The Murder on the Links
anything much to remark upon there, and the altering of the will the
following day seems straightforward enough. It was the direct result of
the quarrel.”
“We agree, _mon ami___—at least as to the cause. But what exact motive
underlay this procedure of M. Renauld’s?”
I opened my eyes in surprise.
“Anger against his son of course.”
“Yet he wrote him affectionate letters to Paris?”
“So Jack Renauld says, but he cannot produce them.”
“Well, let us pass from that.”
“Now we come to the day of the tragedy. You have placed the events of
the morning in a certain order. Have you any justification for that?”
“I have ascertained that the letter to me was posted at the same time
as the telegram was despatched. Masters was informed he could take a
holiday shortly afterwards. In my opinion the quarrel with the tramp
took place anterior to these happenings.”
“I do not see that you can fix that definitely—unless you question
Mademoiselle Dabreuil again.”
“There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see
nothing, Hastings!”
I looked at him for a moment.
“Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was
after the stormy interview with him that Mr. Renauld apprehended
danger. He sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being
in the other’s pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.”
A faint smile crossed Poirot’s lips.
“You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same
expressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used later in her story? If
the mention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it,
and—what is more—send his son there?”
“It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation
later. We come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious
lady. I confess that that fairly baffles me, unless it was Madame
Daubreuil, as Françoise all along maintained.”
Poirot shook his head.
“My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the
fragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly
familiar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella
Duveen is the full name of Jack’s unknown correspondent, and that it
was she who came to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she
intended to see Jack, or whether she meant all along to appeal to his
father we cannot be certain, but I think we may assume that this is
what occurred. She produced her claim upon Jack, probably showed
letters that he had written her, and the older man tried to buy her off
by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore up. The terms of her
letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she would probably
deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of her, and
here the words that he used are significant.”
“‘Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now,’” I repeated. “They seem to me
a little vehement, perhaps, that is all.”
“That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why?
Not only because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that
was slipping by, and for some reason time was precious.”
“Why should it be?” I asked, bewildered.
“That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the
incident of the wrist watch—which again shows us that time plays a very
important part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual
drama. It is half-past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the
evidence of the wrist watch we know that the crime was committed, or at
any rate that it was staged, before twelve o’clock. We have reviewed
all the events anterior to the murder, there remains only one unplaced.
By the doctor’s evidence, the tramp, when found, had been dead at least
forty-eight hours—with a possible margin of twenty-four hours more.
Now, with no other facts to help me than those we have discussed, I
place the death as having occurred on the morning of June 7th.”
I stared at him, stupefied.
“But how? Why? How can you possibly know?”
“Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically
explained. _Mon ami___, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do
you not now see what is so glaringly plain?”
“My dear Poirot, I can’t see anything glaring about it. I did think I
was beginning to see my way before, but I’m now hopelessly fogged.”
Poirot looked at me sadly, and shook his head. “_Mon Dieu!___ But it is
_triste!___ A good intelligence—and so deplorably lacking in method.
There is an exercise most excellent for the development of the little
grey cells. I will impart it to you—”
“For Heaven’s sake, not now! You really are the most irritating of
fellows, Poirot. For goodness’ sake, get on and tell me who killed M.
Renauld.”
“That is just what I am not sure of as yet.”
“But you said it was glaringly clear?”
“We talk at cross-purposes, my friend. Remember, it is two crimes we
are investigating—for which, as I pointed out to you, we have the
necessary two bodies. There, there, _ne vous impatientez pas!___ I
explain all. To begin with, we apply our psychology. We find three
points at which M. Renauld displays a distinct change of view and
action—three psychological points therefore. The first occurs
immediately after arriving in Merlinville, the second after quarrelling
with his son on a certain subject, the third on the morning of June
7th. Now for the three causes. We can attribute No. 1 to meeting Madame
Daubreuil. No. 2 is indirectly connected with her since it concerns a
marriage between M. Renauld’s son and her daughter. But the cause of
No. 3 is hidden from us. We have to deduce it. Now, _mon ami___, let me
ask you a question; who do we believe to have planned this crime?”
“Georges Conneau,” I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot warily.
“Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save
herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that
was Georges Conneau who dictated the lie to her, and as Georges Conneau
is not Jack Renauld, follows that the third case is put out of court.
And, still attributing the crime to Georges Conneau, the first is
equally so. So we are forced to the second—that Madame Renauld lied for
the sake of the man she loved—or in other words, for the sake of
Georges Conneau. You agree to that.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It seems logical enough.”
“_Bien!___ Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges
Conneau?”
“The tramp.”
“Have we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?”
“No, but—”
“Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts no longer support
them. Ask yourself instead who Madame Renauld _did___ love.”
I shook my head perplexed.
“_Mais, oui___, you know perfectly. Who did Madame Renauld love so
dearly that when she saw his dead body, she fell down in a swoon?”
I stared dumbfounded.
“Her husband?” I gasped.
Poirot nodded.
“Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call him.”
I rallied myself.
“But it’s impossible.”
“How ‘impossible?’ Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was
in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did she not very effectively blackmail M. Renauld?”
“That may be true enough, but—”
“And is it not a fact that we know nothing of M. Renauld’s youth and
upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French
Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?”
“All that is so,” I said more firmly, “but you seem to me to be
overlooking one salient point.”
“What is it, my friend?”
“Why, we have admitted Georges Conneau planned the crime. That brings
us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!”
“_Eh bien, mon ami___,” said Poirot placidly, “that is just what he did
do!”
21 Hercule Poirot on the Case!
In a measured voice, Poirot began his exposition.
“It seems strange to you, _mon ami___, that a man should plan his own
death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic,
and to revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible.
Yes, M. Renauld planned his own death, but there is one detail that
perhaps escapes you—he did not intend to die.”
I shook my head, bewildered.
“But no, it is all most simple really,” said Poirot kindly. “For the
crime that M. Renauld proposed a murderer was not necessary, as I told
you, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a
different angle.
“Georges Conneau flies from justice—to Canada. There, under an assumed
name he marries, and finally acquires a vast fortune in South America.
But there is a nostalgia upon him for his own country. Twenty years
have elapsed, he is considerably changed in appearance, besides being a
man of such eminence that no one is likely to connect him with a
fugitive from justice many years ago. He deems it quite safe to return.
He takes up his headquarters in England, but intends to spend the
summers in France. And ill fortune, that obscure justice which shapes
men’s ends, and will not allow them to evade the consequences of their
acts, takes him to Merlinville. There, in the whole of France, is the
one person who is capable of recognizing him. It is, of course, a gold
mine to Madame Daubreuil, and a gold mine of which she is not slow to
take advantage. He is helpless, absolutely in her power. And she bleeds
him heavily.
“And then the inevitable happens. Jack Renauld falls in love with the
beautiful girl he sees almost daily, and wishes to marry her. That
rouses his father. At all costs, he will prevent his son marrying the
daughter of this evil woman. Jack Renauld knows nothing of his father’s
past, but Madame Renauld knows everything. She is a woman of great
force of character, and passionately devoted to her husband. They take
counsel together. Renauld sees only one way of escape—death. He must
appear to die, in reality escaping to another country where he will
start again under an assumed name, and where Madame Renauld, having
played the widow’s part for a while, can join him. It is essential that
she should have control of the money, so he alters his will. How they
meant to manage the body business originally, I do not know—possibly an
art student’s skeleton—and a fire or something of the kind, but long
before their plans have matured an event occurs which plays into their
hands. A rough tramp, violent and abusive, finds his way into the
garden. There is a struggle, M. Renauld seeks to eject him, and
suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead. M.
Renauld calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed—as we
know, the event had occurred just outside—and they realize the
marvellous opportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no
resemblance to M. Renauld, but he is middle-aged, of a usual French
type. That is sufficient.
“I rather fancy that they sat on the bench up there, out of earshot
from the house, discussing matters. Their plan was quickly made. The
identification must rest solely on Madame Renauld’s evidence. Jack
Renauld and the chauffeur (who had been with his master two years) must
be got out of the way. It was unlikely that the French women servants
would go near the body, and in any case Renauld intended to take
measures to deceive any one not likely to appreciate details. Masters
was sent off, a telegram despatched to Jack, Buenos Ayres being
selected to give credence to the story that Renauld had decided upon.
Having heard of me, as a rather obscure elderly detective, he wrote his
appeal for help knowing that, when I arrived, the production of the
letter would have a profound effect upon the examining
magistrate—which, of course, it did.
“They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of M. Renauld’s and left
his ragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to