
'Was there any mystery in his past life?'
Mrs Renauld smiled a little and shook her head.
'Nothing so romantic I am sure, monsieur.'
M. Hautet also smiled.
'True - we must not permit ourselves to get melodramatic. There is one
thing more -' He hesitated.
Stonor broke in impetuously:
'They've got an extraordinary idea into their head, Mrs Renauld. They
actually fancy that Mr Renauld was carrying on an intrigue with a Madame
Daubreuil who it seems, lives next door.'
The scarlet colour flamed into Mrs Renauld's cheeks. She flung her
head up, then bit her lip, her face quivering. Stonor stood looking at her in
astonishment but M. Bex leaned forward and said gently:
'We regret to cause you pain, madame, but have you any reason to
believe that Madame Daubreuil was your husband's mistress?'


With a sob of anguish, Mrs Renauld buried her face in her hands. Her
shoulders heaved convulsively. At last she lifted her head and said
brokenly:
'She may have been.'
Never, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement
on Stonor's face. He was thoroughly taken aback.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 11
JACK RENAULD
What the next development of the conversation would have been I
cannot say, for at that moment the door was thrown open violently and a tall
young man strode into the room.
Just for a moment I had the uncanny sensation that the dead man had
come to life again. Then I realized that this dark head was untouched with
grey, and that, in point of fact, it was a mere boy who now burst in among
us with so little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs Renauld with an
impetuosity that took no heed of the presence of others.
'Mother!'
'Jack!' With a cry she folded him in her arms. 'My dearest! But what
brings you here? You were to sail on the Anzora from Cherbourg two days
ago?' Then, suddenly recalling to herself the presence of others, she turned
with a certain dignity: 'My son, messieurs.'
'Aha!' said M. Hautet, acknowledging the young man's bow. 'So you did
not sail on the Anzora?'
'No, monsieur. As I was about to explain, the Anzora was detained
twenty-four hours through engine trouble. I should have sailed last night
instead of the night before, but, happening to buy an evening paper I saw in
it an account of the - the awful tragedy that had befallen us -' His voice
broke and the tears came into his eyes. 'My poor father - my poor, poor
father.'
Staring at him like one in a dream, Mrs Renauld repeated:
'So you did not sail?' And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she
murmured as though to herself: 'After all, it does not matter - now.'
'Sit down, Monsieur Renauld, I beg of you,' said M. Hautet indicating a
chair. 'My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible shock
to you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that you
were prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us
just the information we need to clear up this mystery.'
'I am at your disposal, monsieur. Ask me any questions you please.'
'To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at
your father's request?'
'Quite so, monsieur. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed
without delay to Buenos Ayres, and from thence over the Andes to


Valparaiso, and on to Santiago.'
'Ah! And the object of this journey?'
'I have no idea.'
'What?'
'No. See, here is the telegram.'
The magistrate took it and read it aloud:
'“Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark Anzora sailing tonight
Buenos Ayres. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will await
you Buenos Ayres. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance. Renauld.”
And there had been no previous correspondence on the matter?'
Jack Renauld shook his head.
'That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my
father, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in
South America. But he had never made any suggestion of sending me out.'
'You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M. Renauld?'
'I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of
my holidays in that country, so, I really know far less of South America
than might be supposed. You see, the War broke out when I was seventeen.'
'You served in the English Flying Corps, did you not?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
M. Hautet nodded his head and proceeded with his inquiries along the,
by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely
that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the
city of Santiago or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had
noticed no change in his father's manner of late, and that he had never heard
him refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as
connected with business interests.
As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in:
'I should like to put a few questions of my own, Monsieur le juge.'
'By all means, Monsieur Giraud, if you wish,' said the magistrate coldly.
Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.
'Were you on good terms with your father, Monsieur Renauld?'
'Certainly I was,' returned the lad haughtily.
'You assert that positively?'
'Yes.'
'No little disputes, eh?'


Jack shrugged his shoulders. 'Everyone may have a difference of
opinion now and then.'
'Quite so, quite so. But, if anyone were to assert that you had a violent
quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person,
without doubt would be lying?'
I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast, 'I know
everything,' had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by
the question.
'We - we did have an argument,' he admitted.
'Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument, did you use this
phrase: “When you are dead I can do as I please”?'
'I may have done,' muttered the other. 'I don't know.'
'In response to that, did your father say: “But I am not dead yet!”? To
which you responded: “I wish you were!”'
The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things
on the table in from of him.
'I must request an answer, please, Monsieur Renauld,' said Giraud
sharply.
With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper-knife to the
floor.
'What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with
my father. I dare say I said all those things - I was so angry I cannot even
remember what I said! I was furious - I could almost have killed him at that
moment there, make the most of that!' He leant back in his chair, flushed
and defiant.
Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:
'That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the
interrogatory, Monsieur Hautet.'
'Ah, yes, exactly,' said M. Hautet. 'And what was the subject of your
quarrel?'
'That I decline to state.'
M. Hautet sat up in his chair.
'Monsieur Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law,' he
thundered. 'What was the subject of the quarrel?'
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But
another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot:
'I will inform you, if you like, monsieur.'


'You know?'
'Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe
Daubreuil.'
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
'Is that so, monsieur?'
Jack Renauld bowed his head.
'Yes,' he admitted. 'I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry
her. When I informed my father of the fact he flew at once into a violent
rage. Naturally, I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too,
lost my temper.'
M. Hautet looked across at Mrs Renauld.
'You were aware of this - attachment, madame?'
'I feared it,' she replied simply.
'Mother,' cried the boy. 'You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful.
What can you have against her?'
'I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I
should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman, not one
who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!'
Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I
could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her
only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.
Mrs Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:
'I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I
hoped that it was only a boy and girl flirtation which would blow over all
the quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence,
but my husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and careworn,
different altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to
give him any additional worry.'
M. Hautet nodded.
'When you informed your father of your intentions towards
Mademoiselle Daubreuil,' he resumed, 'he was surprised?'
'He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily
to dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to
such a marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle
Daubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting
terms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I
answered that I was marrying Marthe and not her antecedents, but he


shouted me down with a peremptory refusal to discuss the matter in any
way. The whole thing must be given up. The injustice and highhandedness
of it all maddened me - especially since he himself always seemed to go out
of his way to be attentive to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that
they should be asked to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in
earnest. My father reminded me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it
must have been in answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I
pleased after his death -'
Poirot interrupted with a quick question:
'You were aware, then, of the terms of your father's will?'
'I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for
my mother, to come to me at her death,' replied the lad.
'Proceed with your story,' said the magistrate.
'After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly
realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for
the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed
down. I wrote to Marthe telling her what had happened, and her reply
soothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be
steadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection
for each other must be tried and proved and when my parents realized that it
was no light infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent towards us.
Of course, to her, I had not dwelt on my father's principal objection to the
match. I soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence.'
'To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen,
Monsieur Renauld?'
'Duveen,' said Jack. 'Duveen?' He leant forward and slowly picked up
the paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head, his eyes
met the watching ones of Giraud. 'Duveen? No, I can't say I do.'
'Will you read this letter, Monsieur Renauld? And tell me if you have
any idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father.'
Jack Renauld took the letter and read it through, the colour mounting in
his face as he did so.
'Addressed to my father?' The emotion and indignation in his tones were
evident.
'Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.'
'Does -' He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards
his mother.


The magistrate understood.
'As yet - no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?'
'I have no idea whatsoever.'
M. Hautet sighed.
'A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the
letter altogether. Let me see where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this
may give you pain, Monsieur Renauld. I understand it was a present from
you to your mother. Very sad - very distressing -'
Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the
perusal of the letter, was now deadly white.
'Do you mean - that it was with an aeroplane wire paper-cutter that my
father was - was killed? But it's impossible! A little thing like that!'
'Alas, Monsieur Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear.
Sharp and easy to handle.'
'Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the - the body?'
'Oh no, it has been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It
would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still -
Monsieur Bex, might I trouble you?'
'Certainly. I will fetch it immediately.'
'Would it not be better to take Monsieur Renauld to the shed?' suggested
Giraud smoothly. 'Without doubt he would wish to see his father's body.'
The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate,
always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied:
'But no - not at present. Monsieur Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us
here.'
The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack and wrung him
by the hand. Poirot had risen, and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that
struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading
the mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his
first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back. Suddenly the door burst open
and the commissary rushed in.
'Monsieur le juge! Monsieur le juge!'
'But yes. What is it?'
'The dagger! It is gone!'
'What - gone?'
'Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!'


'What?' I cried. 'Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw -' The words
died on my tongue.
But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.
'What is that you say?' cried the commissary. 'This morning?'
'I saw it there this morning,' I said slowly. 'About an hour and a half ago,
to be accurate.'
'You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?'
'I asked the sergent de ville for it.'
'And you went there? Why?'
I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to
make a clean breast of it.
'Monsieur Hautet,' I said, 'I have committed a grave fault, for which I
must crave your indulgence.'
'Proceed, monsieur.'
'The fact of the matter is,' I said, wishing myself anywhere else but
where I was, 'that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She
displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and I - well,
in short, I took the key to show her the body.'
'Ah!' cried the magistrate indignantly. 'But it is a grave fault you have
committed there, Captain Hastings. It is altogether most irregular. You
should not have permitted yourself this folly.'
'I know,' I said meekly. 'Nothing that you can say could be too severe,
monsieur.'
'You did not invite this lady to come here?'
'Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who
happens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that until
my unexpected meeting with her.'
'Well, well,' said the magistrate, softening. 'It was most irregular, but the
lady is without doubt young and beautiful. What it is to be young!' And he
sighed sentimentally.
But the commissary, less romantic and more practical, took up the tale:
'But did you not re-close and lock the door when you departed?'
'That's just it,' I said slowly. 'That's what I blame myself for so terribly.
My friend was upset at the sight. She nearly fainted. I got her some brandy
and water, and afterwards insisted on accompanying her back to the town.
In the excitement I forgot to re-lock the door. I only did so when I got back
to the Villa.'


'Then for twenty minutes at least -' said the commissary slowly. He
stopped.
'Exactly,' I said.
'Twenty minutes,' mused the commissary.
'It is deplorable,' said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner returning.
'Without precedent.'
Suddenly another voice spoke.
'You find it deplorable?' asked Giraud.
'Certainly I do.'
'I find it admirable!' said the other imperturbably.
This unexpected ally quite bewildered me.
'Admirable, Monsieur Giraud?' asked the magistrate, studying him
cautiously out of the corner of his eye.
'Precisely.'
'And why?'
'Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the
assassin, has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with
that knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.' There was a note of
menace in his voice. He continued: 'He risked a good deal to gain
possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that fingerprints might be
discovered on it.'
Poirot turned to Bex.
'You said there were none?'
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
'Perhaps he could not be sure.'
Poirot looked at him.
'You are wrong, Monsieur Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must
have been sure.'
'I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice
who was not aware of that fact.'
The magistrate's clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M.
Hautet addressed us:
'Our work here is finished. Perhaps, Monsieur Renauld, you will listen
while your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the
proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my
methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The
case is now in the clever hands of the renowned Monsieur Giraud. He will


without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already
laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my
heartfelt sympathy! Messieurs, I wish you all good day.' And, accompanied
by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure.
Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his and observed the
time.
'Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,' he said. 'And you shall
recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing
us. We need make no adieux.'
We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just
driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot's voice
arrested me:
'One little moment, my friend.' Dexterously he whipped out his yard
measure and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in
the hall, from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before,
and guessed that it belonged to either Mr Stonor or Jack Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his
pocket and followed me out into the open air.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 12
POIROT ELUCIDATES CERTAIN POINTS
'Why did you measure that overcoat?' I asked, with some curiosity, as
we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.
'Parbleu! to see how long it was,' replied my friend imperturbably.
I was vexed. Poirot's incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing
never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of
thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time,
certain words Mrs Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me,
fraught with a new significance. 'So you did not sail?' she had said, and then
had added: 'After all, it does not matter - now.'
What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical - significant.
Was it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all
knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have
entrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended?
Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully
thought out and preconceived plan?
The more I thought about, it, the more I was convinced that I was right.
Mrs Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her
son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if
not the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very
powerful considerations must keep her silent.
'You think profoundly, my friend,' remarked Poirot, breaking in upon
my reflections. 'What is it that intrigues you so?'
I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would
ridicule my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.
'You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that
she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring,
at least of conniving at the crime.'
'You suspected her?' I cried.
'But certainly. She benefits enormously - in fact, by this new will, she is
the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for
attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of
examining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that
she had gagged and bound herself. Bien, I saw at once that there was no
fake, the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut into the flesh. That


ruled out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed.
But it was still possible for her to have connived at it, or to have been the
instigator with an accomplice. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was
singularly familiar to me - the masked men that she could not recognize, the
mention of “the secret” - I had heard, or read, all these things before.
Another little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the
truth. The wristwatch, Hasting, the wristwatch!'
Again that wristwatch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.
'You see, mon ami? You comprehend?'
'No,' I replied with some ill burnout. 'I neither see nor comprehend. You
make all these confounded mysteries and it's useless asking you to explain.
You always like keeping something up your sleeve to the last minute.'
'Do not enrage yourself, my friend,' said Poirot, with a smile. I will
explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, c'est entendu? He treats me
as an old one of no importance! We shall see! In common fairness I gave
him a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that is his own lookout.'
I assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion.
'C'est bien! Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell me, my friend,
at what time, according to you, did the tragedy take place?'
'Why, at two o'clock or thereabouts,' I said, astonished. 'You remember,
Mrs Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while the men were in
the room.'
'Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate,
Bex, and everyone else, accept the time without further question. But I,
Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at
least two hours earlier.'
'But the doctors -'
'They decided, after examination of the body, that death had taken place
between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason it was
imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it
actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact
hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Madame Renauld's
testimony alone, someone moved on the hands of that wristwatch to two
o'clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case,
they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism
of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their
part, for it at once drew my attention to two points - first, that Madame


Renauld was lying; secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the
postponement of the time.'
'And what reason could there be?'
'Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I
cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having
a possible connection.'
'And that is?'
'The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.'
I followed it out slowly.
'So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, anyone
leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!'
'Perfect, Hastings! You have it!'
I sprang up.
'But we must inquire at the station! Surely they cannot have failed to
notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!'
'You think so, Hastings?'
'Of course. Let us go there now.'
Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.
'Go by all means if you wish, mon ami - but if you go, I should not ask
for particulars of two foreigners.'
I stared and he said rather impatiently:
'La, la, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men
and all the rest of cette histoire - lа!'
His words took me so much aback, that I hardly knew how to respond.
He went on serenely:
'You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this
crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things,
either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an
account read or a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin's
memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on
that after -' He broke off.
I was revolving sundry matters in my mind.
'But Mr Renauld's letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago!'
'Undoubtedly there was a secret in Monsieur Renauld's life - there can
be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a
red herring, dragged constantly across the track to put us off the scent. It is
possible that it was used in the same way on Monsieur Renauld, to keep


him from directing his suspicions to a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured
Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at
hand, in France.'
He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be
convinced. But I essayed one objection:
'And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them?'
A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot's face.
'Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to
find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever
dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his
stomach. “See what I have found,” he says. And then again to me: “What
do you see here?” Me, I answer with profound and deep truth, “Nothing.”
And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself “Oh, he is
imbecile, this old one!” But we shall see...'
But my mind had reverted to the main facts.
'Then all this story of the masked men -'
'Is false.'
'What really happened?'
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'One person could tell us - Madame Renauld. But she will not speak.
Threats and enmities would not move her. A remarkable woman that,
Hastings. I recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman
of unusual character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of
being concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.'
'What made you do that?'
'Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband's body. I
could swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.'
'Yes,' I said thoughtfully, 'one cannot mistake these things.'
'I beg your pardon, my friend - one can always be mistaken. Regard a
great actress, does not her acting of grief carry you away and impress you
with its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I
needed other evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great
criminal can be a great actor. I base my certainty in this case not upon my
own impression, but upon the undeniable fact that Madame Renauld
actually fainted. I turned up her eye-lids and felt her pulse. There was no
deception - the swoon was genuine. Therefore I was satisfied that her
anguish was real and not assumed. Besides, a small additional point without


interest, it was unnecessary for Madame Renauld to exhibit unrestrained
grief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of her husband's death, and
there would be no need for her to simulate another such a violent one on
beholding his body. No, Madame Renauld was not her husband's murderess.
But why has she lied? She lied about the wristwatch, she lied about the
masked men, she lied about a third thing. Tell me, Hastings, what is your
explanation of the open door?'
'Well,' I said, rather embarrassed, 'I suppose it was an oversight. They
forgot to shut it.'
Poirot shook his head, and sighed.
'That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a
meaning behind that open door which for the moment I cannot fathom. One
thing I am fairly sure of - they did not leave through the door. They left by
the window.'
'What?'
'Precisely.'
'But there were no foot-marks in the flower-bed underneath the
window.'
'No - and there ought to have been. Listen, Hastings. The gardener, as
you heard him say, planted both those beds the preceding afternoon. In the
one there are plenty of impressions of his big hobnailed boots - in the other,
none! You see? Someone had passed that way, someone who, to obliterate
their footprints, smoothed over the surface of the bed with a rake.'
'Where did they get a rake?'
'Where they got the spade and the gardening gloves,' said Poirot
impatiently. 'There is no difficulty about that.'
'What makes you think that they left that way though? Surely it is more
probable that they entered by the window, and left by the door?'
'That is possible, of course. Yet I have a strong idea that they left by the
window.'
'I think you are wrong.'
'Perhaps, mon ami.'
I mused, thinking over the new field of conjecture that Poirot's
deductions had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic
allusion to the flower-bed and the wristwatch. His remarks had seemed so
meaningless at the moment, and now, for the first time I realized how


remarkably, from a few slight incidents, he had unravelled much of the
mystery that surrounded the case. I paid a belated homage to my friend.
'In the meantime,' I said, considering, 'although we know a great deal
more than we did we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who killed Mr
Renauld.'
'No,' said Poirot cheerfully. 'In fact we are a great deal farther off.'
The fact seemed to afford him such peculiar satisfaction that I gazed at
him in wonder. He met my eye and smiled. Suddenly a light burst upon me.
'Poirot! Mrs Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.'
From the quietness with which Poirot received my mark, I could see
that the idea had already occurred to him.
'Yes,' he said thoughtfully. 'Shielding someone - or screening someone.
One of the two.'
Then, as we entered our hotel he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 13
THE GIRL WITH THE ANXIOUS EYES
We lunched with an excellent appetite. For a while we ate in silence,
and then Poirot observed maliciously:
'Eh bien! And your indiscretions! You recount them not?'
I felt myself blushing.
'Oh, you mean this morning?' I endeavoured to adopt a tone of absolute
nonchalance.
But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted
the whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.
'Tien! A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming
young lady?'
I had to confess that I did not know.
'Still more romantic! The first rencontre in the train from Paris, the
second here. Journeys end in lovers' meetings, is not that the saying?'
'Don't be an ass, Poirot.'
'Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle -
Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should
establish a harem!'
'It's all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very beautiful
girl, and I do admire her immensely - I don't mind admitting it. The other's
nothing - I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.'
'You do not propose to see the lady again?'
His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness
with which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, written large in
letters of fire, I saw the words 'Hôtel du Phare', and I heard again her voice
saying, ' Come and look me up', and my own answering with empressement
'I will.'
I answered Poirot lightly enough:
'She asked me to look her up, but, of course, I shan't.'
'Why “of course”?'
'Well, I don't want to.'
'Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d'Angleterre you told
me, did you not?'
'No. Hôtel du Phare.'
'True, I forgot.'


A moment's misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never
mentioned any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him and felt reassured. He
was cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his
task. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.
We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny
cigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket.
'The train to Paris leaves at 2.25,' he observed. 'I should be starting.'
'Paris?' I cried.
'That is what I said, mon ami.'
'You are going to Paris? But why?'
He replied very seriously:
'To look for the murderer of Monsieur Renauld.'
'You think he is in Paris?'
'I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must look
for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good time.
Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long. In
all probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should
accompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the
society of Monsieur Renauld fils.'
'That reminds me,' I said. 'I meant to ask you how you knew about those
two?'
'Mon ami - I know human nature. Throw together a boy like young
Renauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe and the result is
almost inevitable. Then, the quarrel. It was money, or a woman, and,
remembering Léonie's description of the lad's anger, I decided on the latter.
So I made my guess - and I was right.'
'You already suspected that she loved young Renauld?'
Poirot smiled.
'At any rate, I saw that anxious eyes. That is how I always think of
Mademoiselle Daubreuil - the girl with the anxious eyes.'
His voice was so grave that it impressed me uncomfortably.
'What do you mean by that, Poirot?'
'I fancy, my friend, that we shall see before very long. But I must start.'
'I will come and see you off,' I said, rising.
'You will do nothing of the sort. I forbid it.'
He was so peremptory that I stared at him in surprise. He nodded
emphatically.


'I mean it, mon ami. Au revoir.'
I felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down to the
beach and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join
them. I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself among
them in some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled
aimlessly along the sands towards the farther end of the town. It occurred to
me that, after all, it would only be decent feeling on my part to inquire after
the girl. And it would save trouble in the end. The matter would then be
finished with. There would be no need for me to trouble about her any
further. But if I did not go at all, she might quite possibly come and look me
up at the Villa.
Accordingly, I left the beach, and walked inland. I soon found the Hôtel
du Phare, a very unpretentious building.
It was annoying in the extreme not to know the lady's name and, to save
my dignity, I decided to stroll inside and look around. Probably I should
find her in the lounge. I went in, but there was no sign of her. I waited for
some time, till my impatience got the better of me, I took the concierge
aside and slipped five francs into his hand.
'I wish to see a lady who is staying here. A young English lady, small
and dark. I am not sure of her name.'
The man shook his head and seemed to be suppressing a grin.
'There is no such lady as you describe staying here.'
'But the lady told me she was staying here.'
'Monsieur must have made a mistake - or it is more likely the lady did,
since there has been another gentleman here inquiring for her.'
'What is that you say?' I cried, surprised.
'But yes, monsieur. A gentleman who described her just as you have
done.'
'What was he like?'
'He was a small gentleman, well dressed, very neat, very spotless, the
moustache very stiff, the head of a peculiar shape, and the eyes green.'
Poirot! So that was why he refused to let me accompany him to the
station. The impertinence of it! I would thank him not to meddle in my
concerns. Did he fancy I needed a nurse to look after me?
Thanking the man, I departed, somewhat at a loss, and still much
incensed with my meddlesome friend.


But where was the lady? I set aside my wrath and tried to puzzle it out.
Evidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then
another thought struck me. Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately
withheld her name and given me the wrong address?
The more I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that this last
surmise of mine was right. For some reason or other she did not wish to let
the acquaintance ripen into friendship. And, though half an hour earlier this
had been precisely my own view, I did not enjoy having the tables turned
upon me. The whole affair was profoundly unsatisfactory, and I went up to
the Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct ill burnout. I did not go to the
house, but went up the path to the little bench by the shed, and sat there
moodily enough.
I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand.
In a second or two I realized that they came, not from the garden I was in,
but from the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were
approaching rapidly. A girl's voice was speaking, a voice that I recognized
as that of the beautiful Marthe.
'Chéri,' she was saying, 'is it really true? Are all our troubles over?'
'You know it, Marthe,' Jack Renauld replied. 'Nothing can part us now,
beloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can take you
from me.'
'Nothing?' the girl murmured. 'Oh, Jack, Jack - I am afraid.'
I had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally
eavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in
the hedge. They stood together facing me, the man's arm round the girl, his
eyes looking into hers. They were a splendid-looking couple, the dark, well-
knit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as
they stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed
their young lives.
But the girl's face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize
it, as he held her closer to him and asked:
'But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to fear?'
And then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as
she murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words:
'I am afraid - for you.'
I did not hear young Renauld's answer, for my attention was distracted
by an unusual appearance a little farther down the hedge. There appeared to


be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in
the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown
bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It
was Giraud.
Enjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of
earshot.
'What were you doing there?' I asked.
'Exactly what you were doing - listening.'
'But I was not there on purpose!'
'Ah!' said Giraud. 'I was.'
As always, I admired the man while disliking him. He looked me up and
down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.
'You didn't help matters by butting in. I might have heard something
useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil.'
'Monsieur Poirot has gone to Paris,' I replied coldly.
Giraud snapped his fingers disdainfully. 'So he has gone to Paris, has
he? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there the better. But what does
he think he will find there?'
I thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.
'That I am not at liberty to say,' I said quietly.
Giraud subjected me to a piercing stare.
'He has probably enough sense not to tell you,' he remarked rudely.
'Good afternoon. I'm busy.' And with that he turned on his heel, and left me
without ceremony.
Matters seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève. Giraud evidently
did not desire my company and, from what I had seen, it seemed fairly
certain that Jack Renauld did not either.
I went back to the town, had an enjoyable bathe, and returned to the
hotel. I turned in early, wondering whether the following day would bring
forth anything of interest. I was wholly unprepared for what it did bring
forth. I was eating my petit déjeuner in the dining-room, when the waiter,
who had been talking to someone outside, came back in obvious
excitement. He hesitated for a minute, fidgeting with his napkin, and then
burst out:
'Monsieur will pardon me, but he is connected, is he not, with the affair
at the Villa Geneviève?'
'Yes,' I said eagerly. 'Why?'


'Monsieur has not heard the news, though?'
'What news?'
'That there has been another murder there last night!'
'What?'
Leaving my breakfast, I caught up my hat and ran as fast as I could.
Another murder - and Poirot away! What fatality! But who had been
murdered?
I dashed in at the gate. A group of servants were in the drive, talking
and gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.
'What has happened?'
'Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse
upon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for Monsieur le
Curé to bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that
roof. It might be my turn - who knows?'
She crossed herself.
'Yes,' I cried, 'but who has been killed?'
'Do I know - me? A man - a stranger. They found him up there - in the
shed - not a hundred yards from where they found poor Monsieur. And that
is not all. He is stabbed - stabbed in the heart with that dagger!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 14
THE SECOND BODY
Not waiting for anything else, I turned and ran along the trail that led to
the shed. The two men who were guarding the door stepped aside to let me
through. I entered the shed very excited.
It was quite dark inside. It was a rustic wooden building to keep old
pottery and gardening tools. I had stormed in, but slowed down and stopped
on the treshold, fascinated by what I saw.
Giraud was on his fours, a lantern in his hand, searching meticulously
every inch of the ground. He raised his head with a frown when he heard
me coming in. Then he relaxed, and said with an amused expression:
'Ah, c'est l'Anglais! Do come in! Let's see what you can find out!'
Annoyed by his tone of voice, I lowered my head and entered the shed.
'There it is,' said Giraud, pointing his lantern at a corner of the shed.
I went over there.
The dead man was on his back. He was of medium height, dark skin,
possibly in his fifties. He was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue well-cut
suit. The face was terribly convulsed. On the left side, a little over the heart,
there was the black shiny handle of a paper-knife. I recognised it
immediately. It was the same knife I had seen in the jar the morning before!
'The doctor is expected at any moment,' Giraud explained. 'But we
practically don't need him. There is no doubt about what killed the man. He
was stabbed through the heart and the death must have been instantaneous.'
'When did it happen? Last night?'
Giraud shook his head.
'Hardly. I like to wait always for the medical pronouncement, but I bet
that this man is dead for at least twelve hours. When did you see the knife
for the last time?'
'At ten in the morning.'
'In this case I think that the crime was commited not much later.'
'But there were people passing by all the time!'
Giraud gave an unpleasant laugh.
'Who said that the man was killed in this shed?'
I felt myself blushing.
'I - I - thought that -'


'Ah, but what a great detective! Look at him, mon petit! Do you think a
man stabbed through the heart falls this way with arms neatly beside him?
Of course not! And look here - and here -'
Giraud passed his lantern over the floor, revealing strange irregular
marks on it.
'He was dragged here after he was killed. Half dragged, half carried by
two people. Their footprints don't show on the hard soil outside, and in here
they took the precautions of destroying them. But there is always something
left. And I can assure you, my friend, that one of them was a woman.'
'A woman?'
'That's right.'
'But if the tracks were erased, how can you know?'
'I know it - by this!'
Giraud took something from the handle of the knife and held it up for
me. It was a woman's hair, long and black, the same as the one Poirot had
found on the chair in the library.
With an ironic smile he put the hair back on the knife.
'Let us leave things as they are, as far as possible,' he explained. 'It
pleases the examining magistrate. Well, do you notice anything else?'
I was forced to shake my head.
'Look at his hands.'
I did. The nails were broken and discoloured and the skin was hard. It
hardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I
looked up at Giraud.
'They are not the hands of a gentleman,' he said, answering my look. 'On
the contrary, his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is curious is it
not?'
'Very curious,' I agreed.
'And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This
man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was
masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by
disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know - he
was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.'
He looked down at the body again.
'As before, there are no fingerprints on the handle of the dagger. The
murderer again wore gloves.'


'You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?' I asked
eagerly.
Giraud became inscrutable.
'Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!'
The sergent de ville appeared at the door.
'Monsieur?'
'Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour
ago.'
'She is coming up the path now monsieur, and her son with her.'
'Good. I only want one at a time, though.'
Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared
with Mrs Renauld.
'Here is Madame.'
Giraud came forward with a curt bow.
'This way, madame.' He led her across, and then, standing suddenly
aside, 'Here is the man. Do you know him?'
And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like bored into her face, seeking to
read her mind - noting every indication of her expression.
But Mrs Renauld remained perfectly calm - too calm, I felt. She looked
down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of
agitation or recognition.
'No,' she said. 'I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to
me.'
'You are sure?'
'Quite sure.'
'You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?'
'No.' She seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. 'No, I do not
think so. Of course they wore beards - false ones the magistrate thought -
but still, no.' Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely, 'I am sure
neither of the two was this man.'
'Well then, madame, that is all.'
She went off with the sun making silver threads in her hair. Jack
Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man in a completely
natural manner.
Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could
not tell. He called to Marchaud. 'You have got the other there!'


“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting
with vehemence.
'I protest, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?'
'Madame,' said Giraud brutally, 'I am investigating not one murder, but
two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.'
'How dare you?' she cried. 'How dare you insult me by such a wild
accusation! It is infamous!'
'Infamous, is it? What about this?' Stooping, he again detached the hair,
and held it up. 'Do you see this, madame?'
He advanced towards her. 'You permit that I see whether it matches?'
With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.
'It is false, I swear it. I know nothing of the crime - of either crime.
Anyone who says I do lies! Ah, mon Dieu, what shall I do?'
'Calm yourself, madame,' said Giraud coldly. 'No one has accused you
as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.'
'Anything you wish, monsieur.'
'Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?'
Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame
Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and
curiosity. Then she shook her head.
'I do not know him.'
It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud
dismissed her with a nod of the head.
'You are letting her go?' I asked in a low voice. 'Is that wise? Surely that
black hair is from her head.'
'I do not need teaching my business,' said Giraud dryly. 'She is under
surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.'
Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.
'Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?' he asked suddenly.
I considered the face carefully.
'No,' I said at last. 'I should put him down as a Frenchman most
decidedly.'
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
'Same here.'
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved
me aside and once more, on hands and knees he continued his search of the
floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he


went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on
a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers,
and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested
him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went
back to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end he
rose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and
perplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence.
But at the moment a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old
friend, the examining magistrate accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex with
the doctor behind them, came bustling in.
'But this is extraordinary, Monsieur Giraud,' cried M. Hautet. 'Another
crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep
mystery here. But who is the victim this time?'
'That is just what nobody can tell us, monsieur. He has not been
identified.'
'Where is the body?' asked the doctor.
Giraud moved aside a little.
'There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And
with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder
followed hard upon the theft - but that is for you to say. You can handle the
dagger freely - there are no fingerprints on it.'
The doctor knelt down by the dead man and Giraud turned to the
examining magistrate.
'A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.'
'And so no one can identify him,' mused the magistrate. 'Could it
possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among
themselves.'
Giraud shook his head.
'The man is a Frenchman. I would take my oath of that.'
But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor, who was sitting
back on his heels with a perplexed expression.
'You say he was killed yesterday morning?'
'I fix it by the theft of the dagger,' explained Giraud. 'He may, of course,
have been killed later in the day.'
'Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least forty-
eight hours, and probably longer.'
We stared at each other in blank amazement.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 15
A PHOTOGRAPH
The doctor's words were so surprising that we were all momentarily
taken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have
been stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr Durand asserted
positively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing
was fantastic to the last extreme.
We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor's announcement
when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to
the Villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the
train arriving at Merlinville at 12.28.
I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to
the station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance
that he should know at once of the new and startling developments in the
case.
Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he
wanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved that. Very few hours
had sufficed. I wondered how he would take the exciting news I had to
impart.
The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down
the platform until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a
few questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening
of the tragedy.
I approached the chief porter, an intelligent-looking man, and had little
difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to
the police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands or assassins should be
allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility
they might have left by the midnight train but he negatived the idea
decidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners - he was sure of it. Only
about twenty people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to
observe them.
I do not know what put the idea into my head - possibly it was the deep
anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil's tones - but I asked suddenly:
'Young Monsieur Renauld - he did not leave by that train, did he?'
'Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it
would not be amusing, that!'


I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me.
Then I saw.
'You mean,' I said, my heart beating a little, 'that Monsieur Jack Renauld
arrived at Merlinville that evening?'
'But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the 11.40.'
My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe's poignant
anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. But
why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that
he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish
countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that be had any
connection with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about so vital a
matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along. Hence her
anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot as to whether anyone was
suspected.
My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in
another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He
beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced
me warmly on the platform.
'Mon cher ami! I have succeeded - but succeeded to a marvel!'
'Indeed? I'm delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?'
'How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some
developments, eh? The brave Giraud he has made an arrest? Or even arrests
perhaps? Ah, but I make him look foolish, that one! But where are you
taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I
attend to my moustaches - they are deplorably limp from the heat of
travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I
must rearrange.'
I cut short his remonstrances.
'My dear Poirot - never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at once.
There has been another murder!'
Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the
jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.
'What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, but I am all wrong. I
have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me - he will have reason!'
'You did not expect it, then?'
'I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory - it ruins
everything - it - Ah, no!' He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest.


'It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts, taken methodically, and in
their proper order, admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I am
right!'
'But then -'
He interrupted me.
'Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is
impossible unless - unless - oh wait, I implore you. Say no word.'
He was silent for a moment or two, then resuming his normal manner,
he said in a quiet assured voice:
'The victim is a man of middle age. His body was found in the locked
shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight
hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to
Mr Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.'
It was my turn to stare open-mouthed. In my knowledge of Poirot he
had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably a doubt
crossed my mind.
'Poirot,' I cried, 'you're pulling my leg. You've heard all about it already.'
He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.
'Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing
whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?'
'But how on earth could you know all that?'
'I was right, then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the
little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have
been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can
take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the
Villa Geneviève much more quickly.'
As we walked, taking the way he had indicated I recounted all I knew.
Poirot listened attentively.
'The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it
was the same one?'
'Absolutely certain. That's what makes it so impossible.'
'Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.'
I raised my eyebrows.
'Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most
extraordinary coincidence.'
'You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two
identical weapons would be highly improbable. But not here. This


particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld's
orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he
should have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for
his own use.'
'But nobody has mentioned such a thing,' I objected.
A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot's tone.
'My friend, in working upon a case, one does not take into account only
the things that are “mentioned”. There is no reason to mention many things
which may be important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for not
mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.'
I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought
us to the famous shed. We found all our friends there, and after an
interchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task.
Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot
bestowed but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he
examined was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile
rose to Giraud's lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down
again.
'Old clothes of the gardener's?' he queried.
'Exactly,' said Giraud.
Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical.
He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were
no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and
broken fingernails. While examining the latter he threw a quick question at
Giraud.
'You saw them?'
'Yes, I saw them,' replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.
Suddenly Poirot stiffened.
'Dr Durand!'
'Yes?' The doctor came forward.
'There is foam on the lips. You observed it?'
'I didn't notice it, I must admit.'
'But you observe it now?'
'Oh, certainly.'
Poirot again shot a question at Giraud.
'You noticed it without doubt?'


The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been
withdrawn from the wound. It stood in a glass jar by the side of the body.
Poirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up
his eyes were shining.
'It is a strange wound this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the
clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all. What do
you think monsieur docteur?'
'I can only say that it is most abnormal.'
'It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed after he
was already dead.' And stilling the clamour of voices that arose with a wave
of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added: 'M. Giraud agrees with me
do you not, monsieur?'
Whatever Giraud's real belief, he accepted the position without moving
a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he answered:
'Certainly. I agree.'
The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.
'But what an idea!' cried M. Hautet. 'To stab a man after he is dead!
Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate perhaps.'
'No,' said Poirot. 'I should fancy it was done quite cold-bloodedly - to
create an impression.'
'What impression?'
'The impression it nearly did create,' returned Poirot oracularly.
M. Bex had been thinking.
'How, then, was the man killed?'
'He was not killed. He died. He died, if I am not much mistaken, of an
epileptic fit!'
This statement of Poirot's again aroused considerable excitement. Dr
Durand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he
rose to his feet.
'Monsieur Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your
assertion. The incontrovertible fact that the man had been stabbed distracted
my attention from any other indications.'
Poirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse
in compliments. Poirot responded fully, and then excused himself on the
pretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched and that he wished to repair the
ravages of the journey. As we were about to leave the shed, Giraud
approached us.


'One other thing, Monsieur Poirot,' he said in his suave mocking voice.
'We found this coiled round the handle of the dagger - a woman's hair.'
'Ah,' said Poirot. 'A woman's hair? What woman's, I wonder?'
'I wonder also,' said Giraud. Then with a bow he left us.
'He was insistent the good Giraud,' said Poirot thoughtfully, as we
walked towards the hotel. 'I wonder in what direction he hopes to mislead
me? A woman's hair - h'm!'
We lunched heartily, but I found Poirot somewhat distrait and
inattentive. Afterwards we went up to our sitting-room and there I begged
him to tell me something of his mysterious journey to Paris.
'Willingly, my friend. I went to Paris to find this!'
He took from his pocket a small faded newspaper cutting. It was the
reproduction of a woman's photograph. He handed it to me. I uttered an
exclamation.
'You recognize it, my friend?'
I nodded. Although the photo obviously dated from very many years
hack, and the hair was dressed in a different style, the likeness was
unmistakable.
'Madame Daubreuil!' I exclaimed.
Poirot shook his head with a smile.
'Not quite correct, my friend. She did not call herself by that name in
those days. That is a picture of the notorious Madame Beroldy!'
Madame Beroldy! In a flash the whole thing came back to me. The
murder trial that had evoked such world-wide interest.
The Beroldy Case.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 16
THE BEROLDY CASE
Some twenty years or so before the opening of the present story,
Monsieur Arnold Beroldy, a native of Lyons, arrived in Paris accompanied
by his pretty wife and their little daughter, a mere babe. Monsieur Beroldy
was a junior partner in a firm of wine merchants, a stout middle-aged man,
fond of the good things of life, devoted to his charming wife, and altogether
unremarkable in every way. The firm in which Monsieur Beroldy was a
partner was a small one and, although doing well, it did not yield a large
income to the junior partner. The Beroldys had a small apartment and lived
in a very modest fashion to begin with.
But, unremarkable though Monsieur Beroldy might be, his wife was
plentifully gilded with the brush of Romance. Young and good-looking, and
gifted with a singular charm of manner, Madame Beroldy at once created a
stir in the quarter, especially when it began to be whispered that some
interesting mystery surrounded her birth. It was rumoured that she was the
illegitimate daughter of a Russian Grand Duke. Others asserted that it was
an Austrian Arch-duke, and that the union was legal, though morganatic.
But all stories agreed upon one point, that Jeanne Beroldy was the centre of
an interesting mystery.
Among the friends and acquaintances of the Beroldys was a young
lawyer, Georges Conneau. It was soon evident that the fascinating Jeanne
had completely enslaved his heart. Madame Beroldy encouraged the young
man in a discreet fashion, but always being careful to affirm her complete
devotion to her middle-aged husband. Nevertheless, many spiteful persons
did not hesitate to declare that young Conneau was her lover - and not the
only one!
When the Beroldys had been in Paris about three months another
personage came upon the scene. This was Mr Hiram P. Trapp, a native of
the United States, and extremely wealthy. Introduced to the charming and
mysterious Madame Beroldy, he fell a prompt victim to her fascinations.
His admiration was obvious, though strictly respectful. About this time,
Madame Beroldy became more outspoken in her confidences. To several
friends, she declared herself greatly worried on her husband's behalf. She
explained that he had been drawn into several schemes of a political nature,
and also referred to some important papers that had been entrusted to him


for safe-keeping and which concerned a 'secret' of far-reaching European
importance. They had been entrusted to his custody to throw pursuers off
the track, but Madame Beroldy was nervous, having recognized several
important members of the Revolutionary Circle in Paris.
On the 28th day of November the blow fell. The woman who came
daily to clean and cook for the Beroldys was surprised to find the door of
the apartment standing wide open. Hearing faint moans issuing from the
bedroom, she went in. A terrible sight met her eyes. Madame Beroldy lay
on the floor bound hand and foot, uttering feeble moans, having managed to
free her mouth from a gag. On the bed was Monsieur Beroldy, lying in a
pool of blood, with a knife driven through his heart.
Madame Beroldy's story was clear enough. Suddenly awakened from
sleep, she had discerned two masked men bending over her. Stifling her
cries, they had bound and gagged her. They had then demanded of
Monsieur Beroldy the famous 'secret'.
But the intrepid wine merchant refused point-blank to accede to their
request. Angered by his refusal, one of the men stabbed him through the
heart. With the dead man's keys, they had opened the safe in the corner, and
had carried away with them a mass of papers. Both men were heavily
bearded, and had worn masks, but Madame Beroldy declared positively that
they were Russians.
The affair created an immense sensation. Time went on, and the
mysterious bearded men were never traced. And then, just as public interest
was beginning to die down, a startling development occurred: Madame
Beroldy was arrested and charged with the murder of her husband. The trial,
when it came on, aroused widespread interest.
The youth and beauty of the accused, and her mysterious story, were
sufficient to make of it a cause célèbre.
It was proved beyond doubt that Jeanne Beroldy's parents were a highly
respectable and prosaic couple, fruit merchants who lived on the outskirts
of Lyons. The Russian Grand Duke, the court intrigues, and the political
schemes - all the stories about were traced back to the lady herself!
Remorselessly, the whole story of her life was laid bare. The motive for the
murder was found in Mr Hiram P. Trapp. Mr Trapp did his best, but,
relentlessly and agilely cross-questioned, he was forced to admit that he
loved the lady, and that, had she been free, he would have asked her to be
his wife. The fact that the relations between them were admittedly platonic


strengthened the case against the accused. Debarred from becoming his
mistress by the simple honourable nature of the man, Jeanne Beroldy had
conceived the monstrous project of ridding herself of her elderly,
undistinguished husband and becoming the wife of the rich American.
Throughout, Madame Beroldy confronted her accusers with complete
sang-froid and self-possession. Her story never varied. She continued to
declare strenuously that she was of royal birth and that she had been
substituted for the daughter of the fruit-seller at an early age. Absurd and
completely unsubstantiated as these statements were, a great number of
people believed implicitly in their truth.
But the prosecution was implacable. It denounced the masked 'Russians'
as a myth, and asserted that the crime had been committed by Madame
Beroldy and her lover, Georges Conneau. A warrant was issued for the
arrest of the latter, but he had wisely disappeared. Evidence showed that the
bonds which secured Madame Beroldy were so loose that she could easily
have freed herself.
And then, towards the close of the trial, a letter, posted in Paris, was
sent to the Public Prosecutor. It was from Georges Conneau and, without
revealing his whereabouts, it contained a full confession of the crime. He
declared that he had indeed struck the fatal blow at Madame Beroldy's
instigation. The crime had been planned between them. Believing that her
husband ill-treated her, and maddened by his own passion for her, a passion
which he believed her to return, he had planned the crime and struck the
fatal blow that should free the woman he loved from a hateful bondage.
Now, for the first time, he learnt of Mr Hiram P. Trapp, and realized that
the woman he loved had betrayed him! Not for his sake did she wish to be
free, but in order to marry the wealthy American. She had used him as a
cat's paw, and now, in his jealous rage, he turned and denounced her,
declaring that throughout he had acted at her instigation.
And then Madame Beroldy proved herself the remarkable woman she
undoubtedly was. Without hesitation, she dropped her previous defence,
and admitted that the 'Russians' were a pure invention on her part. The real
murderer was Georges Conneau. Maddened by passion, he had committed
the crime, vowing that if she did not keep silence he would exact a terrible
vengeance from her. Terrified by his threats, she had consented - also
fearing it likely that if she told the truth she might be accused of conniving
at the crime, but she had steadfastly refused to have anything more to do


with her husband's murderer, and it was in revenge for this attitude on her
part that he had written this letter accusing her.
She swore solemnly that she had had nothing to do with the planning of
the crimes - that she had awoke on that memorable night to find Georges
Conneau standing over her, the blood-stained knife in his hand.
It was a touch-and-go affair. Madame Beroldy's story was hardly
credible. But her address to the jury was a masterpiece. The tears streaming
down her face, she spoke of her child - of her woman's honour - of her
desire to keep her reputation untarnished for the child's sake. She admitted
that, Georges Conneau having been her lover, she might perhaps be held
morally responsible for the crime - but, before God, nothing more! She
knew that she had committed a grave fault in not denouncing Conneau to
the law but she declared in a broken voice that that was a thing no woman
could have done. She had loved him! Could she let her hand be the one to
send him to the guillotine? She had been guilty of much, but she was
innocent of the terrible crime imputed to her.
However that may have been, her eloquence and personality won the
day. Madame Beroldy, amidst a scene of unparalleled excitement, was
acquitted.
Despite the utmost endeavours of the police, Georges Conneau was
never traced. As for Madame Beroldy, nothing more was heard of her.
Taking the child with her, she left Paris to begin a new life.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 17
WE MAKE FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS
I have set down the Beroldy case in full. Of course all the details did not
present themselves to my memory as I have recounted them here.
Nevertheless, I recalled the case fairly accurately. It had attracted a great
deal of interest at the time, and had been fully reported by the English
papers, so that it did not need much effort of memory on my part to
recollect the salient details.
Just for the moment, in my excitement, it seemed to clear up the whole
matter. I admit that I am impulsive, and Poirot deplores my custom of
jumping to conclusions, but I think I had some excuse in this instance. The
remarkable way in which this discovery justified Poirot's point of view
struck me at once.
'Poirot,' I said 'I congratulate you. I see everything now.'
Poirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he
looked up.
'And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it that you
see?'
'Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil - Beroldy - who murdered Mr
Renauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.'
'Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly acquitted? That
in actual fact she was guilty of connivance in her husband's murder?'
I opened my eyes wide.
'Of course! Don't you?'
Poirot walked to the end of the room, absent-mindedly straightened a
chair, and then said thoughtfully:
'Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no “of course” about it, my friend.
Technically speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.'
'Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.'
Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked
than ever.
'So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil
murdered Monsieur Renauld?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.


'Why?' I stammered. 'Why? Oh, because -' I came to a stop.
Poirot nodded his head at me.
'You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame
Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness' sake) murder Monsieur
Renauld? We can find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his
death; considered as either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You
cannot have a murder without motive. The first crime was different - there
we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband's shoes.'
'Money is not the only motive for murder,' I objected.
'True,' agreed Poirot placidly. 'There are two others, the crime
passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea
which implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the
murderer. Homicidal mania and religious fanaticism belong to that class.
We can rule it out here.'
'But what about the crime passionnel? Can you rule that out? If Madame
Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, if she found that his affection was
cooling, or if her jealousy was aroused in any way, might she not have
struck him down in a moment of anger?'
Poirot shook his head.
'If - I say if, you note - Madame Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, he
had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character.
She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a
magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her
appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she has been cold-blooded and
calculating in her motives and actions. It was not to link her life with that of
her young lover that she contrived at her husband's murder. The rich
American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective.
If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was
no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That
was a man's work.'
'She might have had an accomplice,' I suggested, unwilling to relinquish
my belief.
'I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between
the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?'
I stared at him in astonishment.
'Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked
men, the “secret”, the papers!'


Poirot smiled a little.
'Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The similarity
of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on
something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale -
if it were, all would indeed be plain sailing - it is Madame Renauld. Is she
then in league with the other?'
'I can't believe that,' I said slowly. 'If she is, she must be the most
consummate actress the world has ever known.'
'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot impatiently. 'Again you have the sentiment and not
the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then
by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Mrs
Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some
of which I have already presented. The others are more evident. So, having
discarded this possibility, we come very close to the truth, which is
extremely curious and interesting, as it always happens.'
'What else do you know, Poirot?'
'You must make your own deductions, mon ami. You had access to the
facts! Put your grey cells to work. Think... not like Giraud, but like Hercule
Poirot.'
'But do you know?'
'My friend, I have been a fool about many things. But, at last, I see
clearly.'
'Do you know everything?'
'I found out what M. Renauld called me to find out.'
'And you know who the murderer is?'
'I know who the murderer is.'
'How?'
'I think we are talking about different things. There is not only one
crime, but two. The first I solved. The second - eh bien, I confess I am not
sure yet!'
'But I thought you said the man in the shed died of natural causes.'
'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot. 'You still don't understand. You may have one
crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential that you have
two bodies.'
This observation of Poirot's seemed so strange to me, that I gazed at him
with some anxiety. But he seemed perfectly normal. Suddenly he stood up
and went to the window, saying:


'There he comes.'
'Who?'
'M. Jack Renauld. I sent him a note asking him to come here.'
This changed entirely the course of my thoughts. I asked Poirot if he
knew that Jack Renauld had been at Merlinville on the night of the crime. I
had hoped to catch my astute little friend napping, but as usual he was
omniscient. He, too, had inquired at the station.
'And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The
excellent Giraud, he also has probably made inquiries.'
'You don't think -' I said and then stopped. 'Ah no, it would be too
horrible!'
Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred
to me that though there were seven women, directly and indirectly
connected with the case - Mrs Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her
daughter, the mysterious visitor and the three servants - there was, with the
exception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man - Jack
Renauld. And only a man could have dug the grave.
I had no time to develop farther the appalling idea that had occurred to
me, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.
Poirot greeted him in business-like manner.
'Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will
perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the Villa is not too congenial to
me. Monsieur Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His
politeness to me has not been striking, and you will comprehend that I do
not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.'
'Exactly, Monsieur Poirot' said the lad. 'That fellow Giraud is an ill-
conditioned brute, and I'd be delighted to see someone score at his expense.'
'Then I may ask a little favour of you?'
'Certainly.'
'I will ask you to go to he railway station and take a train to the next
station along the line, Abbalac. Ask at the cloak-room whether two
foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small
station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?'
'Of course I will,' said the boy mystified, though ready for the task.
'I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,' explained
Poirot. 'There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to


return to the Villa as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your
errand.'
'Very well, I will go straight to the station.'
He rose to his feet. Poirot's voice stopped him:
'One moment, Monsieur Renauld - there is one little matter that puzzles
me. Why did you not mention to Monsieur Hautet this morning that you
were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?'
Jack Renauld's face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.
'You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg as I told the examining
magistrate this morning.'
Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed cat-like until they only showed
a gleam of green.
'Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there - for it is shared by
the station staff. They say you arrived by the 11.40 train.'
For a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.
'And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating
in my father's murder?' He asked the question haughtily, his head thrown
back.
'I should like an explanation of the reason that brought you here.'
'That is simple enough. I came to see my fiancée, Mademoiselle
Daubreuil. I was on the eve of a long voyage, uncertain as to when I should
return. I wished to see her before I went, to assure her of my unchanging
devotion.'
'And did you see her?' Poirot's eyes never left the other's face.
There was an appreciable pause before Renauld replied. Then he said:
'Yes.'
'And after?'
'I found I had missed the last train. I walked to St Beauvais, where I
knocked up a garage and got a car to take me back to Cherbourg.'
'St Beauvais? That is fifteen kilometres. A long walk, M. Renauld.'
'I - I felt like walking.'
Poirot bowed his head as a sign that he accepted the explanation. Jack
Renauld took up his hat and cane and departed. In a trice Poirot jumped to
his feet.
'Quick, Hastings. We will go after him.'
Keeping a discreet distance behind our quarry, we followed him through
the streets of Merlinville. But when Poirot saw that he took the turning to


the station he checked himself.
'All is well. He has taken the bait. He will go to Abbalac, and will
inquire for the mythical valise left by the mythical foreigners. Yes, mon
ami, all that was a little invention of mine.'
'You wanted him out of the way!' I exclaimed.
'Your penetration is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go
up to the Villa Geneviève.'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 18
GIRAUD ACTS
We went back by the road in the heat.
'I was forgetting to tell you something, Poirot. I have a complaint to
make. I know your intentions were good, but you shouldn't go and
investigate at the Hôtel du Phare without at least telling me.'
Poirot threw me a quick glance before asking:
'And how do you know I was there?'
I felt that I was growing red in the face.
'I happened to pass by and asked,' I explained with all the dignity I
could muster.
I feared that Poirot would laugh but, to my relief, he only shook his
head in unexpected earnestness.
'If I have offended you in any way, I ask you to forgive me. Soon you
will understand better.'
'No problem,' I murmured, soothed by the apologies. 'I know you did it
because you were concerned for me. But I can look after myself.'
It seemed that Poirot had something more to say, but then he changed
his mind and remained silent.
Arriving at the Villa Poirot led the way up to the shed where the second
body had been discovered. He did not, however, go in, but paused by the
bench which I have mentioned before as being set some few yards away
from it. After contemplating it for a moment or two, he paced carefully
from it to the hedge which marked the boundary between the Villa
Geneviève and the Villa Marguerite. Then he paced back again, nodding his
head as he did so. Returning again to the hedge, he parted the bushes with
his hands.
'With good luck,' he remarked to me over his shoulder, 'Mademoiselle
Marthe may find herself in the garden. I desire to speak to her and would
prefer not to call formally at the Villa Marguerite. Ah, all is well, there she
is. Pst, Mademoiselle! Pst! Un moment, s'il vous plaît.'
I joined him at the moment that Marthe Daubreuil, looking slightly
startled, came running up to the hedge at his call.
'A little word with you mademoiselle, if it is permitted?'
'Certainly, Monsieur Poirot.'
Despite her acquiescence, her eyes looked troubled and afraid.


'Mademoiselle, do you remember running after me on the road the day
that I came to your house with the examining magistrate? You asked me if
anyone was suspected of the crime.'
'And you told me two Chileans.' Her voice sounded rather breathless,
and her left hand stole to her breast.
'Will you ask me the same question again, mademoiselle?'
'What do you mean?'
'This. If you were to ask me that question again, I should give you a
different answer. Someone is suspected - but not a Chilean.'
'Who?' The word came faintly between her parted lips.
'Monsieur Jack Renauld!'
'What?' It was a cry. 'Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?'
'Giraud.'
'Giraud!' The girl's face was ashy. 'I am afraid of that man. He is cruel.
He will - he will -' She broke off. There was courage gathering in her face
and determination. I realized in that moment that she was a fighter. Poirot
too, watched her intently.
'You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?' he
asked.
'Yes,' she replied mechanically. 'He told me.'
'It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,' ventured Poirot.
'Yes, yes' she replied impatiently. 'But we cannot waste time on regrets.
We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course; but that will
not help him with a man like Giraud, who has his reputation to think of. He
must arrest someone, and that someone will be Jack.'
'The facts will tell against him,' said Poirot. 'You realize that?'
She faced him squarely.
'I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face. He
is innocent, and we must save him.'
She spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as
she thought.
'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, observing her keenly, 'is there not
something that you are keeping back that you could tell us?'
She nodded perplexedly.
'Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe it -
it seems so absurd.'
'At any rate, tell us, mademoiselle.'


'It is this. M. Giraud sent for me, as an afterthought, to see if I could
identify the man in there.' She signed with her head towards the shed. 'I
could not. At least I could not at the moment. But since I have been
thinking -'
'Well?'
'It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the
morning of the day Monsieur Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the
garden here, when I heard a sound of men's voices quarrelling. I pushed
aside the bushes and looked through. One of the men was Monsieur
Renauld and the other was a tramp, a dreadful-looking creature in filthy
rags. He was alternately whining and threatening. I gathered he was asking
for money, but at that moment maman called me from the house, and I had
to go. That is all, only I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead man in
the shed are one and the same.'
Poirot uttered an exclamation.
'But why did you not say so at the time, mademoiselle?'
'Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar in
some way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged to a
superior station in life.'
A voice called from the house.
'Maman,' whispered Marthe. 'I must go.' And she slipped away through
the trees.
'Come,' said Poirot, and taking my arm, he turned in the direction of the
Villa.
'What do you really think?' I asked in some curiosity. 'Was that story
true, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from her lover?'
'It is a curious tale,' said Poirot 'but I believe it to be the absolute truth.
Unwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on another point - and
incidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you notice his hesitation when I
asked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on the night of the crime? He paused
and then said “Yes”. I suspected that he was lying. It was necessary for me
to see Mademoiselle Marthe before he could put her on her guard. Three
little words gave me the information I wanted. When I asked her if she
knew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered, “He told me”.
Now, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening,
and if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?'


'Surely, Poirot,' I cried, aghast, 'you cannot believe that a boy like that
would murder his own father!'
'Mon ami,' said Poirot. 'You continue to be of a sentimentality
unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the
sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.'
'And the motive?'
'Money of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would
come into half his father's fortune at the latter's death.'
'But the tramp. Where does he come in?'
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'Giraud would say that he was an accomplice - an apache who helped
young Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of
the way afterwards.'
'But the hair round the dagger? The woman's hair?'
'Ah!' said Poirot, smiling broadly. 'That is the cream of Giraud's little
jest. According to it is not a woman's hair at all. Remember that the youths
of today wear their hair brushed straight back from the forehead with
pomade or hair wash to make it lie flat. Consequently some of the hairs are
of considerable length.'
'And you believe that too?'
'No,' said Poirot, with a curious smile. 'For I know it to be the hair of a
woman - and more, which woman!'
'Madame Daubreuil,' I announced positively.
'Perhaps,' said Poirot, regarding me quizically. But I refused to allow
myself to get annoyed.
'What are we going to do now?' I asked, as we entered the hall of the
Villa Geneviève.
'I wish to make a search among the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That is
why I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.'
Neatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined
the contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a singularly
dull and uninteresting proceeding. Poirot waded on through collars,
pyjamas, and socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the window.
Instantly I became galvanized into life.
'Poirot!' I cried. 'A car has just driven up. Giraud is in it, and Jack
Renauld, and two gendarmes.'


'Sacré tonnerre!' growled Poirot. 'That animal of a Giraud, could he not
wait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this last drawer with the
proper method. Let us be quick.'
Unceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and
handkerchiefs. Suddenly, with a cry of triumph, Poirot pounced on
something, a small square of card-board, evidently a photograph. Thrusting
it into his pocket, he returned the things pell-mell to the drawer, and seizing
me by the arm dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. In the hall
stood Giraud, contemplating his prisoner.
'Good afternoon, Monsieur Giraud,' said Poirot. 'What have we here?'
Giraud nodded his head towards Jack.
'He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He's
under arrest for the murder of his father, Monsieur Paul Renauld.'
Poirot wheeled round to confront the boy, who was leaning limply
against the door, his face ashy pale.
'What do you say to that, jeune homme?'
Jack Renauld stared at him stonily.
'Nothing,' he said.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 19
I USE MY GREY CELLS
I was dumbfounded. Up to the last, I had not been able to bring myself
to believe Jack Renauld guilty. I had expected a ringing proclamation of his
innocence when Poirot challenged him. But now, watching him as he stood,
white and limp against the wall, and hearing the damning admission fall
from his lips, I doubted no longer.
But Poirot had turned to Giraud.
'What are your grounds for arresting him?'
'Do you expect me to give them to you?'
'As a matter of courtesy, yes.'
Giraud looked at him doubtfully. He was torn between a desire to refuse
rudely and the pleasure of triumphing over his adversary.
'You think I have made a mistake, I suppose?' he sneered.
'It would not surprise me,' replied Poirot, with a soupçon of malice.
Giraud's face took on a deeper tinge of red.
'Eh bien, come in here. You shall judge for yourself.'
He flung open the door of the salon, and we passed in, leaving Jack
Renauld in the care of the two other men.
'Now, Monsieur Poirot,' said Giraud, laying his hat on the table, and
speaking with the utmost sarcasm, 'I will treat you to a little lecture on
detective work. I will show how we moderns work.'
'Bien!' said Poirot, composing himself to listen. 'I will show you how
admirably the Old Guard can listen.' And he leaned back and closed his
eyes, opening them for a moment to remark: 'Do not fear that I shall sleep. I
will attend most carefully.'
'Of course,' began Giraud, 'I soon saw through all that Chilean
tomfoolery. Two men were in it - but they were not mysterious foreigners!
All that was a blind.'
'Very creditable so far, my dear Giraud,' murmured Poirot. 'Especially
after that clever trick of theirs with the match and cigarette end.'
Giraud glared, but continued.
'A man must have been connected with the case, in order to dig the
grave. There is no man who actually benefits by the crime, but there was a
man who thought he would benefit. I heard of Jack Renauld's quarrel with
his father, and of the threats that he had used. The motive was established.


Now as to means. Jack Renauld was in Merlinville that night. He concealed
the fact - which turned suspicion into certainty. Then we found a second
victim - stabbed with the same dagger. We know when that dagger was
stolen. Captain Hastings here can fix the time. Jack Renauld, arriving from
Cherbourg, was the only person who could have taken it. I have accounted
for all the other members of the household.'
Poirot interrupted.
'You are wrong. There is one other person who could have taken the
dagger.'
'You refer to Monsieur Stonor? He arrived at the front door, in an
automobile which had brought him straight from Calais. Ah! believe me, I
have looked into everything. Monsieur Jack Renauld arrived by train. An
hour elapsed between his arrival and the moment when he presented
himself at the house. Without doubt, he saw Captain Hastings and his
companion leave the shed, slipped in himself and took the dagger, stabbed
his accomplice in the shed -'
'Who was already dead!'
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
'Possibly he did not observe that. He may have judged him to be
sleeping. Without doubt they had a rendez-vous. In any case he knew this
apparent second murder would greatly complicate the case. It did.'
'But it could not deceive Monsieur Giraud,' murmured Poirot.
'You mock at me! But I will give you one last irrefutable proof. Madame
Renauld's story was false - a fabrication from beginning to end. We believe
Madame Renauld to have loved her husband - yet she lied to shield his
murderer. For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself, usually for
the man she loves, always for her children. That is the last - the irrefutable
proof. You cannot get round it.'
Giraud paused flushed and triumphant. Poirot regarded him steadily.
'That is my case,' said Giraud. 'What have you to say to it?'
'Only that there is one thing you have failed to take into account.'
'What is that?'
'Jack Renauld was presumably acquainted with the planning out of the
golf course. He knew that the body would be discovered almost at once
when they started to dig the bunker.'
Giraud laughed out loud.


'But it is idiotic what you say there! He wanted the body to be found!
Until it was found, he could not presume death and would have been unable
to enter into his inheritance.'
I saw a quick flash of green in Poirot's eyes as he rose to his feet.
'Then why bury it?' he asked very softly. 'Reflect, Giraud. Since it was
to Jack Renauld's advantage that the body should he found without delay,
why dig a grave at all?'
Giraud did not reply. The question found him unprepared. He shrugged
his shoulders as though to intimate that it was of no importance.
Poirot moved towards the door. I followed him.
'There is one more thing that you have failed to take into account,' he
said over his shoulder.
'What is that?'
'The piece of lead piping,' said Poirot, and left the room.
Jack Renauld still stood in the hall, with a white dumb face, but as we
came out of the salon he looked up sharply. At the same moment there was
the sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs Renauld was descending it. At
the sight of her son, standing between the two myrmidons of the law, she
stopped as though petrified.
'Jack,' she faltered. 'Jack, what is this?'
He looked up at her, his face set.
'They have arrested me, mother.'
'What?'
She uttered a piercing cry, and before anyone could get to her, swayed,
and fell heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute Poirot
stood up again.
'She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there is
slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he will have to
wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a week.'
Denise and Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their
charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head down, frowning
thoughtfully. For some time I did not speak, but at last I ventured to put a
question to him:
'Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that
Jack Renauld may not be guilty?'
Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely:


'I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud
is all wrong - wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it is in
spite of Giraud's arguments, not because of them. And the gravest
indictment against him is known only to me.'
'What is that?' I asked, impressed.
'If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I do,
you too would perceive it, my friend.'
This was what I called one of Poirot's irritating answers. He went on,
without waiting for me to speak:
'Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there,
overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know,
but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts -
not by my leading you by the hand.'
We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested,
looking out to sea.
'Think, my friend,' said Poirot's voice encouragingly. 'Arrange your
ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.'
I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of
the case. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot
into my brain. Tremblingly I built up my hypothesis.
'You have a little idea, I see, mon ami! Capital. We progress.'
I sat up, and lit a pipe.
'Poirot,' I said, 'it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say we -
although I dare say I would be nearer the mark. But you must pay the
penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been strangely
remiss. There is someone we have forgotten.'
'And who is that?' inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.
'Georges Conneau!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 20
AN AMAZING STATEMENT
The next moment Poirot embraced me warmly on the cheek.
'Enfin! You have arrived! And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue
your reasoning. You are right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget
Georges Conneau.'
I was so flattered by the little man's approval that I could hardly
continue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on.
'Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason
to believe that he is dead.'
'Aucunement,' agreed Poirot. 'Proceed.'
'Therefore we will assume that he is alive.'
'Exactly.'
'Or that he was alive until recently.'
'De mieux en mieux!'
'We will presume,' I continued, my enthusiasm rising, 'that he has fallen
on evil days. He has become a criminal, an apache, a tramp - a what you
will. He chances to come to Merlinville. There he finds the woman he has
never ceased to love.'
'Careful! The sentimentality,' warned Poirot.
'Where one hates one also loves,' I quoted or misquoted. 'At any rate he
finds her there, living under an assumed name. But she has a new lover, the
Englishman, Renauld. Georges Conneau, the memory of old wrongs rising
in him, quarreled with this Renauld. He lies in wait for him as he comes to
visit his mistress, and stabs him in the back. Then, terrified at what he has
done, he starts to dig a grave. I imagine it likely that Madame Daubreuil
comes out to look for her lover. She and Conneau have a terrible scene. He
drags her into the shed, and there suddenly falls down in an epileptic fit.
Now supposing Jack Renauld to appear. Madame Daubreuil tells him all,
points out to him the dreadful consequences to her daughter if this scandal
of the past is revived. His father's murderer is dead - let them do their best
to hush it up. Jack Renauld consents - goes to the house and has an
interview with his mother, winning her over to his point of view. Primed
with the story that Madame Daubreuil has suggested to him, she permits
herself to be gagged and bound. There, Poirot, what do you think of that?'
I leaned back, flushed with the pride of successful reconstruction.


Poirot looked at me thoughtfully.
'I think that you should write for the Kinema, mon ami,' he remarked at
last.
'You mean -'
'It would mean a good film, the story that you have recounted to me
there - but it bears no sort of resemblance to everyday life.'
'I admit that I haven't gone into all the details, but -'
'You have gone farther - you have ignored them magnificently. What
about the way the two men were dressed? Do you suggest that after
stabbing his victim, Conneau removed his suit of clothes, donned it himself,
and replaced the dagger?'
'I don't see that that matters,' I objected rather huffily. 'He may have
obtained clothes and money from Madame Daubreuil by threats earlier in
the day.'
'By threats - eh? You seriously advance that supposition?'
'Certainly. He could have threatened to reveal her identity to the
Renaulds, which would probably have put an end to all hopes of her
daughter's marriage.'
'You are wrong, Hastings. He could not blackmail her, for she had the
whip-hand. Georges Conneau, remember, is still wanted for murder. A word
from her and he is in danger of the guillotine.'
I was forced, rather reluctantly, to admit the truth of this.
'Your theory,' I remarked acidly, 'is doubtless correct as to all the
details?'
'My theory is the truth,' said Poirot quietly. 'And the truth is necessarily
correct. In your theory you made a fundamental error. You permitted your
imagination to lead you astray with midnight assignations and passionate
love scenes. But in investigating crime we must take our stand upon the
commonplace. Shall I demonstrate my methods to you?'
'Oh, by all means let us have a demonstration!'
Poirot sat very upright and began wagging his forefinger emphatically
to emphasize his points:
'I will start as you started from the basic fact of Georges Conneau. Now
the story told by Madame Beroldy in court as to the “Russians” was
admittedly a fabrication. If she was innocent of connivance in the crime, it
was concocted by her, and by her only as she stated. If, on the other hand,


she was not innocent, it might have been invented by either her or Georges
Conneau.
'Now, in this case we are investigating, we meet the same tale. As I
pointed out to you, the facts render it very unlikely that Madame Daubreuil
inspired it. So we turn to the hypothesis that the story had its origin in the
brain of Georges Conneau. Very good. Georges Conneau, therefore,
planned the crime, with Mrs Renauld as his accomplice. She is in the
limelight, and behind her is a shadowy figure whose present alias is
unknown to us.
'Now let us go carefully over the Renauld Case from the beginning,
setting down each significant point in its chronological order. You have a
notebook and pencil? Good. Now what is the earliest point to note down?'
'The letter to you?'
'That was the first we knew of it, but it is not the proper beginning of the
case. The first point of any significance, I should say, is the change that
came over Monsieur Renauld shortly after arriving in Merlinville, and
which is attested to by several witnesses. We have also to consider his
friendship with Madame Daubreuil, and the large sums of pounds he paid
over to her. From thence we can come directly to the 23rd May.'
Poirot paused, cleared his throat, and signed to me to write:
'23rd May. M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter's wish to marry
Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.
'24th May. M. Renauld alters his will leaving entire control of his
fortune in his wife's hands.
'7th June. Quarrel with tramp in garden, witnessed by Marthe Daubreuil.
'Letter written to M. Hercule Poirot, imploring assistance.
'Telegram sent to M. Jack Renauld, bidding him proceed by the Anzora
to Buenos Ayres.
'Chauffeur, Masters, sent off on a holiday.
'Visit of a lady that evening. As he is seeing her out, words are “Yes, yes
- but for God's sake go now.”'
Poirot paused.
'There, Hastings, take each of those facts one by one, consider them
carefully by themselves and in relation to the whole, and see if you do not
get new light on the matter.'
I endeavoured conscientiously to do as he had said. After a moment or
two, I said rather doubtfully:


'As to the first points, the question seems to be whether we adopt the
theory of blackmail, or of an infatuation for this woman.'
'Blackmail, decidedly. You heard what Stonor said as to his character
and habits.'
' Mrs Renauld did not confirm his view,' I argued.
'We have already seen that Madame Renauld's testimony cannot be
relied upon in any way. We must trust to Stonor on that point.'
'Still, if Renauld had an affair with a woman called Bella, there seems
no inherent improbability in his having another with Madame Daubreuil.'
'None whatever, I grant you, Hastings. But did he?'
'The letter, Poirot. You forget the letter.'
'No, I do not forget. But what makes you think that letter was written to
Monsieur Renauld?'
'Why, it was found in his pocket, and - and -'
'And that is all!' cut in Poirot. 'There was no mention of any name to
show to whom the letter was addressed. We assumed it was to the dead man
because it was in the pocket of his overcoat. Now, mon ami, something
about that overcoat struck me as unusual. I measured it and made the
remark that he wore his overcoat very long. That remark should have given
you to think.'
'I thought you were just saying it for the sake of saying something,' I
confessed.
'Ah, quelle idée! Later you observed me measuring the overcoat of
Monsieur Jack Renauld. Eh bien, Monsieur Jack Renauld wears his
overcoat very short. Put those two facts together with a third, namely, “that
Monsieur Jack Renauld flung out of the house in a hurry on his departure
for Paris, and tell me what you make of it!”
'I see,' I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot's remarks bore in upon
me. 'That letter was written to Jack Renauld - not to his father. He caught up
the wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.'
Poirot nodded.
'Précisément! We can return to this point later. For the moment let us
content ourselves with accepting the letter as having nothing to do with
Monsieur Renauld père, and pass to the next chronological event.'
'“23rd May,”' I read. '“M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter's
wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.” I don't see anything


much to remark upon there, and the altering of the will the following day
seems straightforward enough. It was the direct result of the quarrel.'
'We agree, mon ami, at least as to the cause. But what exact motive
underlay this procedure of Monsieur Renauld's?'
I opened my eyes in surprise.
'Anger against his son of course.'
'Yet he wrote him affectionate letters to Paris?'
'So Jack Renauld says, but he cannot produce them.'
'Well, let us pass from that.'
'Now we come to the day of the tragedy. You have placed the event of
the morning in a certain order. Have you any justification for that?'
'I have ascertained that the letter to me was posted at the same time as
the telegram was dispatched. Masters was informed he could take a holiday
shortly afterwards. In my opinion the quarrel with the tramp took place
anterior to these happenings.'
'I do not see that you can fix that definitely unless you question
Mademoiselle Daubreuil again.'
'There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see
nothing, Hastings.'
I looked at him for a moment.
'Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was
after the stormy interview with him that Mr Renauld apprehended danger.
He sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the
other's pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.'
A faint smile crossed Poirot's lips.
'You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same
expressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used later in her story? If the
mention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it, and -
what is more - send his son there?'
'It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation later.
We come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious lady. I confess
that that fairly baffles me, unless it was indeed Madame Daubreuil, as
Françoise all along maintained.'
Poirot shook his head.
'My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the
fragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly
familiar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella Duveen


is the full name of Jack's unknown correspondent, and that it was she who
came to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she intended to see Jack, or
whether she meant all along to appeal to his father, we cannot be certain,
but I think we may assume that this is what occurred. She produced her
claim upon Jack, probably showed letters that he had written her, and the
older man tried to buy her off by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore
up. The terms of her letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she
would probably deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of
her, and here the words that he used are significant.'
'“Yes, yes, but for God's sake go now”,' I repeated. 'They seem to me a
little vehement, perhaps, that is all.'
'That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why?
Not because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that was
slipping by, and for some reason time was precious.'
'Why should it be?' I asked, bewildered.
'That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the
incident of the wristwatch - which again shows us that time plays a very
important part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual drama.
It is half past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the evidence of the
wristwatch we know that the crime was committed, or at any rate that it was
staged, before twelve o'clock. We have reviewed all the events anterior to
the murder, there remains only one unplaced. By the doctor's evidence, the
tramp, when found, had been dead at least forty-eight hours - with a
possible margin of twenty-four hours more. Now, with no other facts to help
me than those we have discussed, I place the death as having occurred on
the morning of 7th June.
I stared at him, stupefied.
'But how? Why? How can you possibly know?'
'Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically
explained. Mon ami, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do you
not now see what is so glaringly plain?'
'My dear Poirot, I can't see anything glaring about it. I did think I was
beginning to see my way before, but I'm now hopelessly fogged. For
goodness' sake, get on, and tell me who killed Mr Renauld.'
'That is just what I am not sure of as yet.'
'But you said it was glaringly clear?


'We talk at cross-purposes, my friend. Remember, it is two crimes we
are investigating - for which as I pointed out to you, we have the necessary
two bodies. There - there, ne vous impatientez pas! I explain all. To begin
with, we apply our psychology. We find three points at which Monsieur
Renauld displays a distinct change of view and action - three psychological
points therefore. The first occurs immediately after arriving in Merlinville,
the second after quarrelling with his son on a certain subject, the third on
the morning of 7th June. Now for the three causes. We can attribute No 1 to
meeting Madame Daubreuil. No 2 is indirectly connected with her, since it
concerns a marriage between Monsieur Renauld's son and her daughter. But
the cause of No 3 is hidden from us. We had to deduce it. Now, mon ami,
let me ask you a question: whom do we believe to have planned this crime?'
'Georges Conneau,' I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot.
'Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save
herself, the man she loves, and her child. As we are satisfied that it was
Georges Conneau who did lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack
Renauld, it follows that the third case is out of court. Attributing the crime
to Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are forced to the second
possibility - that Madam Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved - or
in other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree?'
'Yes,' I admitted. 'It seems logical enough.'
'Bien! Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges
Conneau?'
'The tramp.'
'Do we have any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the
tramp?'
'No, but -'
'Very well, then. Do not cling to theories where facts don't support them.
Ask yourself instead whom Madame Renauld loved.'
I shook my head perplexed.
'Mais oui, you know perfectly. Whom did Madame love so dearly, that
when she saw his dead body she sank in a swoon?'
I was dumbfounded. 'Her husband?' I gasped.
Poirot nodded.
'Her husband - or Georges Conneau whichever you like to call him
yourself.'
'But it's impossible.'


'How “impossible”? Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil
was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?'
'Yes but -'
'And did she not very effectively blackmail Monsieur Renauld?'
'That may he true enough, but -'
'And is it not a fact that we know nothing of Monsieur Renauld's youth
and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French-
Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?'
'All that is so,' I said more firmly, 'but you seem to me to be overlooking
one salient point.'
'What is that, my friend?'
'Why, we have admitted that Georges planned the crime. That brings us
to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!'
'Eh bien, mon ami,' said Poirot placidly, 'that is just what he did do!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 21
HERCULE POIROT ON THE CASE
In a measured voice Poirot began his exposition.
'It seems strange to you, mon ami, that a man should plan his own
death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to
revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, Monsieur
Renauld planned his own death but there is one detail that perhaps escapes
you - he did not intend to die.'
I shook my head bewildered.
'But no, it is all most simple really,' said Poirot kindly. 'For the crime
that Monsieur Renauld proposed, a murderer was not necessary, as I told
you, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a
different angle.
'Georges Conneau flies from justice - to Canada. There, under an
assumed name, he marries, and finally acquires a vast fortune in South
America. But there is a nostalgia upon him for his own country. Twenty
years have elapsed, he is considerably changed in appearance, besides being
a man of such eminence that no one is likely to connect him with a fugitive
from justice many years ago. He deems it quite safe to return. He takes up
his headquarters in England, but tends to spend the summers in France. And
ill fortune, or that obscure justice which shapes men's ends and will not
allow them to evade the consequences of their acts, takes him to
Merlinville. There, in the whole of France, is the one person who is capable
of recognizing him. It is, of course, a gold mine to Madame Daubreuil, and
a gold mine of which she is not slow to take advantage. He is helpless -
absolutely in her power. And she bleeds him heavily.
'And then the inevitable happens. Jack Renauld falls in love with the
beautiful girl he sees almost daily and wishes to marry her. That rouses his
father. At all costs, he will prevent his son marrying the daughter of this evil
woman. Jack Renauld knows nothing of his father's past, but Madame
Renauld knows everything. She is a woman of great force of character and
passionately devoted to her husband. They take counsel together. Renauld
sees only one way of escape - death. He must appear to die, in reality
escaping to another country where he will start again under an assumed
name and where Madame Renauld, having played the widow's part for a
while, can join him. It is essential that she should have control of the


money, so he alters his will. How they meant to manage the body business
originally, I do not know - possibly an art student's skeleton and a fire - or
something of the kind, but long before their plans have matured an event
occurs which plays into their hands. A rough tramp, violent and abusive,
finds his way into the garden. There is a struggle, Renauld seeks to eject
him, and suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead.
Renauld calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed - as we know
the event had occurred just outside - and they realize the marvellous
opportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no resemblance
to Renauld but he is middle-aged, of a usual French type. That is sufficient.
'I rather fancy that they sat on the bench up there, out of earshot from
the house, discussing matters. Their plan was quickly made. The
identification must rest solely on Madame Renauld's evidence. Jack
Renauld and the chauffeur (who had been with his master two years) must
be got out of the way. It was unlikely that the French women servants
would go near the body, and in any case Renauld intended to take measures
to deceive anyone not likely to appreciate details. Masters was sent off, a
telegram dispatched to Jack, Buenos Ayres being selected to give credence
to the story that Renauld had decided upon. Having heard of me as a rather
obscure elderly detective, he wrote his appeal for help, knowing that when I
arrived, the production of the letter would have a profound effect upon the
examining magistrate - which, of course, it did.
'They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of Renauld's and left his
ragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to take them
into the house. And then, to give credence to the tale Madame Renauld was
to tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night
Renauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a
grave in that particular plot of ground where he knows a - how do you call
it? - bunkair? is to be made. It is essential that the body should be found -
Madame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a little
time elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened. Then,
Renauld will don the tramp's rags, and shuffle off to the station, where he
will leave, unnoticed, by the train. Since the crime will be supposed to have
taken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach to him.
'You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl, Bella.
Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he
can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create


the impression that assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame
Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the
looseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but
leaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented
before, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The
night is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his under-clothing,
intending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the
window, smoothing over the flower-bed carefully, and thereby furnishing
the most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely
golf links, and he digs - And then -'
'Yes?'
'And then,' said Poirot gravely, 'the justice that he has so long eluded
overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. No, Hastings, you
understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the
crime that Monsieur Renauld, in his arrogances asked us to investigate, is
solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult
- since the criminal, in his wisdom, has been content to avail himself of the
devices prepared by Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and
baffling mystery to solve.'
'You're marvellous, Poirot,' I said, with admiration. 'Absolutely
marvellous. No one on earth but you would have done it!'
I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life he looked almost
embarrassed.
'That poor Giraud,' said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest.
'Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or
twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least,
it was misleading.'
'To tell you the truth, Poirot,' I said slowly, 'even now I don't quite see -
whose hair was it?'
'Madame Renauld's, of course. That is where la mauvaise chance came
in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as
easily have been a grey hair - and then, by no conceivable effort could
Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But
it is all of a piece; always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory!
'Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The
possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her.
How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Anzora?


Ah! voilà une femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only
made one slip. On his unexpected return: “It does not matter - now.” And
no one noticed - no one realized the significance of those words. What a
terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she
goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual
lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No
wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how
resolutely she has played her part and how the anguish of it must wring her.
She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her
son's sake no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the
criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame
Daubreuil was her husband's mistress - for a hint of blackmail might be
fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt will the examining magistrate
when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband's past life.
“Nothing so romantic I am sure, monsieur!” It was perfect, the indulgent
tone, the soupçon of sad mockery. At once Monsieur Hautet felt himself
foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a
criminal, she loved him royally.'
Poirot lost himself in contemplation.
'One thing more Poirot - what about the piece of lead-piping?'
'You do not see? To disfigure the victim's face so that it would be
unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that
imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not
tell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two
inches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur
Renauld? Someone who was near the Villa just before twelve o'clock that
night - someone who would benefit by his death - the description fits Jack
Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And
then the dagger!'
I started, I had not realized that point.
'Of course,' I said, 'Mrs Renauld's dagger was the second one we found
in the tramp. There were two, then?'
'Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack
Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I
had a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again
psychological - heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son - Jack
Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.'


His tone was grave and earnest and I was impressed in spite of myself.
'What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?' I asked.
For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked:
'What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?'
'About five, I believe.'
'That will do very well. We shall just have time.'
'You are going to England?'
'Yes, my friend.'
'Why?'
'To find a possible - witness.'
'Who?'
With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied:
'Miss Bella Duveen.'
'But how will you find her - what do you know about her?'
'I know nothing about her - but I can guess a good deal. We may take it
for granted that her name is Bella Duveen, and since that name was faintly
familiar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connection with the
Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a
young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure
to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur
Renauld's attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all
right - especially with the help of this!'
And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack
Renauld's drawer. 'With love from Bella,' was scrawled across the corner,
but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first
rate - but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as
though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.
It was the face of Cinderella.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 22
I FIND LOVE
For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my
hand. Then summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it
back. At the same time I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed
anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything
unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.
He rose briskly to his feet.
'We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all dispatch.
All is well - the sea, it will be calm!'
In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board
the boat, secure from Poirot's observation, I pulled myself together, and
attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know, and why was
he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld
commit the crime? Or did he suspect - But that was impossible! The girl
had no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible motive for wishing his
death. What had brought her back to the scene of the murder? I went over
the facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais where I parted from
her that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on the boat. If she had
dined in Calais, and then taken a train out to Merlinville, she would have
arrived at the Villa Geneviève just about the time that Françoise said. What
had she done when she left the house just after ten? Presumably either gone
to an hotel, or returned to Calais. And then? The crime had been committed
on Tuesday night. On Thursday morning she was once more in Merlinville.
Had she ever left France at all? I doubted it very much. What kept her there
- the hope of seeing Jack Renauld? I had told her (as at the time we
believed) that he was on the high seas en route to Buenos Ayres. Possibly
she was aware that the Anzora had not sailed. But to know that she must
have seen Jack. Was that what Poirot was after? Had Jack Renauld,
returning to see Marthe Daubreuil, come face to face instead with Bella
Duveen, the girl he had heartlessly thrown over?
I began to see daylight. If that were indeed the case, it might furnish
Jack with the alibi he needed. Yet under those circumstances his silence
seemed difficult to explain. Why could he not have spoken out boldly? Did
he fear for this former entanglement of his to come to the ears of Marthe
Daubreuil? I shook my head, dissatisfied. The flirting had been harmless


enough, a foolish boy-and-girl affair, and I reflected cynically that the son
of a millionaire was not likely to be thrown over by a penniless French girl,
who moreover loved him devotedly, without a much graver cause.
Poirot reappeared brisk and smiling at Dover, and our journey to
London was uneventful. It was past nine o'clock when we arrived, and I
supposed that we should return straight away to our rooms and do nothing
till the morning.
But Poirot had other plans.
'We must lose no time, mon ami. The news of the arrest will not be in
the English papers until the day after tomorrow, but still we must lose no
time.'
I did not quite follow his reasoning, but I merely asked how he
proposed to find the girl.
'You remember Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent? No? I assisted him
in a little matter of a Japanese wrestler. A pretty little problem, I must
recount it to you one day. He, without doubt, will be able to put us in the
way of finding out what we want to know.'
It took us some time to run Mr Aarons to earth, and it was after
midnight when we finally managed it. He greeted Poirot with every
evidence of warmth, and professed himself ready to be of service to us in
any way.
'There's not much about the profession I don't know,' he said, beaming
genially.
'Eh bien, Monsieur Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella
Duveen.'
'Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for a moment I can't place it.
What's her line?'
'That I do not know - but here is her photograph.'
Mr Aarons studied it for a moment, then his face lighted.
'Got it!' He slapped his thigh. 'The Dulcibella Kids, by the Lord!'
'The Dulcibella Kids?'
'That's it. They're sisters. Acrobats, dancers, and singers. Give quite a
good little number. They're in the provinces, somewhere, I believe - if
they're not resting. They've been on in Paris for the last two or three weeks.'
'Can you find out for me exactly where they are?'
'Easy as a bird. You go home, and I'll send you round the dope in the
morning.'


With this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word.
About eleven o'clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us.
'The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to
you.'
Without more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at
the theatre, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety
performance that evening.
The show was wearisome beyond words - or perhaps it was only my
mood that made it seem so. Japanese families balanced themselves
precariously, would-be fashionable men, in a greenish evening dress and
exquisitely slicked hair, reeled off society patter and danced marvellously.
Stout prima donnas sang at the top of the human register, a comic comedian
endeavoured to be Mr George Robey and failed signally. At last the number
went up which announced the Dulcibella Kids. My heart beat sickeningly.
There she was - there they both were, the pair of them, one flaxen-haired,
one dark, matching as to size, with short fluffy skirts and immense 'Buster
Brown' bows. They looked a pair of extremely piquant children. They
began to sing. Their voices were fresh and true, rather thin and music-hally,
but attractive. It was quite a pretty little turn. They danced neatly, and did
some clever little acrobatic feats. The words of their songs were crisp and
catchy. When the curtain fell, there was a full hand of applause. Evidently
the Dulcibella Kids were a success.
Suddenly I felt that I could remain no longer. I must get out into the air.
I suggested leaving to Poirot.
'Go by all means, mon ami. I amuse myself, and will stay to the end. I
will rejoin you later.'
It was only a few steps from the theatre to the hotel. I went up to the
sitting-room, ordered a whisky and soda, and sat drinking it, staring
meditatively into the empty grate. I heard the door open, and turned my
head, thinking it was Poirot. Then I jumped to my feet. It was Cinderella
who stood in the doorway. She spoke haltingly, her breath coming in little
gasps.
'I saw you in front. You and your friend. When you got up to go, I was
waiting outside and followed you. Why are you here - in Coventry? What
were you doing there tonight? Is the man who was with you the - the
detective?'


She stood there, the cloak she had wrapped round her stage dress
slipping from her shoulders. I saw the whiteness of her cheeks under the
rouge, and heard the terror in her voice. And in that moment I understood
everything - understood why Poirot was seeking her, and what she feared
and understood at last my own heart.
'Yes,' I said gently.
'Is he looking for - me?' she half whispered.
Then, as I did not answer for a moment, she slipped down by the big
chair, and burst into violent bitter weeping.
I knelt down by her, holding her in my arms, and smoothing the hair
back from her face.
'Don't cry, child, don't cry, for God's sake. You're safe here. I'll take care
of you. Don't cry, darling. Don't cry. I know - I know everything.'
'Oh, but you don't!'
'I think I do.' And after a moment, as her sobs grew quieter, I asked: 'It
was you who took the dagger, wasn't it?'
'Yes.'
'That was why you wanted me to show you round? And why you
pretended to faint?'
Again she nodded.
'Why did you take the dagger?' I asked presently.
She replied as simply as a child:
'I was afraid there might be finger-marks on it.'
'But didn't you remember that you had worn gloves?'
She shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:
'Are you going to give me up to - to the police?'
'Good God! no.'
Her eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little
quiet voice that sounded afraid of itself:
'Why not?'
It seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of love -
and God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming to
me in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:
'Because I love you, Cinderella.'
She bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken
voice:


'You can't - you can't - not if you knew -' And then, as though rallying
herself, she faced me squarely, and asked, 'What do you know, then?'
'I know that you came to see M. Renauld that night. He offered you a
cheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house -' I paused.
'Go on - what next?'
'I don't know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming
that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him,
but you wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable and walked restlessly -
but at any rate -
'Just before twelve you were still there, and you saw a man on the golf
links -'
Again I paused. I had leaped to the truth in a flash as she entered the
room, but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw
vividly the peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr
Renauld, and I remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into
believing for one instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when
his son burst into our conclave in the salon.
'Go on,' repeated the girl steadily.
'I fancy his back was to you, but you recognized him, or thought you
recognized him, the gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the
pattern of his overcoat -' I paused. You used a threat in one of your letters to
Jack Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you
mad - and you struck. I don't believe for a minute that you meant to kill
him, but you did kill him, Cinderella.'
She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she
said:
'You're right... you're right. I can see it all as you tell it.' Then she turned
on me almost savagely. 'And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can
you love me?'
'I don't know,' I said a little wearily. 'I think love is like that - a thing one
cannot help. I have tried, I know - ever since the first day I met you. And
love has been too strong for me.'
And then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again,
casting herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.
'Oh, I can't!' she cried. 'I don't know what to do. I don't know which way
to turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, someone, and tell me what to do!'
Again I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.


'Don't be afraid of me, Bella. For God's sake don't be afraid of me. I
love you, that's true - but I don't want anything in return. Only let me help
you. Love him still if you have to, but let me help you, as he can't.'
It was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised
her head from her hands and stared at me.
'You think that?' she whispered. 'You think that I love Jack Renauld?'
Then, half laughing, half crying, she flung her arms passionately round
my neck, and pressed her sweet wet face to mine.
'Not as I love you,' she whispered. 'Never as I love you!'
Her lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me
again and again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it
- and the wonder, I shall not forget - no, not as long as I live!
It was a sound in the doorway that made us look up.
Poirot was standing there looking at us.
I did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to
his sides.
'Quick,' I said to the girl. 'Get out of here. As fast as you can. I'll hold
him.'
With one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a
grip of iron.
'Mon ami,' observed the latter mildly, 'you do this sort of thing very
well. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless as a child. But
all this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit down and be
calm.'
'You won't pursue her?'
'Mon Dieu, no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.'
Keeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of
knowing that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and
he sank into an armchair, feeling his arms tenderly.
'It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings!
Eh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show
you the girl's photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.'
'There was no need if you knew that I recognized it,' I said rather
bitterly. So Poirot had known all along! I had not deceived him for an
instant.
'Ta-ta! You did not know that I knew that. And tonight you help the girl
to escape when we have found her with so much trouble. Eh bien, it comes


to this - are you going to work with me or against me, Hastings?'
For a moment or two I did not answer. To break with my old friend gave
me great pain. Yet I must definitely range myself against him. Would he
ever forgive me, I wondered? He had been strangely calm so far but I knew
him to possess marvellous self-command.
'Poirot,' I said, 'I'm sorry. I admit I've behaved badly to you over this.
But sometimes one has no choice. And in the future I must take my own
line.'
Poirot nodded his head several times.
'I understand,' he said. The mocking light had quite died out of his eyes,
and he spoke with a sincerity and kindness that surprised me. 'It is that, my
friend, is it not? It is love that has come - not as you imagined it, all cock-a-
hoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding feet. Well, well, I warned
you. When I realized that this girl must have taken the dagger, I warned
you. Perhaps you remember. But already it was too late. But, tell me, how
much do you know?'
I met his eyes squarely.
'Nothing that you could tell me would be any surprise to me, Poirot.
Understand that. But in case you think of resuming your search for Miss
Duveen, I should like you to know one thing clearly: If you have any idea
that she was concerned in this crime, or was the mysterious lady who called
upon Mr Renauld that night, you are wrong. I travelled home from France
with her that day, and parted from her at Victoria that evening, so that it is
clearly impossible for her to have been in Merlinville.'
'Ah!' Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. 'And you would swear to that in
a court of law?'
'Most certainly I would.'
Poirot rose and bowed.
'Mon ami! Vive l'amour! It can perform miracles. It is decidedly
ingenious what you have thought of there. It defeats even Hercule Poirot!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 23
DIFFICULTIES AHEAD
After a moment of stress, such as I have just described, reaction is
bound to set in. I retired to rest that night on a note of triumph, but I awoke
to realize that I was by no means out of the wood. True, I could see no flaw
in the alibi I had so suddenly conceived. I had but to stick to my story, and I
failed to see how Bella could be convicted in face of it. But I felt the need
of treading warily. Poirot would not take defeat lying down. Somehow or
other, he would endeavour to turn the tables on me, and that in the way, and
at the moment, when I least expected it.
We met at breakfast the following morning as though nothing had
happened. Poirot's good temper was imperturbable, yet I thought I detected
a kind of reserve in his manner which was new. After breakfast, I
announced my intention of going out for a stroll. A malicious gleam shot
through Poirot's eyes.
'If it is information you seek, you need not be at the pains of deranging
yourself. I can tell you all you wish to know. The Dulcibella Sisters have
cancelled their contract, and have left Coventry for an unknown
destination.'
'Is that really so, Poirot?'
'You can take it from me, Hastings. I made inquiries the first thing this
morning. After all, what else did you expect?'
True enough, nothing else could be expected under the circumstances.
Cinderella had profited by the slight start I had been able to secure her, and
would certainly not lose a moment in removing herself from the reach of
the pursuer. It was what I had intended and planned. Nevertheless, I was
aware of being plunged into a network of fresh difficulties.
I had absolutely no means of communicating with the girl, and it was
vital that she should know the line of defence that had occurred to me, and
which I was prepared to carry out. Of course it was possible that she might
try to send word to me in some way or another, but I hardly thought it
likely. She would know the risk she ran of a message being intercepted by
Poirot, thus setting him on her track once more. Clearly her only course was
to disappear utterly for the time being.
But, in the meantime, what was Poirot doing? I studied him attentively.
He was wearing his most innocent air, and staring meditatively into the far


distance. He looked altogether too placid and supine to give me
reassurance. I had learned, with Poirot, that the less dangerous he looked,
the more dangerous he was. His quiescence alarmed me. Observing a
troubled quality in my face, he smiled benignantly.
'You are puzzled, Hastings? You ask yourself why I do not launch
myself in pursuit?'
'Well - something of the kind.'
'It is what you would do, were you in my place. I understand that. But I
am not of those who enjoy rushing up and down a country seeking a needle
in a haystack, as you English say. No - let Mademoiselle Bella Duveen go.
Without doubt, I shall be able to find her when the time comes. Until then, I
am content to wait.'
I stared at him doubtfully. Was he seeking to mislead me? I had an
irritating feeling that, even now, he was master of the situation. My sense of
superiority was gradually waning. I had contrived the girl's escape, and
evolved a brilliant scheme for saving her from the consequences of her rash
act - but I could not rest easy in my mind. Poirot's perfect calm awakened a
thousand apprehensions.
'I suppose Poirot,' I said rather diffidently, 'I mustn't ask what your plans
are? I've forfeited the right.'
'But not at all. There is no secret about them. We return to France
without delay.'
'We?'
'Precisely - “we”! You know very well that you cannot afford to let Papa
Poirot out of your sight. Eh? is it not so, my friend? But remain in England
by all means if you wish -'
I shook my head. He had hit the nail on the head. I could not afford to
let him out of my sight. Although I could not expect his confidence after
what had happened, I could still check his actions. The only danger to Bella
lay with him. Giraud and the French police were indifferent to her
existence. At all costs I must keep near Poirot.
Poirot observed me attentively as these reflections passed through my
mind, and gave me a nod of satisfaction.
'I am right, am I not? And as you are quite capable of trying to follow
me, disguised with some absurdity such as a false beard - which everyone
would perceive, bien entendu - I much prefer that we should voyage


together. It would annoy me greatly that anyone should mock themselves at
you.'
'Very well, then. But it's only fair to warn you -'
'I know - I know all. You are my enemy! Be my enemy then. It does not
worry me at all.'
'So long as it's all fair and above-board, I don't mind.'
'You have to the full the English passion for “fair play”! Now your
scruples are satisfied, let us depart immediately. There is no time to be lost.
Our stay in England has been short but sufficient. I know - what I wanted to
know.'
The tone was light, but I read a veiled menace into the words.
'Still -' I began, and stopped.
'Still - as you say! Without doubt you are satisfied with the part you are
playing. Me, I preoccupy myself with Jack Renauld.'
Jack Renauld! The words gave me a start. I had completely forgotten
that aspect of the case. Jack Renauld, in prison, with the shadow of the
guillotine looming over him. I saw the part I was playing in a more sinister
light. I could save Bella - yes, but in doing so I ran the risk of sending an
innocent man to his death.
I pushed the thought from me with horror. It could not be. He would be
acquitted. Certainly he would be acquitted. But the cold fear came back.
Suppose he were not? What then? Could I have it on my conscience -
horrible thought! Would it come to that in the end? A decision. Bella or
Jack Renauld? The promptings of my heart were to save the girl I loved at
any cost to myself. But, if the cost were to another the problem was altered.
What would the girl herself say? I remembered that no word of Jack
Renauld's arrest had passed my lips. As yet she was in total ignorance of the
fact that her former lover was in prison charged with a hideous crime which
he had not committed. When she knew, how would she act? Would she
permit her life to be saved at the expense of his? Certainly she must do
nothing rash. Jack Renauld might, and probably would, be acquitted
without any intervention on her part. If so, good. But if he was not! That
was the terrible, the unanswerable problem. I fancied that she ran no risk of
the extreme penalty. The circumstances of the crime were quite different in
her case. She could plead jealousy and extreme provocation, and her youth
and beauty would go for much. The fact that by a tragic mistake it was Mr
Renauld, and not his son, who paid the penalty would not alter the motive


of the crime. But in any case, however lenient the sentence of the Court, it
must mean a long term of imprisonment.
No! Bella must be protected. And, at the same time, Jack Renauld must
be saved. How this was to be accomplished I did not see clearly. But I
pinned my faith to Poirot. He knew. Come what might, he would manage to
save an innocent man. He must find some pretext other than the real one. It
might be difficult, but he would manage it somehow. And with Bella
unsuspected, and Jack Renauld acquitted, all would end satisfactorily.
So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still
remained a cold fear.


Murder on the Links




Chapter 24
'SAVE HIM!'
We crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following
morning saw us in St Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot
lost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any
objections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.
After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the
examining magistrate's room. He greeted us cordially.
'I was told that you had returned to England, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad
to find that such is not the case.'
'It is true that I went there, monsieur, but it was only for a flying visit. A
side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.'
'And it did - eh?'
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.
'We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are
abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one
making a mistake.'
'You think not?'
It was the examining magistrate's turn to shrug his shoulders.
'Oh, well, speaking frankly - in confidence, of course, can you come to
any other conclusion?'
'Frankly, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.'
'Such as -?'
But Poirot was not to be drawn.
'I have not yet tabulated them,' he remarked. 'It was a general reflection
that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe
him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for
himself on the matter?'
The magistrate frowned.
'I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of
defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He
contents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a
most obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow, perhaps you
would like to be present?'
We accepted the invitation with empressement.


'A distressing case,' said the magistrate with a sigh. 'My sympathy for
Madame Renauld is profound.'
'How is Madame Renauld?'
'She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor
woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger,
but that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It
was, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused present
state. It would be terrible if her brain became hinged; but I should not
wonder at all - no, really, not at all.'
M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful
enjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect. He roused himself at
length, and observed with a start:
'That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, Monsieur Poirot. Let me
see, where did I put it?'
He proceeded to rummage among his papers. At last he found the
missive, and handed it to Poirot.
'It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,' he
explained. 'But as you left no address I could not do so.'
Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping,
foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman's. Poirot did not open
it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.
'Till tomorrow then. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.'
'But not at all. I am always at your service.'
We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with
Giraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with
himself.
'Aha! Monsieur Poirot,' he cried airily. 'You have returned from England
then?'
'As you see,' said Poirot.
'The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.'
'I agree with you, Monsieur Giraud.'
Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crestfallen manner seemed to
delight the other.
'Of all the milk-and-water criminals! Not an idea of fending himself. It
is extraordinary!'
'So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?' suggested Poirot
mildly.


But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.
'Well, good day, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad you're satisfied of young
Renauld's guilt at last.'
'Pardon! But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is innocent.'
Giraud stared for a moment - then burst out laughing, tapping his head
significantly with the brief remark: 'Toqué!'
Poirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.
'Monsieur Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been
deliberately insulting. You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager
you five hundred francs that I find the murderer of Monsieur Renauld
before you do. Is it agreed?'
Giraud stared helplessly at him and murmured again:
'Come now,' urged Poirot, 'is it agreed?'
'I have no wish to take your money from you.'
'Make your mind easy - you will not.'
'Oh, well then - I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting.
Well, once or twice, your manner has annoyed me.'
'I am enchanted to hear it,' said Poirot. 'Good morning, Monsieur
Giraud. Come, Hastings.'
I said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy.
Poirot had displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than
ever my powers of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This
unlucky encounter with Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle.
Suddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel
Stonor. We stopped and greeted and he proposed strolling with us back to
our hotel.
'And what are you doing here, Monsieur Stonor?' inquired Poirot.
'One must stand by one's friends,' replied the other dryly. 'Especially
when they are unjustly accused.'
'Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?' I
asked eagerly.
'Certainly I don't. I know the lad. I admit that there have been one or
two things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none the
less, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I'll never believe that Jack Renauld
is a murderer.'
My heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret
weight from my heart.


'I have no doubt that many people feel like you do,' I exclaimed. 'There
is really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that there was no
doubt of his acquittal - no doubt whatever.'
But Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished.
'I'd give a lot to think as you do,' he said gravely. He turned to Poirot.
'What's your opinion, monsieur?'
'I think that things look very black against him,' said Poirot quietly.
'You believe him guilty?' said Stonor sharply.
'No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.'
'He's behaving so damned queerly,' muttered Stonor. ' Of course, I
realize that there's a lot more in this affair than meets the eye. Giraud's not
wise to that because he's an outsider, but the whole thing has been damned
odd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs Renauld wants to hush
anything up, I'll take my cue from her. It's her show, and I've too much
respect for her judgement to shove my oar in, but I can't get behind this
attitude of Jack's. Anyone would think he wanted to be thought guilty.'
'But it's absurd,' I cried, bursting in. 'For one thing, the dagger -' I
paused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would wish me to reveal. I
continued, choosing my words carefully, 'We know that the dagger could
not have been in Jack Renauld's possession that evening. Mrs Renauld
knows that.'
'True,' said Stonor. 'When she recovers, she will doubtless say all this
and more. Well, I must be leaving you.'
'One moment.' Poirot's hand arrested his departure. 'Can you arrange for
word to be sent to me at once should Mrs Renauld recover consciousness?'
'Certainly. That's easily done.'
'That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,' I urged as we went
upstairs. 'I couldn't speak very plainly before Stonor.'
'That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to
ourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack
Renauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before
we started from London?'
'Yes?'
'Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed
to convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult. Eh bien, Hasting, they
made to his order not two paper knives, but three.'
'So that -'


'So that, after giving one to his mother and one to Bella Duveen, there
was a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear
the dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.'
'It won't come to that,' I cried, stung.
Poirot shook his head uncertainly.
'You will save him,' I cried positively.
Poirot glanced at me dryly.
'Have you not rendered it impossible, mon ami?'
'Some other way,' I muttered.
'Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No - say no more. Let
us instead see what is in this letter.'
And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket. His face
contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.
'There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.'
The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great
agitation.
Dear M. Poirot,
If you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. I have no one to turn to,
and at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help
us.
I handed it back, moved.
'You will go?'
'At once. We will command an auto.'
Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the
door to meet us, and let Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.
'Ah, you have come - it is good of you. I have been in despair, not
knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I
suffer horribly. I am nearly mad.
'Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the crime? But that is
madness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never for one minute
will I believe it.'
'Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,' said Poirot gently.
'But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.'
'Perhaps because he is screening someone,' suggested Poirot, watching
her.
Marthe frowned.


'Screening someone? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning
I have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy
to wear widow's weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he
was arrested she fell down like that!' She made a dramatic gesture. 'And
without doubt, Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, he helped her. They are thick
as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he - but what do men care -
if a woman is rich.'
There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.
'Stonor was in England,' I put in.
'He says so - but who knows?'
'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot quietly, 'if we are to work together, you and
I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.'
'Yes, monsieur?'
'Are you aware of your mother's real name?'
Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on
her arms, she burst into tears.
'There, there,' said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. 'Calm yourself,
petite, I see that you know. Now a second question - did you know who
Monsieur Renauld was?'
'Monsieur Renauld,' she raised her head from her hands and looked at
him wonderingly.
'Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.'
Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the
day of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had
finished, she drew a long breath.
'But you are wonderful - magnificent! You are the greatest detective in
the world.'
With a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him with
an abandonment that was wholly French.
'Save him, monsieur,' she cried. 'I love him so. Oh, save him - save him
- save him!'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 25
AN UNEXPECTED DÉNOUEMENT
We were present the following morning at the examination of Jack
Renauld. Short as the time had been, I was shocked at the change that had
taken place in the young prisoner. His cheeks had fallen in, there were deep
black circles round his eyes, and he looked haggard and distraught, as one
who had wooed sleep in vain for several nights. He betrayed no emotion at
seeing us.
'Renauld,' began the magistrate 'do you deny that you were in
Merlinville on the night of the crime?'
Jack did not reply at once, then he said with a hesitancy of manner
which was piteous:
'I - I - told you that I was in Cherbourg.'
The magistrate turned sharply.
'Send in the station witnesses.'
In a moment or two the door opened to admit a man whom I recognized
as being a porter at Merlinville station.
'You were on duty on the night of 7th June?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'You witnessed the arrival of the 11.40 train?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'Look at the prisoner. Do you recognize him as having been one of the
passengers to alight?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'There is no possibility of your being mistaken?'
'No, monsieur. I know Monsieur Jack Renauld well.'
'Nor of your being mistaken as to the date?'
'No, monsieur. Because it was the following morning, 8th June, that we
heard of the murder.'
Another railway officer was brought in, and confirmed the first one's
evidence. The magistrate looked at Jack Renauld.
'These men have identified you positively. What have you to say?'
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
'Nothing.'
'Renauld,' continued the magistrate, 'do you recognize this?'


He took something from the table by his side and held it out to the
prisoner. I shuddered as I recognized the aeroplane dagger.
'Pardon,' cried Jack's counsel, Maître Grosier. 'I demand to speak to my
client before he answers that question.'
But Jack Renauld had no consideration for the feelings of the wretched
Grosier. He waved him aside, and replied quietly:
'Certainly I recognize it. It was a present given by me to my mother, as a
souvenir of the war.'
'Is there, as far as you know, any duplicate of that dagger in existence?'
Again Maître Grosier burst out, and again Jack overrode him.
'Not that I know of. The setting was my own design.'
Even the magistrate almost gasped at the boldness of the reply. It did, in
very truth, seem as though Jack was rushing on his fate. I realized, of
course, the vital necessity he was under of concealing, for Bella's sake, the
fact that there was a duplicate dagger in the case. So long as there was
supposed to be only one weapon, no suspicion was likely to attach to the
girl who had had the second paper-knife in her possession. He was valiantly
shielding the woman he had once loved - but at what cost to himself! I
began to realize the magnitude of the task I had so lightly set Poirot. It
would not be easy to secure the acquittal of Jack Renauld by anything short
of the truth.
M. Hautet spoke again with a peculiarly biting inflection:
'Madame Renauld told us that this dagger was on her dressing-table on
the night of the crime. But Madame Renauld is a mother! It will doubtless
astonish you, Renauld, but I consider it highly likely that Madame Renauld
was mistaken, and that, by inadvertence perhaps, you had taken it with you
to Paris. Doubtless you will contradict me.'
I saw the lad's handcuffed hands clench themselves. The perspiration
stood out in beads upon his brow, as with a supreme effort he interrupted M.
Hautet in a hoarse voice:
'I shall not contradict you. It is possible.'
It was a stupefying moment. Maître Grosier rose to his feet protesting:
'My client has undergone a considerable nervous strain. I should wish it
put on record that I do not consider him answerable for what he says.'
The magistrat quelled him angrily. For a moment a doubt seemed to
arise in his own mind. Jack Renauld had almost overdone his part. He
leaned forward, and gazed at the prisoner searchingly.


'Do you fully understand, Renauld, that on the answers you have given
me I shall have no alternative but to commit you for trial?'
Jack's pale face flushed. He looked steadily back.
'Monsieur Hautet, I swear that I did not kill my father.'
But the magistrate's brief moment of doubt was over. He laughed a short
unpleasant laugh.
'Without doubt, without doubt - they are always innocent, our prisoners!
By your own mouth you are condemned. You can offer no defence, no alibi
- only a mere assertion which would not deceive a baby! - that you are not
guilty. You killed your father, Renauld - a vile and cowardly murder - for
the sake of the money which you believed would come to you at his death.
Your mother was an accessory after the fact. Doubtless, in view of the fact
that she acted as a mother, the courts will extend an indulgence to her that
they will not accord to you. And rightly so! Your crime was a horrible one -
to be held in abhorrence by gods and men!'
Hautet was interrupted - to his intense annoyance.
The door was pushed open.
'Monsieur le juge, Monsieur le juge,' stammered the attendant, 'there is a
lady who says - who says -'
'Who says what?' cried the justly incensed magistrate. 'This is highly
irregular. I forbid it - I absolutely forbid it.'
But a slender figure pushed the stammering gendarme aside. Dressed all
in black, with a long veil that hid her face, she advanced into the room.
My heart gave a sickening throb. She had come then! All my efforts
were in vain. Yet I could not but admire the courage that had led her to take
this step so unfalteringly.
She raised her veil - and I gasped. For, though as like her as two peas,
this girl was not Cinderella! On the other hand, now that I saw her without
the fair wig she had worn on the stage, I recognized her as the girl of the
photograph in Jack Renauld's room.
'You are the Juge d'Instruction, Monsieur Hautet?' she queried.
'Yes, but I forbid -'
'My name is Bella Duveen. I wish to give myself up for the murder of
Mr Renauld.'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 26
I RECEIVE A LETTER
'My friend,
'You will know all when you get this. Nothing that I can say will move
Bella. She has gone out to give herself up. I am tired out with struggling.
'You will know now that I deceived you, that where you gave me trust I
repaid you with lies. It will seem, perhaps, indefensible to you, but I should
like, before I go out of your life for ever, to show you just how it all came
about. If I knew that you forgave me it would make life easier for me. It
wasn't for myself I did it - that's the only thing I can put forward to say for
myself.
'I'll begin from the day I met you in the boat train from Paris. I was
uneasy then about Bella. She was just desperate about Jack Renauld she'd
have lain down on the ground for him to walk on, and when he began to
change, and to stop writing so often she began getting in a state. She got it
into her head that he was keen on another girl - and of course, as it turned
out afterwards, she was quite right there. She'd made up her mind to go to
their Villa at Merlinville, and try and see Jack. She knew I was against it
and tried to give me the slip. I found she was not on the train at Calais, and
determined I would not go on to England without her. I'd an uneasy feeling
that something awful was going to happen if I couldn't prevent it.
'I met the next train from Paris. She was on it, and set upon going out
then and there to Merlinville. I argued with her for all I was worth, but it
wasn't any good. She was all strung up and set upon having her own way.
Well, I washed my hands of it. I'd done all I could. It was getting late. I
went to an hotel and Bella started for Merlinville. I still couldn't shake off
my feeling of what the books call “impending disaster”.
'The next day came - but no Bella. She'd made a date with me to meet at
the hotel, but she didn't keep it. No sign of her all day. I got more and more
anxious. Then came an evening paper with the news.
'It was awful! I couldn't be sure, of course, but I was terribly afraid. I
figured it out that Bella had met Papa Renauld and told him about her and
Jack, and that he'd insulted her or something like that. We've both got
terribly quick tempers.
'Then all the masked foreigner business came out, and I began to feel
more at ease. But it still worried me that Bella hadn't kept her date with me.


'By the next morning I was so rattled that I'd just got to go and see what
I could. First thing, I ran up against you. You know all that... When I saw
the dead man, looking so like Jack, and wearing Jack's fancy overcoat, I
knew! And there was the identical paper-knife - wicked little thing! - that
Jack had given Bella! Ten to one it had her finger-marks on it. I can't hope
to explain to you the sort of helpless horror of that moment. I only saw one
thing clearly - I must get hold of that dagger, and get right away with it
before they found out it was gone. I pretended to faint, and while you were
away getting water I took the thing and hid it away in my dress.
'I told you that I was staying at the Hôtel du Phare, but of course really I
made a bee-line back to Calais, and then on to England by the first boat.
When we were in mid-Channel I dropped that little devil of a dagger into
the sea. Then I felt I could breathe again.
'Bella was in our digs in London. She looked like nothing on God's
earth. I told her what I'd done, and that she was pretty safe for the time
being. She stared at me, and then began laughing... laughing... laughing... it
was horrible to hear her! I felt that the best thing to do was to keep busy.
She'd go mad if she had time to brood on what she'd done. Luckily we got
an engagement at once.
'And then, I saw you and your friend watching us that night... I was
frantic. You must suspect, or you wouldn't have tracked us down. I had to
know the worst, so I followed you. I was desperate. And then, before I'd
had time to say anything, I tumbled to it that it was me you suspected, not
Bella! Or at least that you thought I was Bella, since I'd stolen the dagger.
'I wish, honey, that you could see back to my mind at that moment...
you'd forgive me, perhaps - I was so frightened, and muddled, and
desperate... All I could get clearly was that you would try and save me. I
didn't know whether you'd be willing to save her. I thought very likely not -
It wasn't the same thing! And I couldn't risk it! Bella's my twin - I'd got to
do the best for her. So I went on lying. I felt mean - I feel mean still... That's
all - enough too, you'll say, I expect. I ought to have trusted you. If I had -
'As soon as the news was in the paper that Jack Renauld had been
arrested, it was all up. Bella wouldn't wait to see how things went...
'I'm very tired. I can't write any more.'
She had begun to sign herself Cinderella, but had crossed that out and
written instead 'Dulcie Duveen'.
It was an ill-written, blurred epistle - but I have kept it to this day.


Poirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I
looked across at him.
'Did you know all the time that it was - the other?'
'Yes, my friend.'
'Why did you not tell me?
'To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could
make such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very
alike, but by no means incapable of distinguishment.'
'But the fair hair?'
'A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it
conceivable that with twins one should be fair, and one dark?'
'Why didn't you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?'
'You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,' said Poirot
dryly. 'You did not give me a chance.'
'But afterwards?'
'Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in
me. And then, I wanted to see whether your feelings would stand the test of
time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan, with you. I should
not have left you long in your error.'
I nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I
looked down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the
floor, and pushed them across to him.
'Read that,' I said. 'I'd like you to.'
He read it through in silence, then he looked up at me.
'What is it that worries you, Hastings?'
This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid
quite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.
'She doesn't say - she doesn't say- well, not whether she cares for me or
not?'
Poirot turned back the pages.
'I think you are mistaken, Hastings.'
'Where?' I cried, leaning forward eagerly.
Poirot smiled.
'She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.'
'But where am I to find her? There's no address on the letter. There's a
French stamp, that's all.'


'Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as
soon as I have five little minutes.'


Murder on the Links




Chapter 27
JACK RENAULD'S STORY
'Congratulations, Monsieur Jack,' said Poirot, wringing the lad warmly
by the hand.
Young Renauld had come to us as soon as he was liberated - before
starting for Merlinville to rejoin Marthe and his mother. Stonor
accompanied him. His heartiness was in strong contrast to the lad's wan
looks. It was plain that the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
He smiled mournfully at Poirot, and said in a low voice:
'I went through it to protect her, and now it's all no use.'
'You could hardly expect the girl to accept the price of your life,'
remarked Stonor dryly. 'She was bound to come forward when she saw you
heading straight for the guillotine.'
'Eh, ma foi! and you were heading for it too,' added Poirot, with a slight
twinkle. 'You would have had Maître Grosier's death from rage on your
conscience if you had gone on.'
'He was a well meaning ass, I suppose,' said Jack. 'But he worried me
horribly. You see, I couldn't very well take him into my confidence. But, my
God! what's going to happen about Bella?'
'If I were you,' said Poirot frankly, 'I should not distress myself unduly.
The French Courts are very lenient to youth and beauty, and the crime
passionnel! A clever lawyer will make out a great case of extenuating
circumstances. It will not be pleasant for you -'
'I don't care about that. You see, Monsieur Poirot, in a way I do feel
guilty of my father's murder. But for me, and my entanglement with this
girl, he would be alive and well today. And then my cursed carelessness in
taking away the wrong overcoat. I can't help feeling responsible for his
death. It will haunt me for ever!'
'No, no,' I said soothingly.
'Of course it's horrible to me to think that Bella killed my father,'
resumed Jack. 'But I'd treated her shamefully. After I met Martha and
realized I'd made a mistake, I ought to have written and told her honestly.
But I was so terrified of a row and of its coming to Martha's ears and her
thinking there was more in it than there ever had been, that - well, I was a
coward, and went on hoping the thing would die down of itself. I was - in
fact - not realizing that I was driving the poor kid desperate. If she'd really


knifed me, as she meant to, I should have got no more than my deserts. And
the way she's come forward now is downright plucky. I'd have stood the
racket - you know - up to the end.'
He was silent for a moment or two, and then burst out:
'What gets me is why the Guvernor should be wandering about in
underclothes and my overcoat at that time of night. I suppose he'd just given
the foreign johnnies the slip, and my mother must have made a mistake
about its being two o'clock when they came. Or - or, it wasn't all a frame-
up, was it? I mean, my mother didn't think - couldn't think - that - that it
was me?'
Poirot reassured him quickly.
'No, no, Monsieur Jack. Have no fears on that score. As for the rest, I
will explain it to you one of these days. It is rather curious. But will you
recount to us exactly what did occur on that terrible evening?'
'There's very little to tell. I came from Cherbourg, as I told you, in order
to see Marthe before going to the other end of the world. The train was late
and I decided to take the short cut across the golf links. I could easily get
into the grounds of the Villa Marguerite from there. I had nearly reached the
place when -'
He paused and swallowed.
'I heard a terrible cry. It wasn't loud - a sort of choke and gasp - but it
frightened me. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot. Then I came round
the corner of a bush. There was moonlight. I saw the grave, and a figure
lying face downwards with a dagger sticking in the back. And then - and
then - I looked up and saw her. She was looking at me as though she saw a
ghost - it's what she must have thought me at first - all expression seemed
frozen out of her face by horror. And then she gave a cry and turned and
ran.'
He stopped, trying to master his emotion.
'And afterwards?' asked Poirot gently.
'I really don't know. I stayed there for a time, dazed. And then I realized
I'd better get away as fast as I could. It didn't occur to me that they would
suspect me, but I was afraid of being called upon to give evidence against
her. I walked to St Beauvais as I told you and got a car from there back to
Cherbourg.'
A knock came at the door, and a page entered with a telegram which he
delivered to Stonor. He tore it open. Then he got up from his seat.


'Mrs Renauld has regained consciousness,' he said.
'Ah!' Poirot sprang to his feet. 'Let us all go to Merlinville at once.'
A hurried departure was made forthwith. Stonor, at Jack's instance,
agreed to stay behind and do all that could be done for Bella Duveen.
Poirot, Jack Renauld, and I set off in the Renauld car.
The run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of
the Villa Marguerite Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot.
'How would it be if you went on first - to break the news to my mother
that I am free -'
'While you break it in person to Mademoiselle Marthe, eh?' finished
Poirot, with a twinkle. 'But yes, by all means, I was about to propose such
an arrangement myself.'
Jack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself
out, and ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa
Geneviève.
'Poirot,' I said, 'do you remember how we arrived here that first day?
And were met by the news of Mr Renauld's murder?'
'Ah, yes, truly. Not so long ago either. But what a lot of things have
happened since then - especially for you.'
'Yes, indeed,' I sighed.
'You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That
was not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt
with leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls! I
spoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and
regular, such as a detective delights in. The mise en scéne designed by
Georges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the denouement - ah, no! A
man killed by accident in a girl's fit of anger - ah, indeed, what order or
method is there in that?'
And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot's peculiarities,
the door was opened by Françoise.
Poirot explained that he must see Mrs Renauld at once, and the old
woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time
before Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.
'Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre! but there are squalls ahead!'
'What do you mean?' I cried.
'I would hardly have credited it,' said Poirot thoughtfully, 'but women
are very unexpected.'


'Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,' I exclaimed, looking out of the
window.
Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps
outside.
'Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.'
'I know, I know,' said Jack Renauld. 'I must go up to her at once.'
'But no, I tell you. It is better not.'
'But Marthe and I -'
'In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must,
but you would be wise to be guided by me.'
A voice on the stairs behind made us all start.
'I thank you for your good offices, Monsieur Poirot but I will make my
own wishes clear.'
We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning on Léonie's
arm, was Mrs Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was
weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.
'Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor's orders!'
But Mrs Renauld came on.
'Mother,' cried Jack, starting forward.
But with a gesture she drove him back.
'I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and
hour I renounce you.'
'Mother!' cried the lad, stupefied.
For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his
voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture. But instantly she regained
command of herself.
'Your father's blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death.
You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment
of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house.
Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall
never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you
can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father's bitterest
enemy!'
And slowly, painfully she retraced her way upstairs.
We were all dumbfounded - totally unprepared for such a
demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone
through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.


'He is overdone,' murmured Poirot to Marthe. 'Where can we take him?'
'But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and
I. My poor Jack!'
We got the lad to the Villa where he dropped limply on to a chair in a
semi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands.
'He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top
of it. Get him to bed and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.'
A doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as
his opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and
quiet, the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there
was a chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for someone to sit up all
night with him.
Finally, having done all we could we left him in the charge of Marthe
and her mother, and set out for the town. It was past our usual hour of
dining, and we were both famished. The first restaurant we came to
assuaged the pangs of hunger with an excellent omelette and an equally
excellent entrecôte to follow.
'And now for quarters for the night.' said Poirot, when at length café
noir had completed the meal. 'Shall we try our old friend, the Hôtel des
Bains?'
We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be
accommodated with two good rooms over-looking the sea. Then Poirot
asked a question which surprised me:
'Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?'
'Yes, monsieur. She is in the little salon.'
'Ah!'
'Poirot,' I cried, keeping pace with him, as he walked along the corridor,
'who on earth is Miss Robinson?'
Poirot beamed kindly on me.
'It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.'
'But I say -'
'Bah!' said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the
door. 'Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of
Duveen?'
It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hand in both of
mine. My eyes said the rest.
Poirot cleared his throat.


'Mes enfants,' he said, 'for the moment we have no time for sentiment.
There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked
you?'
In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in
paper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start
- for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the
sea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most
compromising of objects and documents!
'Très bien, mon enfant,' said Poirot. 'I am pleased with you. Go now and
rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him
tomorrow.'
'Where are you going?' asked the girl, her eyes widening.
'You shall hear all about it tomorrow.'
'Because wherever you're going, I'm coming too.'
'But, mademoiselle -'
'I'm coming too, I tell you.'
Poirot realized that it was futile to argue. He gave in.
'Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability
nothing will happen.'
The girl made no reply.
Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close
oppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of
the Villa Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused.
'I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld.
Come with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside.
Madame Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.'
We unlatched the gate, and walked up the path. As we went round to the
side of the house, I drew Poirot's attention to a window on the first floor.
Thrown sharply on the blind was the profile of Marthe Daubreuil.
'Ah!' said Poirot. 'I figure to myself that that is the room where we shall
find Jack Renauld.'
Madame Daubreuil opened the door to us. She explained that Jack was
much the same but perhaps we would like to see for ourselves. She led us
upstairs and into the bedroom. Marthe Daubreuil was sitting by a table with
a lamp on it, working. She put her finger to her lips as we entered.
Jack Renauld was sleeping an uneasy, fitful sleep, his head turning from
side to side and his face still unduly flushed.


'Is the doctor coming again?' asked Poirot in a whisper.
'Not unless we send. He is sleeping - that is the great thing. Maman
made him a tisane.'
She sat down again with her embroidery as we left the room. Madame
Daubreuil accompanied us down the stairs. Since I had learned of her past
history, I viewed this woman with increased interest. She stood there with
her eyes cast down, the same very faint enigmatical smile that I
remembered on her lips. And suddenly I felt afraid of her, as one might feel
afraid of a beautiful poisonous snake.
'I hope we have not deranged you, madame,' said Poirot politely, as she
opened the door for us to pass out.
'Not at all, monsieur.'
'By the way,' said Poirot, as though struck by an afterthought, 'Monsieur
Stonor has not been in Merlinville today, has he?'
I could not at all fathom the point of this question, which I well knew to
be meaningless as far as Poirot was concerned.
Madame Daubreuil replied quite composedly:
'Not that I know of.'
'He has not had an interview with Madame Renauld?'
'How should I know that, monsieur?'
'True,' said Poirot. 'I thought you might have seen him coming or going,
that is all. Good-night, madame.'
'Why -' I began.
'No whys, Hastings. There will be time for that later.'
We rejoined Cinderella and made our way rapidly in the direction of the
Villa Geneviève. Poirot looked over his shoulder once at the lighted
window and the profile of Marthe as she bent over her work.
'He is being guarded at all events,' he muttered.
Arrived at the Villa Geneviève, Poirot took up his stand behind some
bushes to the left of the drive, where, while enjoying a good view ourselves,
we were completely hidden from sight. The Villa itself was in total
darkness, everybody was without doubt in bed and asleep. We were almost
immediately under the window of Mrs Renauld's bedroom, which window,
I noticed, was open. It seemed to me that it was upon this spot that Poirot's
eyes were fixed.
'What are we going to do?' I whispered.
'Watch.'


'But -'
'I do not expect anything to happen for at least an hour, probably two
hours, but the -'
His words were interrupted by a long, thin drawn cry:
'Help!'
A light flashed up in the first-floor room on the right-hand side of the
front door. The cry came from there. And even as we watched there came a
shadow on the blind as of two people struggling.
'Mille tonnerres!' cried Poirot. 'She must have changed her room.'
Dashing forward, he battered wildly on the front door. Then rushing to
the tree in the flower-bed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I
followed him, as with a bound he sprang in through the open window.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw Dulcie reaching the branch behind me.
'Take care,' I exclaimed.
'Take care of your grandmother!' retorted the girl. 'This is child's play to
me.'
Poirot had rushed through the empty room and was pounding on the
door.
'Locked and bolted on the outside,' he growled. 'And it will take time to
burst it open.'
The cries for help were getting noticeably fainter. I saw despair in
Poirot's eyes. He and I together put our shoulders to the door.
Cinderella's voice, calm and dispassionate, came from the window:
'You'll be too late. I guess I'm the only one who can do anything.'
Before I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap from the
window into space. I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her
hanging by her hands from the roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the
direction of the lighted window.
'Good heavens! She'll be killed,' I cried.
'You forget. She's a professional acrobat, Hastings. It was the
providence of the good God that made her insist on coming with us tonight.
I only pray that she may be in time. Ah!'
A cry of absolute terror floated out on to the night, as the girl
disappeared through the window, and then in Cinderella's clear tones came
the words:
'No, you don't! I've got you - and my wrists are just like steel.'


At the same moment the door of our prison was opened cautiously by
Françoise. Poirot brushed her aside unceremoniously and rushed down the
passage to where the other maids were grouped round the farther door.
'It's locked on the inside, monsieur.'
There was the sound of a heavy fall within. After a moment or two the
key turned and the door swung slowly open. Cinderella, very pale,
beckoned us in.
'She is safe?' demanded Poirot.
'Yes, I was just in time. She was exhausted.'
Mm. Renauld was half sitting, half lying on the bed. She was gasping
for breath.
'Nearly strangled me,' she murmured painfully.
The girl picked up something from the floor and handed it to Poirot. It
was a rolled-up ladder of silk rope, very fine, but quite strong.
'A getaway,' said Poirot. 'By the window, while we were battering at the
door. Where is - the other?'
The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the ground lay a figure
wrapped in some dark material, a fold of which hid the face.
'Dead?'
She nodded.
'I think so. Head must have struck the marble fender.'
'But who is it?' I cried.
'The murderer of Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of
Madame Renauld.'
Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down, and lifting the fold of
cloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!


Murder on the Links




Chapter 28
JOURNEY'S END
I have confused memories of the further events of that night. Poirot
seemed deaf to my repeated questions. He was engaged in overwhelming
Françoise with reproaches for not having told him of Mrs Renauld's change
of sleeping quarters.
I caught him by the shoulder, determined to attract his attention, and
make myself heard.
'But you must have known,' I expostulated. 'You were taken up to see
her this afternoon.'
Poirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment.
'She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room - her boudoir,' he
explained.
'But, monsieur,' cried Françoise, 'Madame changed her room almost
immediately after the crime: the associations they were too distressing!'
'Then why was I not told?' vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and
working himself into a first-class passion. 'I demand of you - why - was - I -
not - told? You are an old woman completely imbecile! And Léonie and
Denise are no better. All of you are triple idiots! Your stupidity has nearly
caused the death of your mistress. But for this courageous child -'
He broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was
bending over ministering to Mrs Renauld, he braced her with Gallic fervour
- slightly to my annoyance. I was aroused from my condition of mental fog
by a sharp command from Poirot to fetch the doctor immediately on Mrs
Renauld's behalf. After that, I might summon the police.
And he added to complete my dudgeon:
'It will hardly be worth your while to return here. I shall be too busy to
attend to you, and of Mademoiselle here I make a garde-malade.'
I retired with what dignity I could command. Having done my errands, I
returned to the hotel. I understood next to nothing of what had occurred.
The events of the night seemed fantastic and impossible. Nobody would
answer my questions. Nobody had seemed to hear them. Angrily, I flung
myself into bed, and slept the sleep of the bewildered and utterly exhausted.
I awoke to find the sun pouring in through the open windows and
Poirot, neat and smiling, sitting beside the bed.


'Enfin, you wake! But it is that you are a famous sleeper, Hastings! Do
you know that it is nearly eleven o'clock?'
I groaned and put a hand to my head.
'I must have been dreaming,' I said. 'Do you know, I actually dreamt that
we found Marthe Daubreuil's body in Mrs Renauld's room, and that you
declared her to have murdered Mr Renauld?'
'You were not dreaming. All that is quite true.'
'But Bella Duveen killed Mr Renauld?'
'Oh no, Hastings, she did not! She said she did - yes - but that was to
save the man she loved from the guillotine.'
'What?'
'Remember Jack Renauld's story. They both arrived on the scene on the
same instant and each took the other to be the perpetrator of the crime. The
girl stares at him in horror, and then with a cry rushes away. But when she
hears that the crime has been brought home to him, she cannot bear it and
comes forward to accuse herself and save him from certain death.'
Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers
together in familiar style.
'The case was not quite satisfactory to me,' he observed judicially. 'All
along I was strongly under the impression that we were dealing with a cold-
blooded and premeditated crime committed by someone who had contented
themselves (very cleverly) with using Monsieur Renauld's own plans for
throwing the police off the track. The great criminal (as you may remember
my remarking to you once) is always supremely simple.'
I nodded.
'Now, to support this theory, the criminal must have been fully
cognizant of Monsieur Renauld's plans. That leads us to Mrs Renauld. But
facts fail to support any theory of her guilt. Is there anyone else who might
have known of them? Yes. From Marthe Daubreuil's own lips we have the
admission that she overheard Mr Renauld's quarrel with the tramp. If she
could overhear that, there is no reason why she should not have heard
everything else, especially if Mr and Madame Renauld were imprudent
enough to discuss their plans sitting on the bench. Remember how easily
you overheard Marthe's conversation with Jack Renauld from that spot.'
'But what possible motive could Marthe have for murdering Mr
Renauld?' I argued.


'What motive! Money! Renauld was a millionaire several times over,
and at his death (or so she and Jack believed) half that vast fortune would
pass to his son. Let us reconstruct the scene from the standpoint of Marthe
Daubreuil.
'Marthe Daubreuil overhears what passes between Renauld and his wife.
So far he has been a nice little source of income to the Daubreuil mother
and daughter, but now he proposes to escape from their toils. At first,
possibly, her idea is to prevent that escape. But a bolder idea takes its place,
and one that fails to horrify the daughter of Jeanne Beroldy! At present
Renauld stands inexorably in the way of her marriage with Jack. If the latter
defies his father, he will be a pauper - which is not at all to the mind of
Mademoiselle Marthe. In fact, I doubt if she has ever cared a straw for Jack
Renauld. She can simulate emotion but in reality she is of the same cold,
calculating type as her mother. I doubt, too, whether she was really very
sure of her hold over the boy's affections. She had dazzled and captivated
him, but separated from her, as his father could so easily manage to separate
him, she might lose him. But with Renauld dead, and Jack the heir to half
his millions, the marriage can take place at once, and at a stroke she will
attain wealth - not the beggarly thousands that have been extracted from
him so far. And her clever brain takes in the simplicity of the thing. It is all
so easy. Renauld is planning all the circumstances of his death - she has
only to step in at the right moment and turn the farce into a grim reality.
And here comes in the second point which led me infallibly to Marthe
Daubreuil - the dagger: Jack Renauld had three souvenirs made. One he
gave to his mother, one to Bella Duveen - was it not highly probable that he
had given the third one to Marthe Daubreuil?
'So, then to sum up, there were four points of note against Marthe
Daubreuil:
'1 - Marthe Daubreuil could have overheard Renauld's plans.
'2 - Marthe Daubreuil had a direct interest in causing Renauld's death.
'3 - Marthe Daubreuil was the daughter of the notorious Madame
Beroldy who in my opinion was morally and virtually the murderess of her
husband, although it may have been Georges Conneau's hand which struck
the actual blow.
'4 - Marthe Daubreuil was the only person, besides Jack Renauld, likely
to have the third dagger in her possession.'
Poirot paused and cleared his throat.


'Of course, when I learned of the existence of the other girl, Bella
Duveen, I realized that it was quite possible that she might have killed
Renauld. The solution did not commend itself to me, because, as I pointed
out to you, Hastings, an expert, such as I am, likes to meet a foeman worthy
of his steel. Still, one must take crimes as one finds them, not as one would
like them to be. It did not seem very likely that Bella Duveen would be
wandering about carrying a souvenir paper-knife in her hand, but of course
she might have had some idea all the time of revenging herself on Jack
Renauld. When she actually came forward and confessed to the murder, it
seemed that all was over. And yet - I was not satisfied, mon ami! I was not
satisfied...
'I went over the case again minutely, and I came to the same conclusion
as before. If it was not Bella Duveen, the only other person who could have
committed the crime was Marthe Daubreuil. But I had not one single proof
against her!
'And then you showed me that letter from Mademoiselle Dulcie, and I
saw a chance of settling the matter once and for all. The original dagger was
stolen by Dulcie Duveen and thrown into the sea - since, as she thought, it
belonged to her sister. But if, by any chance, it was not her sister's, but the
one given by Jack to Marthe Daubreuil - why then, Bella Duveen's dagger
would be still intact! I said no word to you, Hastings (it was no time for
romance), but I sought out Mademoiselle Dulcie, told her as much as I
deemed needful, and set her to search among the effects of her sister.
Imagine my elation, when she sought me out (according to my instructions)
as Miss Robinson with the precious souvenir in her possession!
'In the meantime I had taken steps to force Mademoiselle Marthe into
the open. By my orders, Madame Renauld repulsed her son, and declared
her intention of making a will on the morrow which should cut him off from
ever enjoying even a portion of his father's fortune. It was a desperate step,
but a necessary one, and Madame Renauld was fully prepared to take the
risk - though unfortunately she also never thought of mentioning her change
of room, I suppose she took it for granted that I knew. All happened as I
thought. Marthe Daubreuil made a last bold bid for the Renauld millions -
and failed!'
'What absolutely bewilders me,' I said, 'is how she ever got into the
house without our seeing her. It seems an absolute miracle. We left her


behind at the Villa Marguerite, we go straight to the Villa Geneviève - and
yet she is there before us!'
'Ah, but we did not leave her behind. She was out of the Villa
Marguerite by the back way while we were talking to her mother in the hall.
That is where, as the Americans say, she “put it over” on Hercule Poirot!'
'But the shadow on the blind? We saw it from the road.'
'Eh bien, when we looked up, Madame Daubreuil had just had time to
run upstairs and take her place.'
'Madame Daubreuil?'
'Yes. One is old, and one is young, one dark, and one fair, but, for the
purpose of a silhouette on a blind, their profiles are singularly alike. Even I
did not suspect - triple imbecile that I was! I thought I had plenty of time
before me - that she would not try to gain admission to the Villa until much
later. She had brains, that beautiful Mademoiselle.'
'And her object was to murder Mrs Renauld?'
'Yes. The whole fortune would then pass to her son. But it would have
been suicide, mon ami! On the floor by Marthe Daubreuil's body, I found a
pad and a little bottle of chloroform and a hypodermic syringe containing a
fatal dose of morphine. You understand? The chloroform first - then when
the victim is unconscious the prick of the needle. By the morning the smell
of the chloroform has quite disappeared and the syringe lies where it has
fallen from Madame Renauld's hand. What would he say, the excellent
Monsieur Hautet? “Poor woman! What did I tell you? The shock of joy, it
was too much on top of the rest! Did I not say that I should not be surprised
if her brain became unhinged. Altogether a most tragic case, the Renauld
Case!”
'However, Hastings, things did not go quite as Mademoiselle Marthe
had planned. To begin with, Madame Renauld was awake and waiting for
her. There is a struggle. But Madame Renauld is terribly weak still. There is
a last chance for Marthe Daubreuil. The idea of suicide is at an end, but if
she can silence Madame Renauld with her strong hands, make a getaway
with her little silk ladder while we are still battering on the inside of the
farther door, and be back at the Villa Marguerite before we return there, it
will be hard to prove anything against her. But she was check-mated, not by
Hercule Poirot, but by la petite acrobate with her wrists of steel.'
I mused over the whole story.


'When did you first begin to suspect Marthe Daubreuil, Poirot? When
she told us she had overheard the quarrel in the garden?'
Poirot smiled.
'My friend, do you remember when we drove into Merlinville that first
day? And the beautiful girl we saw standing at the gate? You asked me if I
had not noticed a young goddess, and I replied to you that I had seen only a
girl with anxious eyes. That is how I have thought of Marthe Daubreuil
from the beginning. The girl with the anxious eyes! Why was she anxious?
Not on Jack Renauld's behalf, for she did not know then that he had been in
Merlinville the previous evening.'
'By the way,' I exclaimed, 'how is Jack Renauld?'
'Much better. He is still at the Villa Marguerite. But Madame Daubreuil
has disappeared. The police are looking for her.'
'Was she in with her daughter, do you think?'
'We shall never know. Madame is a lady who can keep her secrets. And
I doubt very much if the police will ever find her.'
'Has Jack Renauld been told?'
'Not yet.'
'It will be a terrible shock to him.'
'Naturally. And yet, do you know, Hastings, I doubt if his heart was ever
seriously engaged? So far we have looked upon Bella Duveen as a siren,
and Marthe Daubreuil as the girl he really loved. But I think that if we
reversed the terms we should come nearer to the truth. Marthe Daubreuil
was very beautiful. She set herself to fascinate Jack, and she succeeded, but
remember his curious reluctance to break with the other girl. And see how
he was willing to go to the guillotine rather than implicate her. I have a little
idea that when he learns the truth, he will be horrified - revolted, and his
false love will wither away.'
'What about Giraud?'
'He has a crise of the nerves, that one! He has been obliged to return to
Paris.'
We both smiled.
Poirot proved a fairly true prophet. When at length the doctor
pronounced Jack Renauld strong enough to hear the truth, it was Poirot who
broke it to him. The shock was indeed terrific. Yet Jack rallied better than I
could have supposed possible. His mother's devotion helped him to live
through those difficult days. The mother and son were inseparable now.


There was a further revelation to come. Poirot had acquainted Mrs
Renauld with the fact that he knew her secret, and had represented to her
that Jack should not be left in ignorance of his father's past.
'To hide the truth, never does it avail, madame! Be brave and tell him
everything.'
With a heavy heart Mrs Renauld consented, and her son learned that the
father he had loved had been in actual fact a fugitive from justice. A halting
question was promptly answered by Poirot.
'Reassure yourself, Monsieur Jack. The world knows nothing. As far as
I can see, there is no obligation for me to take the police into my
confidence. Throughout the case I have acted, not for them, but for your
father. Justice overtook him at last, but no one need ever know that he and
Georges Conneau were one and the same.'
There were, of course, various points in the case that remained puzzling
to the police, but Poirot explained things in so plausible a fashion that all
query about them was gradually stilled.
Shortly after we got back to London, I noticed a magnificent model of a
foxhound adorning Poirot's mantelpiece.
In answer to my inquiring glance, Poirot nodded.
'Mais oui! I got my five hundred francs! Is he not a splendid fellow? I
call him Giraud!'
A few days later Jack Renauld came to see us with a resolute expression
on his face.
'Monsieur Poirot, I've come to say goodbye. I'm sailing for South
America almost immediately. My father had large interests over the
continent, and I mean to start a new life out there.'
'You go alone, Monsieur Jack?'
'My mother comes with me - and I shall keep Stonor on as my secretary.
He likes out-of-the-way parts of the world.'
'No one else goes with you?'
Jack flushed.
'You mean?'
'A girl who loves you very dearly - who has been willing to lay down
her life for you.'
'How could I ask her?' muttered the boy. 'After all that has happened,
could I go to her and - Oh, what sort of a lame story could I tell?'


'Les femmes - they have a wonderful genius for manufacturing crutches
for stories like that.'
'Yes, but - I've been such a damned fool.'
'So have all of us, one time and another,' observed Poirot
philosophically.
But Jack's face had hardened.
'There's something else. I'm my father's son. Would anyone marry me,
knowing that?'
'You are your father's son, you say. Hastings here will tell you that I
believe in heredity -'
'Well, then -'
'Wait. I know a woman, a woman of courage and endurance, capable of
great love, of supreme self-sacrifice -'
The boy looked up. His eyes softened.
'My mother!'
'Yes. You are your mother's son as well as your father's. Then go to
Mademoiselle Bella. Tell her everything. Keep nothing back - and see what
she will say!'
Jack looked irresolute.
'Go to her as a boy no longer, but a man - a man bowed by the fate of
the Past, and the fate of Today, but looking forward to a new and wonderful
life. Ask her to share it with you. You may not realize it, but your love for
each other has been tested in the fire and not found wanting. You have both
been willing to lay down your lives for each other.'
And what of Captain Arthur Hastings, humble chronicler of these
pages?
There is some talk of his joining the Renaulds on a ranch across the
seas, but for the end of this story I prefer to go back to a morning in the
garden of the Villa Geneviève.
'I can't call you Bella,' I said, 'since it isn't your name. And Dulcie seems
so unfamiliar. So it's got to be Cinderella. Cinderella married the Prince,
you remember. I'm not a Prince, but -'
She interrupted me.
'Cinderella warned him, I'm sure. You see, she couldn't promise to turn
into a princess. She was only a little scullion after all -'
'It's the Prince's turn to interrupt,' I interpolated. 'Do you know what he
said?'


'No?'
'“Hell!” said the Prince - and kissed her.'
And I suited the action to the word.