The Murder on the Links Read online

  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 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?”

  Four

  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 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.

  “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 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 businesslike writing desk, with many pigeonholes, 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.

  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 hearthrug 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 fingertip.

  “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.