The Murder on the Links
your horse and run along the ground smelling with your nose and
uttering loud Ow Ows?”
In spite of myself I laughed immoderately. Poirot nodded in a satisfied
manner.
“So. You leave the work of the d— hounds to the hounds. Yet you demand
that I, Hercule Poirot, should make myself ridiculous by lying down
(possibly on damp grass) to study hypothetical footprints, and should
scoop up cigarette ash when I do not know one kind from the other.
Remember the Plymouth Express mystery. The good Japp departed to make a
survey of the railway line. When he returned, I, without having moved
from my apartments, was able to tell him exactly what he had found.”
“So you are of the opinion that Japp wasted his time.”
“Not at all, since his evidence confirmed my theory. But _I___ should
have wasted my time if _I___ had gone. It is the same with so called
‘experts.’ Remember the handwriting testimony in the Cavendish Case.
One counsel’s questioning brings out testimony as to the resemblances,
the defence brings evidence to show dissimilarity. All the language is
very technical. And the result? What we all knew in the first place.
The writing was very like that of John Cavendish. And the psychological
mind is faced with the question ‘Why?’ Because it was actually his? Or
because some one wished us to think it was his? I answered that
question, _mon ami___, and answered it correctly.”
And Poirot, having effectually silenced, if not convinced me, leaned
back with a satisfied air.
On the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend’s solitude. The
weather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial
mill-pond, so I was hardly surprised to hear that Laverguier’s method
had once more justified itself when a smiling Poirot joined me on
disembarking at Calais. A disappointment was in store for us, as no car
had been sent to meet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram
having been delayed in transit.
“Since it is _carte blanche___, we will hire a car,” he said
cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us creaking and jolting along,
in the most ramshackle of automobiles that ever plied for hire, in the
direction of Merlinville.
My spirits were at their highest.
“What gorgeous air!” I exclaimed. “This promises to be a delightful
trip.”
“For you, yes. For me, I have work to do, remember, at our journey’s
end.”
“Bah!” I said cheerfully. “You will discover all, ensure this Mr.
Renauld’s safety, run the would-be assassins to earth, and all will
finish in a blaze of glory.”
“You are sanguine, my friend.”
“Yes, I feel absolutely assured of success. Are you not the one and
only Hercule Poirot?”
But my little friend did not rise to the bait. He was observing me
gravely.
“You are what the Scotch people call ‘fey,’ Hastings. It presages
disaster.”
“Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.”
“No, but I am afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I do not know. But I have a premonition—a _je ne sais quoi!___”
He spoke so gravely, that I was impressed in spite of myself.
“I have a feeling,” he said slowly, “that this is going to be a big
affair—a long, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work out.”
I would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the
little town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the
Villa Geneviève.
“Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève is about
half a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big Villa,
overlooking the sea.”
We thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A fork
in the road brought us to a second halt. A peasant was trudging towards
us, and we waited for him to come up to us in order to ask the way
again. There was a tiny Villa standing right by the road, but it was
too small and dilapidated to be the one we wanted. As we waited, the
gate of it swung open and a girl came out.
The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his
seat and asked for direction.
“The Villa Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right,
monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.”
The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were
fascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate,
watching us. I am an admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody
could have passed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a
young goddess, her uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I
swore to myself that she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever
seen. As we swung up the rough road, I turned my head to look after
her.
“By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“_Ça commence!___” he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!”
“But, hang it all, wasn’t she?”
“Possibly. I did not remark the fact.”
“Surely you noticed her?”
“_Mon ami___, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance,
saw a goddess. I—” he hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.
But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously,
we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing _sergent de
ville___. He held up his hand to bar our way.
“You cannot pass, monsieurs.”
“But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an appointment.
This is his Villa, isn’t it?”
“Yes, monsieur, but—”
Poirot leaned forward.
“But what?”
“M. Renauld was murdered this morning.”
3 At the Villa Geneviève
In a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with
excitement. He caught the man by the shoulder.
“What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?”
The _sergent de ville___ drew himself up.
“I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.”
“True. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The Commissary of
Police, he is without doubt within?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.
“_Voilà!___ Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in
to the commissary at once?”
The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a
few seconds a comrade joined him and was handed Poirot’s message. There
was a wait of some minutes, and then a short stout man with a huge
moustache came bustling down to the gate. The _sergent de ville___
saluted and stood aside.
“My dear M. Poirot,” cried the new-comer, “I am delighted to see you.
Your arrival is most opportune.”
Poirot’s face had lighted up.
“M. Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.” He turned to me. “This is an
English friend of mine, Captain Hastings—M. Lucien Bex.”
The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex
turned once more to Poirot.
“_Mon vieux___, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. I
heard that you had left the Force?”
“So I have. I run a private business in London.”
“And you say you have information to give which may assist us?”
“Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent
for?”
“No. By whom?”
“The dead man. It seems he knew an attempt was going to be made on his
life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.”
“_Sacri tonnerre!___” ejaculated the Frenchman. “So he foresaw his own
murder? That upsets our theories considerably! But come inside.”
He held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house. M.
Bex continued to talk:
“The examining magistrate, M. Hautet, must hear of this at once. He has
just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin
his interrogations. A charming man. You will like him. Most
sympathetic. Original in his methods, but an excellent judge.”
“When was the crime committed?” asked Poirot.
“The body was discovered this morning about nine o’clock. Madame
Renauld’s evidence, and that of the doctors goes to show that the death
must have occurred about 2 a.m. But enter, I pray of you.”
We had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the
Villa. In the hall another _sergent de ville___ was sitting. He rose at
sight of the commissary.
“Where is M. Hautet now?” inquired the latter.
“In the _salon___, monsieur.”
M. Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M.
Hautet and his clerk were sitting at a big round table. They looked up
as we entered. The commissary introduced us, and explained our
presence.
M. Hautet, the Juge d’Instruction, was a tall, gaunt man, with piercing
dark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of
caressing as he talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man,
with slightly stooping shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr.
Durand.
“Most extraordinary,” remarked M. Hautet, as the commissary finished
speaking. “You have the letter here, monsieur?”
Poirot handed it to him, and the magistrate read it.
“H’m. He speaks of a secret. What a pity he was not more explicit. We
are much indebted to you, M. Poirot. I hope you will do us the honour
of assisting us in our investigations. Or are you obliged to return to
London?”
“M. le juge, I propose to remain. I did not arrive in time to prevent
my client’s death, but I feel myself bound in honour to discover the
assassin.”
The magistrate bowed.
“These sentiments do you honour. Also, without doubt, Madame Renauld
will wish to retain your services. We are expecting M. Giraud from the
Sûreté in Paris any moment, and I am sure that you and he will be able
to give each other mutual assistance in your investigations. In the
meantime, I hope that you will do me the honour to be present at my
interrogations, and I need hardly say that if there is any assistance
you require it is at your disposal.”
“I thank you, monsieur. You will comprehend that at present I am
completely in the dark. I know nothing whatever.”
M. Hautet nodded to the commissary, and the latter took up the tale:
“This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her
work, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to
burglars, she looked into the dining-room, but seeing the silver was
safe she thought no more about it, concluding that her master had,
without doubt, risen early, and gone for a stroll.”
“Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of
his?”
“No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the
English—that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable
things at any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a younger
maid, Léonie, was horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and
almost at the same moment news was brought that M. Renauld’s body had
been discovered, stone dead, stabbed in the back.”
“Where?”
“That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. M. Poirot,
the body was lying, face downwards, _in an open grave___.”
“What?”
“Yes. The pit was freshly dug—just a few yards outside the boundary of
the Villa grounds.”
“And he had been dead—how long?”
Dr. Durand answered this.
“I examined the body this morning at ten o’clock. Death must have taken
place at least seven, and possibly ten hours previously.”
“H’m, that fixes it at between midnight and 3 a.m.”
“Exactly, and Madame Renauld’s evidence places it at after 2 a.m. which
narrows the field still further. Death must have been instantaneous,
and naturally could not have been self-inflicted.”
Poirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:
“Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by the
horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost
unconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men
entered the bedroom, gagged and bound her, whilst forcibly abducting
her husband. This we know at second hand from the servants. On hearing