The Murder on the Links
I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep
anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly:
“Young M. Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?”
“Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour,
it would not be amusing, that!”
I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me.
Then I saw.…
“You mean,” I said, my heart beating a little, “that M. Jack Renauld
arrived at Merlinville that evening?”
“But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the
11:40.”
My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant
anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the
crime! But why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us
to believe that he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank
boyish countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that he had
any connection with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about
so vital a matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along.
Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot to know whether
any one were suspected.
My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in
another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He
beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced
me warmly on the platform.
“_Mon cher ami___, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!”
“Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?”
“How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some
developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even
arrests perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But
where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is
necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from
the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat.
And my tie, that I must rearrange.”
I cut short his remonstrances.
“My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at once.
_There has been another murder!___”
I have frequently been disappointed when fancying that I was giving
news of importance to my friend. Either he has known it already or he
has dismissed it as irrelevant to the main issue—and in the latter case
events have usually proved him justified. But this time I could not
complain of missing my effect. Never have I seen a man so
flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his
bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.
“What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, I am all wrong. I have
failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!”
“You did not expect it, then?”
“I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins
everything—it—ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest.
“It is impossible. I _cannot___ be wrong! The facts, taken methodically
and in their proper order admit of only one explanation. I must be
right! I _am___ right!”
“But then—”
He interrupted me.
“Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is
impossible unless—unless—oh, wait, I implore you. Say no word—”
He was silent for a moment or two, then, resuming his normal manner, he
said in a quiet assured voice: “The victim is a man of middle-age. His
body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had
been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he
was stabbed in a similar manner to M. Renauld, though not necessarily
in the back.”
It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he
had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably, a
doubt crossed my mind.
“Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it
already.”
He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.
“Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing
whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?”
“But how on earth could you know all that?”
“I was right then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the
little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there
have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left
here, we can take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us
to the back of the Villa Geneviève much more quickly.”
As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew.
Poirot listened attentively.
“The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it
was the same one?”
“Absolutely certain. That’s what make it so impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most
extraordinary coincidence.”
“You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two
identical weapons _would___ be highly improbable. But not here. This
particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s
orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it,
that he should have had only one made. Very probably he would have
another for his own use.”
“But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected.
A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone. “My friend, in working
upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are
‘mentioned.’ There is no reason to mention many things which may be
important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for _not___
mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.”
I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought
us to the famous shed. We found all our friends there and, after an
interchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task.
Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot bestowed
but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined
was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose
to Giraud’s lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle
down again.
“Old clothes of the gardener’s?” he queried.
“Exactly,” said Giraud.
Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical.
He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that
there were no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care,
also the dirty and broken finger-nails. Whilst examining the latter he
threw a quick question at Giraud.
“You saw these?”
“Yes, I saw them,” replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.
Suddenly Poirot stiffened.
“Dr. Durand!”
“Yes?” The doctor came forward.
“There is foam on the lips. You observed it?”
“I didn’t notice it, I must admit.”
“But you observe it now?”
“Oh, certainly.”
Poirot again shot a question at Giraud.
“You noticed it without doubt?”
The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been
withdrawn from the wound. It reposed in a glass jar by the side of the
body. Poirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he
looked up, his eyes were excited, and shone with the green light I knew
so well.
“It is a strange wound, this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the
clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all.
What do you think, M. le docteur?”
“I can only say that it is most abnormal.”
“It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed
_after he was dead___.” And, stilling the clamour of voices that arose
with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added, “M. Giraud
agrees with me, do you not, monsieur?”
Whatever Giraud’s real belief, he accepted the position without moving
a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he replied:
“Certainly I agree.”
The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.
“But what an idea!” cried M. Hautet. “To stab a man after he is dead!
Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate, perhaps.”
“No, M. le juge,” said Poirot. “I should fancy it was done quite
cold-bloodedly—to create an impression.”
“What impression?”
“The impression it nearly did create,” returned Poirot oracularly.
M. Bex had been thinking.
“How, then, was the man killed?”
“He was not killed. He died. He died, M. le juge, if I am not much
mistaken, of an epileptic fit!”
This statement of Poirot’s again aroused considerable excitement. Dr.
Durand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he
rose to his feet.
“Well, M. le docteur?”
“M. Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your
assertion. I was misled to begin with. The incontrovertible fact that
the man had been stabbed distracted my attention from any other
indications.”
Poirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse
in compliments. Poirot responded gracefully, and then excused himself
on the pretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched, and that he
wished to repair the ravages of the journey. As we were about to leave
the shed, Giraud approached us.
“One more thing, M. Poirot,” he said, in his suave mocking voice. “We
found this coiled round the handle of the dagger. A woman’s hair.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “A woman’s hair? What woman’s, I wonder?”
“I wonder also,” said Giraud. Then, with a bow, he left us.
“He was insistent, the good Giraud,” said Poirot thoughtfully, as we
walked towards the hotel. “I wonder in what direction he hopes to
mislead me? A woman’s hair—h’m!”
We lunched heartily, but I found Poirot somewhat distrait and
inattentive. Afterwards we went up to our sitting-room and there I
begged him to tell me something of his mysterious journey to Paris.
“Willingly, my friend. I went to Paris to find _this___.”
He took from his pocket a small faded newspaper cutting. It was the
reproduction of a woman’s photograph. He handed it to me. I uttered an
exclamation.
“You recognize it, my friend?”
I nodded. Although the photo obviously dated from very many years back,
and the hair was dressed in a different style, the likeness was
unmistakable.
“Madame Daubreuil!” I exclaimed.
Poirot shook his head with a smile.
“Not quite correct, my friend. She did not call herself by that name in
those days. That is a picture of the notorious Madame Beroldy!”
Madame Beroldy! In a flash the whole thing came back to me. The murder
trial that had evoked such world-wide interest.
_The Beroldy Case.___
16 The Beroldy Case
Some twenty years or so before the opening of the present story,
Monsieur Arnold Beroldy, a native of Lyons, arrived in Paris
accompanied by his pretty wife and their little daughter, a mere babe.
Monsieur Beroldy was a junior partner in a firm of wine merchants, a
stout middle-aged man, fond of the good things of life, devoted to his
charming wife, and altogether unremarkable in every way. The firm in
which Monsieur Beroldy was a partner was a small one, and although
doing well, it did not yield a large income to the junior partner. The
Beroldys had a small apartment and lived in a very modest fashion to
begin with.
But unremarkable though Monsieur Beroldy might be, his wife was
plentifully gilded with the brush of Romance. Young and good looking,
and gifted withal with a singular charm of manner, Madame Beroldy at
once created a stir in the quarter, especially when it began to be
whispered that some interesting mystery surrounded her birth. It was
rumoured that she was the illegitimate daughter of a Russian Grand
Duke. Others asserted that it was an Austrian Archduke, and that the
union was legal, though morganatic. But all stories agreed upon one
point, that Jeanne Beroldy was the centre of an interesting mystery.
Questioned by the curious, Madame Beroldy did not deny these rumours.