The Murder on the Links
He looked up at her, his face set.
“They have arrested me, mother.”
“What?”
She uttered a piercing cry, and before any one could get to her swayed
and fell heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute
Poirot stood up again.
“She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there
is a slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he
will have to wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a
week.”
Denise and Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in
their charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head bent down,
frowning thoughtfully at the ground. For some time I did not speak, but
at last I ventured to put a question to him.
“Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that
Jack Renauld may not be guilty?”
Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely:
“I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course
Giraud is all wrong—wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is
guilty, it is in spite of Giraud’s arguments, not _because___ of them.
And the gravest indictment against him is known only to me.”
“What is that?” I asked, impressed.
“If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I
do, you too would perceive it, my friend.”
This was what I called one of Poirot’s irritating answers. He went on,
without waiting for me to speak.
“Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound
there, overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all
that I know, but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by
your own efforts—not by my leading you by the hand.”
We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested,
looking out to sea. From farther along the sand, the cries of the
bathers reached us faintly. The sea was of the palest blue, and the
halcyon calm reminded me of the day we had arrived at Merlinville, my
own good spirits, and Poirot’s suggestion that I was “fey.” What a long
time seemed to have elapsed since then. And in reality it was only
three days!
“Think, my friend,” said Poirot’s voice encouragingly. “Arrange your
ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.”
I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of
the case. And reluctantly it seemed to me that the only clear and
possible solution was that of Giraud—which Poirot despised. I reflected
anew. If there was daylight anywhere it was in the direction of Madame
Daubreuil. Giraud was ignorant of her connection with the Beroldy Case.
Poirot had declared the Beroldy Case to be all important. It was there
I must seek. I was on the right track now. And suddenly I started as an
idea of bewildering luminosity shot into my brain. Trembling I built up
my hypothesis.
“You have a little idea, I see, _mon ami!___ Capital. We progress.”
I sat up, and lit a pipe.
“Poirot,” I said, “it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say
we—although I dare say _I___ would be nearer the mark. But you must pay
the penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been
strangely remiss. There is some one we have forgotten.”
“And who is that?” inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.
“Georges Conneau!”
20 An Amazing Statement
The next moment Poirot embraced me warmly. “_Enfin!___ You have
arrived. And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue your reasoning.
You are right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget Georges Conneau.”
I was so flattered by the little man’s approval that I could hardly
continue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on.
“Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason to
believe that he is dead.”
“_Aucunement___,” agreed Poirot. “Proceed.”
“Therefore we will assume that he is alive.”
“Exactly.”
“Or that he was alive until recently.”
“_De mieux en mieux!___”
“We will presume,” I continued, my enthusiasm rising, “that he has
fallen on evil days. He has become a criminal, an apache, a tramp—a
what you will. He chances to come to Merlinville. There he finds the
woman he has never ceased to love.”
“Eh eh! The sentimentality,” warned Poirot.
“Where one hates one also loves,” I quoted or misquoted. “At any rate
he finds her there, living under an assumed name. But she has a new
lover, the Englishman, Renauld. Georges Conneau, the memory of old
wrongs rising in him, quarrels with this Renauld. He lies in wait for
him as he comes to visit his mistress, and stabs him in the back. Then,
terrified at what he has done, he starts to dig a grave. I imagine it
likely that Madame Daubreuil comes out to look for her lover. She and
Conneau have a terrible scene. He drags her into the shed, and there
suddenly falls down in an epileptic fit. Now supposing Jack Renauld to
appear. Madame Daubreuil tells him all, points out to him the dreadful
consequences to her daughter if this scandal of the past is revived.
His father’s murderer is dead—let them do their best to hush it up.
Jack Renauld consents—goes to the house and has an interview with his
mother, winning her over to his point of view. Primed with the story
that Madame Daubreuil has suggested to him, she permits herself to be
gagged and bound. There, Poirot, what do you think of that?” I leaned
back, flushed with the pride of successful reconstruction.
Poirot looked at me thoughtfully.
“I think that you should write for the Kinema, _mon ami___,” he
remarked at last.
“You mean—?”
“It would make a good film, the story that you have recounted to me
there—but it bears no sort of resemblance to everyday life.”
“I admit that I haven’t gone into all the details, but—”
“You have gone further—you have ignored them magnificently. What about
the way the two men were dressed? Do you suggest that after stabbing
his victim, Conneau removed his suit of clothes, donned it himself, and
replaced the dagger?”
“I don’t see that that matters,” I objected rather huffily. “He may
have obtained clothes and money from Madame Daubreuil by threats
earlier in the day.”
“By threats—eh? You seriously advance that supposition?”
“Certainly. He could have threatened to reveal her identity to the
Renaulds, which would probably have put an end to all hopes of her
daughter’s marriage.”
“You are wrong, Hastings. He could not blackmail her, for she had the
whip hand. Georges Conneau, remember, is still wanted for murder. A
word from her and he is in danger of the guillotine.”
I was forced, rather reluctantly, to admit the truth of this.
“_Your___ theory,” I remarked acidly, “is doubtless correct as to all
the details?”
“My theory is the truth,” said Poirot quietly. “And the truth is
necessarily correct. In your theory you made a fundamental error. You
permitted your imagination to lead you astray with midnight
assignations and passionate love scenes. But in investigating crime we
must take our stand upon the commonplace. Shall I demonstrate my
methods to you?”
“Oh, by all means let us have a demonstration!”
Poirot sat very upright and began, wagging his forefinger emphatically
to emphasize his points.
“I will start as you started from the basic fact of Georges Conneau.
Now the story told by Madame Beroldy in court as to the ‘Russians’ was
admittedly a fabrication. If she was innocent of connivance in the
crime, it was concocted by her, and by her only as she stated. If, on
the other hand, she was not innocent, it might have been invented by
either her or Georges Conneau.
“Now in this case we are investigating, we meet the same tale. As I
pointed out to you, the facts render it very unlikely that Madame
Daubreuil inspired it. So we turn to the hypothesis that the story had
its origin in the brain of Georges Conneau. Very good. Georges Conneau,
therefore, planned the crime with Madame Renauld as his accomplice. She
is in the limelight, and behind her is a shadowy figure whose alias is
unknown to us.
“Now let us go carefully over the Renauld Case from the beginning,
setting down each significant point in its chronological order. You
have a notebook and pencil? Good. Now what is the earliest point to
note down?”
“The letter to you?”
“That was the first we knew of it, but it is not the proper beginning
of the case. The first point of any significance, I should say, is the
change that came over M. Renauld shortly after arriving in Merlinville,
and which is attested to by several witnesses. We have also to consider
his friendship with Madame Daubreuil, and the large sums of money paid
over to her. From thence we can come directly to the 23rd May.”
Poirot paused, cleared his throat, and signed to me to write.
“_23rd May.___ M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter’s wish to
marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.
“_24th May.___ M. Renauld alters his will, leaving entire control of
his fortune in his wife’s hands.
“_7th June.___ Quarrel with tramp in garden, witnessed by Marthe
Daubreuil.
“Letter written to M. Hercule Poirot, imploring assistance.
“Telegram sent to Jack Renauld, bidding him proceed by the _Anzora___
to Buenos Ayres.
“Chauffeur, Masters, sent off on a holiday.
“Visit of a lady, that evening. As he is seeing her out, his words are
‘Yes, yes—but for God’s sake go now.…’”
Poirot paused.
“There, Hastings, take each of those facts one by one, consider them
carefully by themselves and in relation to the whole, and see if you do
not get new light on the matter.”
I endeavoured conscientiously to do as he had said. After a moment or
two, I said rather doubtfully:
“As to the first points, the question seems to be whether we adopt the
theory of blackmail, or of an infatuation for this woman.”
“Blackmail, decidedly. You heard what Stonor said as to his character
and habits.”
“Mrs. Renauld did not confirm his view,” I argued.
“We have already seen that Madame Renauld’s testimony cannot be relied
upon in any way. We must trust to Stonor on that point.”
“Still, if Renauld had an affair with a woman called Bella, there seems
no inherent improbability in his having another with Madame Daubreuil.”
“None whatever, I grant you, Hastings. But did he?”
“The letter, Poirot. You forget the letter.”
“No, I do not forget. But what makes you think that letter was written
to M. Renauld?”
“Why it was found in his pocket and—and—”
“And that is all!” cut in Poirot. “There was no mention of any name to
show to whom the letter was addressed. We assumed it was to the dead
man because it was in the pocket of his overcoat. Now, _mon ami___,
something about that overcoat struck me as unusual. I measured it, and
made the remark that he wore his overcoat very long. That remark should
have given you to think.”
“I thought you were just saying it for the sake of saying something,” I
confessed.
“Ah, _quelle idée!___ Later you observed me measuring the overcoat of
M. Jack Renauld. _Eh bien___, M. Jack Renauld wears his overcoat very
short. Put those two facts together with a third, namely that M. Jack
Renauld flung out of the house in a hurry on his departure for Paris,
and tell me what you make of it!”
“I see,” I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot’s remarks bore in upon
me. “That letter was written to Jack Renauld—not to his father. He
caught up the wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.”
Poirot nodded.
“_Précisement!___ We can return to this point later. For the moment let
us content ourselves with accepting the letter as having nothing to do
with M. Renauld _père___, and pass to the next chronological event.”
“May 23rd,” I read, “M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter’s
wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris. I don’t see