The Murder on the Links
She faced him squarely, and used the words I had heard her say in her
mother’s drawing-room.
“I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face.
He is innocent, and we must save him.”
She spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as
she thought.
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot observing her keenly, “is there not
something that you are keeping back that you could tell us?”
She nodded perplexedly.
“Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe
it—it seems so absurd.”
“At any rate, tell us, mademoiselle.”
“It is this. M. Giraud sent for me, as an afterthought, to see if I
could identify the man in there.” She signed with her head towards the
shed. “I could not. At least I could not at the moment. But since I
have been thinking—”
“Well?”
“It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the
morning of the day M. Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the garden
here, when I heard a sound of men’s voices quarrelling. I pushed aside
the bushes and looked through. One of the men was M. Renauld and the
other was a tramp, a dreadful looking creature in filthy rags. He was
alternately whining and threatening. I gathered he was asking for
money, but at that moment _maman___ called me from the house, and I had
to go. That is all, only—I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead
man in the shed are one and the same.”
Poirot uttered an exclamation.
“But why did you not say so at the time, mademoiselle?”
“Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar
in some way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged
to a superior station in life. But tell me, Monsieur Poirot, is it not
possible that this tramp might have attacked and killed M. Renauld, and
taken his clothes and money?”
“It is an idea, mademoiselle,” said Poirot slowly. “It leaves a lot
unexplained, but it is certainly an idea. I will think of it.”
A voice called from the house.
“_Maman___,” whispered Marthe, “I must go.” And she slipped away
through the trees.
“Come,” said Poirot, and taking my arm, turned in the direction of the
Villa.
“What do you really think?” I asked, in some curiosity. “Was that story
true, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from her
lover?”
“It is a curious tale,” said Poirot, “but I believe it to be the
absolute truth. Unwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on
another point—and incidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you
notice his hesitation when I asked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on
the night of the crime? He paused and then said ‘Yes.’ I suspected that
he was lying. It was necessary for me to see Mademoiselle Marthe before
he could put her on her guard. Three little words gave me the
information I wanted. When I asked her if she knew that Jack Renauld
was here that night, she answered ‘He _told___ me.’ Now, Hastings, what
was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening, and if he did not
see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?”
“Surely, Poirot,” I cried, aghast, “you cannot believe that a boy like
that would murder his own father.”
“_Mon ami___,” said Poirot, “you continue to be of a sentimentality
unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children
for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe
anything.”
“And the motive?”
“Money of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would come
in to half his father’s fortune at the latter’s death.”
“But the tramp. Where does he come in?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Giraud would say that he was an accomplice—an apache who helped young
Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of the
way afterwards.”
“But the hair round the dagger? The woman’s hair?”
“Ah,” said Poirot, smiling broadly. “That is the cream of Giraud’s
little jest. According to him, it is not a woman’s hair at all.
Remember that the youths of today wear their hair brushed straight back
from the forehead with pomade or hairwash to make it lie flat.
Consequently some of the hairs are of considerable length.”
“And you believe that too?”
“No,” said Poirot with a curious smile. “For I know it to be the hair
of a woman—and more, which woman!”
“Madame Daubreuil,” I announced positively.
“Perhaps,” said Poirot, regarding me quizzically.
But I refused to allow myself to get annoyed.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked, as we entered the hall of the
Villa Geneviève.
“I wish to make a search amongst the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That
is why I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.”
“But will not Giraud have searched already?” I asked doubtfully.
“Of course. He builds a case, as a beaver builds a dam, with a
fatiguing industry. But he will not have looked for the things that I
am seeking—in all probability he would not have seen their importance
if they stared him in the face. Let us begin.”
Neatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined
the contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a
singularly dull and uninteresting proceeding. Poirot waded on through
collars, pajamas and socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the
window. Instantly I became galvanized into life.
“Poirot!” I cried. “A car has just driven up. Giraud is in it, and Jack
Renauld, and two gendarmes.”
“_Sacré tonnerre!___” growled Poirot. “That animal of a Giraud, could
he not wait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this last
drawer with the proper method. Let us be quick.”
Unceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and
handkerchiefs. Suddenly with a cry of triumph Poirot pounced on
something, a small square cardboard, evidently a photograph. Thrusting
it into his pocket, he returned the things pell-mell to the drawer, and
seizing me by the arm dragged me out of the room and down the stairs.
In the hall stood Giraud, contemplating his prisoner.
“Good afternoon, M. Giraud,” said Poirot. “What have we here?”
Giraud nodded his head towards Jack.
“He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He is
under arrest for the murder of his father, M. Paul Renauld.”
Poirot wheeled to confront the boy who leaned limply against the door,
his face ashy pale.
“What do you say to that, _jeune homme?___”
Jack Renauld stared at him stonily.
“Nothing,” he said.
19 I Use My Grey Cells
I was dumbfounded. Up to the last, I had not been able bring myself to
believe Jack Renauld guilty. I had expected a ringing proclamation of
his innocence when Poirot challenged him. But now, watching him as he
stood, white and limp against the wall, and hearing the damning
admission fall from his lips, I doubted no longer.
But Poirot had turned to Giraud.
“What are your grounds for arresting him?”
“Do you expect me to give them to you?”
“As a matter of courtesy, yes.”
Giraud looked at him doubtfully. He was torn between a desire to refuse
rudely and the pleasure of triumphing over his adversary.
“You think I have made a mistake, I suppose?” he sneered.
“It would not surprise me,” replied Poirot, with a soupçon of malice.
Giraud’s face took on a deeper tinge of red.
“_Eh bien___, come in here. You shall judge for yourself.” He flung
open the door of the _salon___, and we passed in, leaving Jack Renauld
in the care of the two other men.
“Now, M. Poirot,” said Giraud laying his hat on the table, and speaking
with the utmost sarcasm, “I will treat you to a little lecture on
detective work. I will show you how we moderns work.”
“_Bien!___” said Poirot, composing himself to listen. “I will show you
how admirably the Old Guard can listen,” and he leaned back and closed
his eyes, opening them for a moment to remark. “Do not fear that I
shall sleep. I will attend most carefully.”
“Of course,” began Giraud, “I soon saw through all that Chilian
tomfoolery. Two men were in it—but they were not mysterious foreigners!
All that was a blind.”
“Very creditable so far, my dear Giraud,” murmured Poirot. “Especially
after that clever trick of theirs with the match and cigarette end.”
Giraud glared, but continued:
“A man must have been connected with the case, in order to dig the
grave. There is no man who actually benefits by the crime, but there
was a man who thought he would benefit. I heard of Jack Renauld’s
quarrel with his father, and of the threats that he had used. The
motive was established. Now as to means. Jack Renauld was in
Merlinville that night. He concealed the fact—which turned suspicion
into certainty. Then we found a second victim—_stabbed with the same
dagger___. We know when that dagger was stolen. Captain Hastings here
can fix the time. Jack Renauld, arriving from Cherbourg, was the only
person who could have taken it. I have accounted for all the other
members of the household.”
Poirot interrupted:
“You are wrong. There is one other person who could have taken the
dagger.”
“You refer to M. Stonor? He arrived at the front door, in an automobile
which had brought him straight from Calais. Ah, believe me, I have
looked into everything. M. Jack Renauld arrived by train. An hour
elapsed between his arrival, and the moment he presented himself at the
house. Without doubt, he saw Captain Hastings and his companion leave
the shed, slipped in himself and took the dagger, stabbed his
accomplice in the shed—”
“Who was already dead!”
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly he did not observe that. He may have judged him to be
sleeping. Without doubt they had a rendezvous. In any case he knew this
apparent second murder would greatly complicate the case. It did.”
“But it could not deceive M. Giraud,” murmured Poirot.
“You mock yourself at me. But I will give you one last irrefutable
proof. Madame Renauld’s story was false—a fabrication from beginning to
end. We believe Madame Renauld to have loved her husband—_yet she lied
to shield his murderer___. For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for
herself, usually for the man she loves, _always___ for her children.
That is the last—the irrefutable proof. You cannot get round it.”
Giraud paused, flushed and triumphant. Poirot regarded him steadily.
“That is my case,” said Giraud. “What have you to say to it?”
“Only that there is one thing you have failed to take into account.”
“What is that?”
“Jack Renauld was presumably acquainted with the planning out of the
golf course. He knew that the body would be discovered almost at once,
when they started to dig the bunker.”
Giraud laughed out loud.
“But it is idiotic what you say there! He wanted the body to be found!
Until it was found, he could not presume death, and would have been
unable to enter into his inheritance.”
I saw a quick flash of green in Poirot’s eyes as he rose to his feet.
“Then why bury it?” he asked softly. “Reflect, Giraud. Since it was to
Jack Renauld’s advantage that the body should be found without delay,
_why dig a grave at all?___”
Giraud did not reply. The question found him unprepared. He shrugged
his shoulders as though to intimate that it was of no importance.
Poirot moved towards the door. I followed him.
“There is one more thing that you have failed to take into account,” he
said over his shoulder.
“What is that?”
“The piece of lead piping,” said Poirot, and left the room.
Jack Renauld still stood in the hall, with a white dumb face, but as we
came out of the _salon___, he looked up sharply. At the same moment
there was the sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs. Renauld was
descending it. At the sight of her son, standing between the two
myrmidons of the law, she stopped as though petrified.
“Jack,” she faltered. “Jack, what is this?”