Murder on the Links hp-2 Page 9

  Again that wristwatch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.

  'You see, mon ami? You comprehend?'

  'No,' I replied with some ill burnout. 'I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries and it's useless asking you to explain. You always like keeping something up your sleeve to the last minute.'

  'Do not enrage yourself, my friend,' said Poirot, with a smile. I will explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, c'est entendu? He treats me as an old one of no importance! We shall see! In common fairness I gave him a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that is his own lookout.'

  I assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion. 'C'est bien! Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell me, my friend, at what time, according to you, did the tragedy take place?'

  'Why, at two o'clock or thereabouts,' I said, astonished.

  'You remember, Mrs. Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while the men were in the room.'

  'Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate, Bex, and everyone else, accept the time without further question. But I, Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at least two hours earlier.'

  'But the doctors-'

  'They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason it was imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Madame Renauld's testimony alone, someone moved on the hands of that wristwatch to two o'clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they cheated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points-firstly, that Madame Renauld was lying; secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time.'

  'But what reason could there be?'

  'Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connexion.'

  'And that is?'

  'The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.'

  I followed it out slowly. 'So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, anyone leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!'

  'Perfect, Hastings! You have it!'

  I sprang up. 'But we must inquire at the station! Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!'

  'You think so, Hastings?'

  'Of course. Let us go there now.'

  Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.

  'Go by all means if you wish, mon ami-but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners.'

  I stared and he said rather impatiently: 'La, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire?'

  His words took me so much aback, that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on serenely: 'You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read or a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin's memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after-' He broke off.

  I was revolving sundry matters in my mind.

  'But Mr. Renauld's letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago!'

  'Undoubtedly there was a secret in Monsieur Renauld's life-there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring, dragged in to put us off the scent, it is possible that it was used in the same way on Monsieur Renauld, to keep him from directing his suspicions to a quarter nearer at hand. Oh be assured Hastings the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at hand, in France.'

  He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be convinced. But I essayed one objection: 'And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them?'

  A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot's face.

  'Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his stomach. "See what I have found," he says. And then again to me: "What do you see here?" Me, I answer with profound and deep truth, "Nothing." And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself "Oh, he is imbecile, this old one!" But we shall see…'

  But my mind had reverted to the main facts.

  'Then all this story of the masked men-'

  'Is false.'

  'What really happened?'

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'One person could tell us-Madame Renauld. But she will not speak. Threats and entreaties would not move her. A remarkable woman that, Hastings. I recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman of unusual character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of being concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.'

  'What made you do that?'

  'Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband's body. I could swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.'

  'Yes,' I said thoughtfully, 'one cannot mistake these things.'

  'I beg your pardon, my friend-one can always be mistaken. Regard a great actress, does not her acting of grief carry you away and impress you with its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I needed other evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great criminal can be a great actor. I base my certainty in this case not upon my own impression, but upon the undeniable fact that Madame Renauld actually fainted. I turned up her eyelids and felt her pulse. There was no deception-the swoon was genuine. Therefore I was satisfied that her anguish was real and not assumed. Besides, a small additional point without interest, it was unnecessary for Madame Renauld to exhibit unrestrained grief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of her husband's death, and there would be no need for her to emulate another such a violent one on beholding his body. No, Madame Renauld was not her husband's murderess.'

  'But why has she lied? She lied about the wristwatch, she lied about the masked men, she lied about a third thing. Tell me, Hastings, what is your explanation of the open door?'

  'Well,' I said, rather embarrassed, 'I suppose it was an oversight. They forgot to shut it.'

  Poirot shook his head, and sighed. 'That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a meaning behind that open door which for the moment I cannot fathom. One thing I am fairly sure of-they did not leave through the door. They left by the window.'

  'What?'

  'Precisely.'

  'But there were no footmarks in the flowerbed underneath.'

  ''No-and there ought to have been. Listen, Hastings. The gardener, Auguste as you heard him say, planted both those beds the preceding afternoon. In the one the are plenty of impressions of his big hobnailed boots-in the other, none! You see? Someone had passed that way, someone who, to obliterate their footprints, smoothed over the surface of the bed with a rake.'

  'Where did they get a rake?'

  'Where they got the spade and the gardening gloves,' said Poirot impatiently. 'There is no difficulty about that.'

  'What makes you think that they left that way though? Surely it is more probable that they entered by the window, and left by the door?'

  'That is possible of course. Yet I have a strong idea that they left by the window.'

  'I think you are wrong.'

  'Perhaps, mon ami.'

  I mused, thinking over the new field of conjecture that Poirot's deductions had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic
allusion to the flowerbed and the wristwatch. His remarks had seemed so meaningless at the moment, and now, for the first time I realized how remarkably, from a few slight incidents, he had unravelled much of the mystery that surrounded the case. I paid a belated homage to my friend.

  'In the meantime,' I said, considering, 'although we know a great deal more than we did we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who killed Mr. Renauld.'

  'No,' said Poirot cheerfully. 'In fact we are a great deal farther off.'

  The fact seemed to afford him such peculiar satisfaction that I gazed at him in wonder. He met my eye and smiled.

  Suddenly a light burst upon me.

  'Poirot! Mrs Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.'

  From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could se that the idea had already occurred to him.

  'Yes,' he said thoughtfully. 'Shielding someone-or screening someone. One of the two.'

  Then, as we entered our hotel he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.

  Chapter 13. The Girl With the Anxious Eyes

  We lunched with an excellent appetite. For a while we ate in silence, and then Poirot observed maliciously: 'Eh bien. And your indiscretions! You recount them not?'

  I felt myself blushing. 'Oh, you mean this morning?' I endeavoured to adopt a tone of absolute nonchalance.

  But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.

  'Tien. A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming young lady?'

  I had to confess that I did not know.

  'Still more romantic! The first rencontre in the train from Paris, the second here. Journeys end in lovers' meetings, is not that the saying?'

  'Don't be an ass, Poirot.'

  'Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle-Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should establish a harem!'

  'It's all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely-I don't mind admitting it. The other's nothing-I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.'

  'You do not propose to see the lady again?'

  His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness with which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, writ large in letters of fire, I saw the words 'Hotel du Phare', and I heard again her voice saying, 'Come and look me up', and my own answering with interest 'I will.'

  I answered Poirot lightly enough: 'She asked me to look her up, but, of course, I shan't.'

  'Why "of course"?'

  'Well, I don't want to.'

  'Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hotel d'Angleterre you told me, did you not?'

  'No. Hôtel du Phare.'

  'True, I forgot.'

  A moment's misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never mentioned any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him and felt reassured. He was cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his task. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.

  We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny cigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket.

  'The train to Paris leaves at 2.25,' he observed. 'I should be starting.'

  'Paris?' I cried.

  'That is what I said, mon ami.'

  'You are going to Paris? But why?'

  He replied very seriously: 'To look for the murderer of Monsieur Renauld.'

  'You think he is in Paris?'

  'I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must look for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good time. Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long. In all probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should accompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the society of Monsieur Renauld fil.'

  'That reminds me,' I said. 'I meant to ask you how you knew about those two?'

  'Mon ami-I know human nature. Throw together a boy like young Renauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe and the result is almost inevitable. Then, the quarrel. It was money, or a woman, and, remembering Léonie's description of the lad's anger, I decided on the latter. So I made my guess-and I was right.'

  'You already suspected that she loved young Renauld?'

  Poirot smiled. 'At any rate, I saw that she had anxious eyes. That is how I always think of Mademoiselle Daubreuil-a girl with anxious eyes.'

  His voice was so grave that it impressed me uncomfortably. 'What do you mean by that, Poirot?'

  'I fancy, my friend, that we shall see before very long. But I must start.'

  'I will come and see you off,' I said, rising.

  'You will do nothing of the sort. I forbid it.'

  He was so peremptory that I stared at him in surprise. He nodded emphatically.

  'I mean it, mon ami. Au revoir.'

  I felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down to the beach and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join them. I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself among them in some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled aimlessly along the sands towards the farther end of the town. It occurred to me that, after all, it would only be decent feeling on my part to inquire after the girl. And it would save trouble in the end. The matter would then be finished with. There would be no need for me to trouble about her any further. But if I did not go at all, she might quite possibly come and look me up at the villa.

  Accordingly, I left the beach, and walked inland. I soon found the Hotel du Phare, a very unpretentious building.

  It was annoying in the extreme not to know the lady's name and, to save my dignity, I decided to stroll inside and look around. Probably I should find her in the lounge. I went in, but there was no sign of her. I waited for some time, till my impatience got the better of me, I took the concierge aside and slipped five francs into his hand.

  'I wish to see a lady who is staying here. A young English lady, small and dark. I am not sure of her name.'

  The man shook his head and seemed to be suppressing a grin.

  'There is no such lady as you describe staying here.'

  'But the lady told me she was staying here.'

  'Monsieur must have made a mistake-or it is more likely the lady did, since there has been another gentleman here inquiring for her.'

  'What is that you say?' I cried, surprised.

  'But yes, monsieur. A gentleman who described her just as you have done.'

  'What was he like?'

  'He was a small gentleman, well dressed, very neat, very spotless, the moustache very stiff, the head of a peculiar shape, and the eyes green.'

  Poirot! So that was why he refused to let me accompany him to the station. The impertinence of it! I would thank him not to meddle in my concerns. Did he fancy I needed a nurse to look after me?

  Thanking the man, I departed, somewhat at a loss, and still much incensed with my meddlesome friend.

  But where was the lady? I set aside my wrath and tried to puzzle it out. Evidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then another thought struck me.

  Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately withheld her name and given me the wrong address?

  The more I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that this last surmise of mine was right. For some reason or other she did not wish to let the acquaintance ripen into friendship. And, though half an hour earlier this had been precisely my own view, I did not enjoy having the tables turned upon me. The whole affair was profoundly unsatisfactory, and I went up to the Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct ill burnout. I did not go to the house, but went up the path to the little bench by the shed, and sat there moodily enough.

  I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand. In a second or two I realized that they came
, not from the garden I was in, but from the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were approaching rapidly. A girl's voice was speaking, a voice that I recognized as that of the beautiful Marthe.

  'Chéri,' she was saying, 'is it really true? Are all our troubles over?'

  'You know it, Marthe,' Jack Renauld replied. 'Nothing can part us now, beloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can take you from me.'

  'Nothing?' the girl murmured. 'Oh, Jack, Jack. I am afraid.'

  I had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally eavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in the hedge. They stood together facing me, the man's arm round the girl, his eyes looking into hers. They were a splendid-looking couple, the dark, well-knit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as they stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed their young lives.

  But the girl's face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize it, as he held her closer to him and asked: 'But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to fear?'

  And then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as she murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words: 'I am afraid-for you.'

  I did not hear young Renauld's answer, for my attention was distracted by an unusual appearance a lithe farther down the hedge. There appeared to be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was Giraud.

  Enjoining caution he led the way round the shed until we were out of earshot.

  'What were you doing there?' I asked.

  'Exactly what you were doing-listening.'

  'But I was not there on purpose!'

  'Ah!' said Giraud. 'I was.'

  As always, I admired the man while disliking him. He looked me up and down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.

  'You didn't help matters by butting in. I might have heard something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?'