Книга - The Murder on the Links

The Murder on the Links
Agatha Christie


On a French golf course, a millionaire is found stabbed in the back…An urgent cry for help brings Poirot to France. But he arrives too late to save his client, whose brutally stabbed body now lies face downwards in a shallow grave on a golf course.But why is the dead man wearing his son’s overcoat? And who was the impassioned love-letter in the pocket for? Before Poirot can answer these questions, the case is turned upside down by the discovery of a second, identically murdered corpse…
















The Murder on the Links








Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by

The Bodley Head Ltd 1923

Agatha Christie® Poirot® The Murder on the Links™

Copyright © 1923 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com (http://www.agathachristie.com)

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Title lettering by Ghost Design

Cover photograph © Alex Telfer/Gallery Stock (golfing grounds); Evening Standard/Getty Images (figure)

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008129460

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780007422562

Version: 2017-04-13


TO MY HUSBAND

A fellow enthusiast for detective stories, and to whom I am indebted for much helpful advice and criticism


Contents

Cover (#u619df021-5139-511d-99a3-e945dad7a257)

Title Page (#u43eca23e-9ce8-5041-9fef-c97732f54848)

Copyright (#ud111bfb3-e156-57a4-9c57-0794caee0939)

Dedication (#u7c2e7f4d-645c-52f8-af66-19470a76bc8a)

CHAPTER 1: A Fellow-Traveller (#ua649f417-a862-5c38-b557-ed34cb603740)

CHAPTER 2: An Appeal for Help (#uf717669e-0c40-51dc-8b68-239b4f916128)

CHAPTER 3: At the Villa Geneviève (#ub6dd318f-0159-5cfe-872c-c83afaeddd0f)



CHAPTER 4: The Letter Signed ‘Bella’ (#ub0df2ccb-28a6-57a1-a9f5-ed4e6c8cfee8)



CHAPTER 5: Mrs Renauld’s Story (#ub86bef1c-0277-510f-ba0a-dd0ab8c33f73)



CHAPTER 6: The Scene of the Crime (#uea0495db-e0bf-5d50-b0f5-e97a4ec74db2)



CHAPTER 7: The Mysterious Madame Daubreuil (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 8: An Unexpected Meeting (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 9: M. Giraud Finds Some Clues (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 10: Gabriel Stonor (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 11: Jack Renauld (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 12: Poirot Elucidates Certain Points (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 13: The Girl With the Anxious Eyes (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 14: The Second Body (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 15: A Photograph (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 16: The Beroldy Case (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 17: We Make Further Investigations (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 18: Giraud Acts (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 19: I Use My Grey Cells (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 20: An Amazing Statement (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 21: Hercule Poirot on the Case (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 22: I Find Love (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 23: Difficulties Ahead (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 24: ‘Save Him!’ (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 25: An Unexpected Dénouement (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 26: I Receive a Letter (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 27: Jack Renauld’s Story (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 28: Journey’s End (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Agatha Christie (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER 1 (#u9d986738-bd0a-58cf-9800-30bd83b89fdf)

A Fellow-Traveller (#u9d986738-bd0a-58cf-9800-30bd83b89fdf)


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 to 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’. The girl was certainly all that I most disliked, but that was no reason why I should make myself ridiculous by my attitude. I prepared to unbend. After all, she was decidedly pretty…

‘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, lunching at the Savoy covered with jewellery, and with their photograph in every paper saying how much they love Madame So and So’s face cream. 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 worldly-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 wholehearted determination to ‘make good’. This glimpse of a world unknown to me was not without its charm, and I enjoyed seeing her vivid little face light up as she talked.

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 the Somme they invalided me out altogether. I had a half-fledged Army job for a bit. 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 dénouement. The girl listened spellbound. In fact, we were so absorbed that the train drew into Calais station before we realized it.

‘My goodness gracious me!’ cried my companion.

‘Where’s my powder-puff?’

She proceeded to bedaub her face liberally, and then applied a stick of lip-salve to her lips, observing the effect in a small pocket-glass, and betraying not the faintest sign of self-consciousness.

‘I say,’ I hesitated. ‘I dare say it’s cheek on my part, but why do all that sort of thing?’

The girl paused in her operations, and stared at me with undisguised surprise.

‘It isn’t as though you weren’t so pretty that you can afford to do without it,’ I said stammeringly.

‘My dear boy! I’ve got to do it. All the girls do. Think I want to look like a little frump up from the country?’ She took one last look in the mirror, smiled approval, and put it and her vanity box away in her bag. ‘That’s better. Keeping up appearances is a bit of a fag, I grant, but if a girl respects herself it’s up to her not to let herself get slack.’

To this essentially moral sentiment, I had no reply. A point of view makes a great difference.

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? I—’ I hesitated. ‘I want to meet your sister.’

We both laughed.

‘That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings trouble—I know that well enough…’

Her face changed. For the moment all the light-hearted gaiety died out of it. It looked angry—revengeful…

‘So goodbye,’ she finished, in a lighter tone.

‘Aren’t you even going to tell me your name?’ I cried, as she turned away.

She looked over her shoulder. A dimple appeared in each cheek. She was like a lovely picture by Greuze.

‘Cinderella,’ she said, and laughed.

But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again.




CHAPTER 2 (#u9d986738-bd0a-58cf-9800-30bd83b89fdf)

An Appeal for Help (#u9d986738-bd0a-58cf-9800-30bd83b89fdf)


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 epithet ‘terrible’.

Poirot waved his egg-spoon in vigorous refutation of my remark.

‘Du tout! If for an hour one experiences sensations and emotions of the most terrible, one has lived many hours! Does not one of your English poets say that time is counted, not by hours, but by heart-beats?’

‘I fancy Browning was referring to something more romantic than sea-sickness, though.’

‘Because he was an Englishman, an Islander to whom la Manche was nothing. Oh, you English! With nous autres it is different. Figure to yourself that a lady of my acquaintance at the beginning of the war fled to Ostend. There she had a terrible crisis of the nerves. Impossible to escape further except by crossing the sea! And she had a horror— mais une horreur!—of the sea! What was she to do? Daily les Boches were drawing nearer. Imagine to yourself the terrible situation!’

‘What did she do?’ I inquired curiously.

‘Fortunately her husband was homme pratique. He was also very calm, the crises of the nerves, they affected him not. Il l’a emportée simplement! Naturally when she reached England she was prostrate, but she still breathed.’

Poirot shook his head seriously. I composed my face as best I could.

Suddenly he stiffened. He pointed a dramatic finger at the toast rack.

‘Ah, par exemple, c’est trop fort!’ he cried.

‘What is it?’

‘This piece of toast. You remark him not?’ He whipped the offender out of the rack, and held it up for me to examine.

‘Is it square? No. Is it a triangle? Again no. Is it even round? No. Is it of any shape remotely pleasing to the eye? What symmetry have we here? None.’

‘It’s cut from a cottage loaf,’ I explained soothingly.

Poirot threw me a withering glance.

‘What an intelligence has my friend Hastings!’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘Comprehend you not that I have forbidden such a loaf—a loaf haphazard and shapeless, that no baker should permit himself to bake!’

I endeavoured to distract his mind.

‘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. The cases I have been employed upon lately were banal to the last degree. In verity I am reduced to recovering lost lap-dogs for fashionable ladies! The last problem that presented any interest was that intricate little affair of the Yardly diamond, and that was—how many months ago, my friend?’

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.’

‘How does he thank you?’ I asked curiously, for I knew my Japp.

‘He is kind enough to say that I am a wonderful sport for my age, and that he was glad to have had the chance of letting me in on the case.’

This was so typical of Japp, that I could not forbear a chuckle. 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 later, 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, I 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!’

‘Dear me, Poirot,’ I said, my excitement rising, ‘I smell some goodly shekels in this. If we succeed, we shall make our fortunes!’

‘Do not be too sure of that, my friend. A rich man and his money are not so easily parted. Me, I have seen a well known millionaire turn out a tram full of people to seek for a dropped half-penny.’

I acknowledged the wisdom of this.

‘In any case,’ continued Poirot, ‘it is not the money which attracts me here. Certainly it will be pleasant to have carte blanche in our investigations, one can be sure that way of wasting no time, but it is something a little bizarre in this problem which arouses my interest. 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? Mr Renault 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. It is rapidly becoming the fashion. Rich English people who wish to be quiet are taking it up. 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 the details from the man himself. Come, let us pack. A small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.’

‘And the Countess?’ I inquired with a smile.

‘Ah! je m’en fiche! Her case was certainly not interesting.’

‘Why so sure of that?’

‘Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot wait—always remember that, Hastings.’

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.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t invested in a few bottles of some sea sick remedy, Poirot,’ I observed maliciously, as I recalled our conversation at breakfast.

My friend, who was anxiously scanning the weather, turned a reproachful face upon me.

‘Is it that you have forgotten the method most excellent of Laverguier? His system, I practise it always. One balances oneself, if you remember, turning the head from left to right, breathing in and out, counting six between each breath.’

‘H’m,’ I demurred. ‘You’ll be rather tired of balancing yourself and counting six by the time you get to Santiago, or Buenos Aires, or wherever it is you land.’

‘Quelle idée! You do not figure to yourself that I shall go to Santiago?’

‘Mr Renauld suggests it in his letter.’

‘He did not know the methods of Hercule Poirot. I do not run to and fro, making journeys, and agitating myself. My work is done from within—here—’ he tapped his forehead significantly.

As usual, this remark roused my argumentative faculty.

‘It’s all very well, Poirot, but I think you are falling into the habit of despising certain things too much. A fingerprint has led sometimes to the arrest and conviction of a murderer.’

‘And has, without doubt, hanged more than one innocent man,’ remarked Poirot dryly.

‘But surely the study of fingerprints and footprints, cigarette ash, different kinds of mud, and other clues that comprise the minute observation of details—all these are of vital importance?’

‘But certainly. I have never said otherwise. The trained observer, the expert, without doubt he is useful! But the others, the Hercule Poirots, they are above the experts! To them the experts bring the facts, their business is the method of the crime, its logical deduction, the proper sequence and order of the facts; above all, the true psychology of the case. You have hunted the fox, yes?’

‘I have hunted a bit, now and again,’ I said, rather bewildered by this abrupt change of subject. ‘Why?’

‘Eh bien, this hunting of the fox, you need the dogs, no?’

‘Hounds,’ I corrected gently. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘But yet,’ Poirot wagged his finger at me. ‘You did not descend from your horse and run along the ground smelling with your nose and uttering loud “Ow Ows”?’

In spite of myself I laughed immoderately. Poirot nodded in a satisfied manner.

‘So. You leave the work of the d—hounds to the hounds. Yet you demand that I, Hercule Poirot, should make myself ridiculous by lying down (possibly on damp grass) to study hypothetical footprints, and should scoop up cigarette ash when I do not know one kind from the other. Remember the Plymouth Express mystery. The good Japp departed to make a survey of the railway line. When he returned, I, without having moved from my apartments, was able to tell him exactly what he had found.’

‘So you are of the opinion that Japp wasted his time.’

‘Not at all, since his evidence confirmed my theory. But I should have wasted my time if I had gone. It is the same with so called “experts”. Remember the handwriting testimony in the Cavendish Case. One counsel’s questioning brings out testimony as to the resemblances, the defence brings evidence to show dissimilarity. All the language is very technical. And the result? What we all knew in the first place. The writing was very like that of John Cavendish. And the psychological mind is faced with the question “Why?” Because it was actually his? Or because some one wished us to think it was his? I answered that question, mon ami, and answered it correctly.’

And Poirot, having effectually silenced, if not convinced me, leaned back with a satisfied air.

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 to hear that Laverguier’s method had once more justified itself 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.

‘Since it is carte blanche, we will hire a car,’ he said cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us creaking and jolting along, in the most ramshackle of automobiles that ever plied for hire, in the direction of Merlinville.

My spirits were at their highest.

‘What gorgeous air!’ I exclaimed. ‘This promises to be a delightful trip.’

‘For you, yes. For me, I have work to do, remember, at our journey’s end.’

‘Bah!’ I said cheerfully. ‘You will discover all, ensure this Mr. Renauld’s safety, run the would-be assassins to earth, and all will finish in a blaze of glory.’

‘You are sanguine, my friend.’

‘Yes, I feel absolutely assured of success. Are you not the one and only Hercule Poirot?’

But my little friend did not rise to the bait. He 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 sais 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, overlooking 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.’




CHAPTER 3 (#u9d986738-bd0a-58cf-9800-30bd83b89fdf)

At the Villa Geneviève (#u9d986738-bd0a-58cf-9800-30bd83b89fdf)


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, and M. Bex turned once more to Poirot.

‘Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. I heard that you had left the Force?’

‘So I have. I run a private business in London.’

‘And you say 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. A charming man. You will like him. Most sympathetic. Original in his methods, but an excellent judge.’

‘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 am. 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 salon, 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, in an open grave.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. The pit was freshly dug—just a few yards outside the boundary of the Villa grounds.’

‘And it had been dead—how long?’

Dr Durand answered this.

‘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 bedroom, 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 house, 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 milord. 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 had 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 goodnight, and shut the door after her.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About twenty-five minutes after ten, 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 is, 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?’

‘Me, 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 nauw!”’

‘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 propounded 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 come. 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?’




CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_aa6e3b21-c212-5100-9574-9006072d8da3)

The Letter Signed ‘Bella’ (#ulink_aa6e3b21-c212-5100-9574-9006072d8da3)


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 Dearest One,—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 had 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 around for approval.

‘Excellent!’ said Poirot appreciatively.

‘His wife, too, may be able to give us a pointer,’ added the magistrate.

‘You have found no other letters from this 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 above-board. 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 armchairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books and magazines. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the window there was a handsome oak sideboard with a tantalus on top. The curtains and portière were of a soft dull green, and the carpet matched them in tone.

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 hearthrug 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 some one 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 with it.’

He opened the door and we passed in. 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 in 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! but 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 Mees 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 Bex 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 lingered 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.




CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_ca566e65-0496-5c0c-b710-afe824d17229)

Mrs Renauld’s Story (#ulink_ca566e65-0496-5c0c-b710-afe824d17229)


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 these 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 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?’

Mrs 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 him 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 its being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?’

‘Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.’ There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. ‘This was made from 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 Aires.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Aires last night, and he wired him to catch it.’

‘Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Aires was?’

‘No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Aires is not my son’s final destination. He was going overland from there to Santiago.’

And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed:

‘Santiago! Again Santiago!’

It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that word, that Poirot approached Mrs Renauld. He had been standing by the window like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what had passed. He paused by the lady’s side with a bow.

‘Pardon, madame, but may I examine your wrists?’

Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs Renauld held them out to him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords 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 arm, doctor?’

The doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs Renauld’s shoulders, and a slow procession went down the stairs. M. Bex 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. Behind her, M. Hautet was clacking commiserations and apologies like an animated hen.

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!’




CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_76c905f7-3471-52b8-98ca-aa05cc0b35a7)

The Scene of the Crime (#ulink_76c905f7-3471-52b8-98ca-aa05cc0b35a7)


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 a 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 him 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 footmarks 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 sweetly.

I guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and, if so, he succeeded. The other turned 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?’





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