The Murder on the Links

  “Aha! Monsieur Poirot,” he cried airily. “You have returned from England then?”

  “As you see,” said Poirot.

  “The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.”

  “I agree with you, Monsieur Giraud.”

  Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crestfallen manner seemed to delight the other.

  “Of all the milk-and-water criminals! Not an idea of defending himself. It is extraordinary!”

  “So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?” suggested Poirot mildly.

  But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.

  “Well, good day, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad you’re satisfied of young Renauld’s guilt at last.”

  “Pardon! But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is innocent.”

  Giraud stared for a moment—then burst out laughing, tapping his head significantly with the brief remark: “Toqué!”

  Poirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.

  “Monsieur Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been deliberately insulting. You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager you five hundred francs that I find the murderer of Monsieur Renauld before you do. Is it agreed?”

  Giraud stared helplessly at him, and murmured again: “Toqué!”

  “Come now,” urged Poirot, “is it agreed?”

  “I have no wish to take your money from you.”

  “Make your mind easy—you will not!”

  “Oh, well then, I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting. Well, once or twice, your manner has annoyed me.”

  “I am enchanted to hear it,” said Poirot. “Good morning, Monsieur Giraud. Come, Hastings.”

  I said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy. Poirot had displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than ever my powers of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This unlucky encounter with Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle.

  Suddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel Stonor. We stopped and greeted him, and he proposed strolling with us back to our hotel.

  “And what are you doing here, Monsieur Stonor?” inquired Poirot.

  “One must stand by one’s friends,” replied the other dryly. “Especially when they are unjustly accused.”

  “Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?” I asked eagerly.

  “Certainly I don’t. I know the lad. I admit that there have been one or two things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none the less, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I’ll never believe that Jack Renauld is a murderer.”

  My heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret weight from my heart.

  “I have no doubt that many people feel as you do,” I exclaimed. “There is really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that there was no doubt of his acquittal—no doubt whatever.”

  But Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished.

  “I’d give a lot to think as you do,” he said gravely. He turned to Poirot. “What’s your opinion, monsieur?”

  “I think that things look very black against him,” said Poirot quietly.

  “You believe him guilty?” said Stonor sharply.

  “No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.”

  “He’s behaving so damned queerly,” muttered Stonor. “Of course, I realize that there’s a lot more in this affair than meets the eye. Giraud’s not wise to that because he’s an outsider, but the whole thing has been damned odd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs. Renauld wants to hush anything up, I’ll take my cue from her. It’s her show, and I’ve too much respect for her judgement to shove my oar in, but I can’t get behind this attitude of Jack’s. Anyone would think he wanted to be thought guilty.”

  “But it’s absurd,” I cried, bursting in. “For one thing, the dagger—” I paused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would wish me to reveal. I continued, choosing my words carefully, “We know that the dagger could not have been in Jack Renauld’s possession that evening. Mrs. Renauld knows that.”

  “True,” said Stonor. “When she recovers, she will doubtless say all this and more. Well, I must be leaving you.”

  “One moment.” Poirot’s hand arrested his departure. “Can you arrange for word to be sent to me at once should Mrs. Renauld recover consciousness?”

  “Certainly. That’s easily done.”

  “That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,” I urged as we went upstairs. “I couldn’t speak very plainly before Stonor.”

  “That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to ourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack Renauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before we started from London?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed to convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult. Eh bien, Hastings, they made to his order not two paper knives, but three.”

  “So that—”

  “So that, after giving one to his mother and one to Bella Duveen, there was a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear the dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.”

  “It won’t come to that,” I cried, stung.

  Poirot shook his head uncertainly.

  “You will save him,” I cried positively.

  Poirot glanced at me dryly.

  “Have you not rendered it impossible, mon ami?”

  “Some other way,” I muttered.

  “Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No—say no more. Let us instead see what is in this letter.”

  And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket.

  His face contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.

  “There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.”

  The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great agitation.

  Dear M. Poirot—If you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. I have no one to turn to, and at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help us.

  Marthe Daubreuil

  I handed it back, moved.

  “You will go?”

  “At once. We will command an auto.”

  Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the door to meet us, and let Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.

  “Ah, you have come—it is good of you. I have been in despair, not knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I suffer horribly. I am nearly mad.

  “Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the crime? But that is madness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never for one minute will I believe it.”

  “Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently.

  “But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.”

  “Perhaps because he is screening someone,” suggested Poirot, watching her.

  Marthe frowned.

  “Screening someone? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning I have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy to wear widow’s weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he was arrested she fell down like that!” She made a dramatic gesture. “And without doubt, Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, he helped her. They are thick as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he—but what do men care—if a woman is rich!”

  There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.

  “Stonor was in England,” I put in.

  “He says so—but who knows?”

  “Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly, “if we are to work together, you and I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.”

  “Yes, monsieur?”

  “Ar
e you aware of your mother’s real name?”

  Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on her arms, she burst into tears.

  “There, there,” said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, petite, I see that you know. Now a second question—did you know who Monsieur Renauld was?”

  “Monsieur Renauld,” she raised her head from her hands and gazed at him wonderingly.

  “Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.”

  Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the day of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had finished, she drew a long breath.

  “But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective in the world.”

  With a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him with an abandonment that was wholly French.

  “Save him, monsieur,” she cried. “I love him so. Oh, save him, save him—save him!”

  Twenty-five

  AN UNEXPECTED DÉNOUEMENT

  We were present the following morning at the examination of Jack Renauld. Short as the time had been, I was shocked at the change that had taken place in the young prisoner. His cheeks had fallen in, there were deep black circles round his eyes, and he looked haggard and distraught, as one who had wooed sleep in vain for several nights. He betrayed no emotion at seeing us.

  “Renauld,” began the magistrate, “do you deny that you were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?”

  Jack did not reply at once, then he said with a hesitancy of manner which was piteous:

  “I—I—told you that I was in Cherbourg.”

  The magistrate turned sharply.

  “Send in the station witnesses.”

  In a moment or two the door opened to admit a man whom I recognized as being a porter at Merlinville station.

  “You were on duty on the night of 7th June?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “You witnessed the arrival of the 11:40 train?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Look at the prisoner. Do you recognize him as having been one of the passengers to alight?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “There is no possibility of your being mistaken?”

  “No, monsieur. I know Monsieur Jack Renauld well.”

  “Nor of your being mistaken as to the date?”

  “No, monsieur. Because it was the following morning, 8th June, that we heard of the murder.”

  Another railway official was brought in, and confirmed the first one’s evidence. The magistrate looked at Jack Renauld.

  “These men have identified you positively. What have you to say?”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders.

  “Nothing.”

  “Renauld,” continued the magistrate, “do you recognize this?”

  He took something from the table by his side and held it out to the prisoner. I shuddered as I recognized the aeroplane dagger.

  “Pardon,” cried Jack’s counsel, Maître Grosier. “I demand to speak to my client before he answers that question.”

  But Jack Renauld had no consideration for the feelings of the wretched Grosier. He waved him aside, and replied quietly:

  “Certainly I recognize it. It was a present given by me to my mother, as a souvenir of the war.”

  “Is there, as far as you know, any duplicate of that dagger in existence?”

  Again Maître Grosier burst out, and again Jack overrode him.

  “Not that I know of. The setting was my own design.”

  Even the magistrate almost gasped at the boldness of the reply. It did, in very truth, seem as though Jack was rushing on his fate. I realized, of course, the vital necessity he was under of concealing, for Bella’s sake, the fact that there was a duplicate dagger in the case. So long as there was supposed to be only one weapon, no suspicion was likely to attach to the girl who had had the second paper knife in her possession. He was valiantly shielding the woman he had once loved—but at what cost to himself! I began to realize the magnitude of the task I had so lightly set Poirot. It would not be easy to secure the acquittal of Jack Renauld by anything short of the truth.

  M. Hautet spoke again, with a peculiarly biting inflection:

  “Madame Renauld told us that this dagger was on her dressing table on the night of the crime. But Madame Renauld is a mother! It will doubtless astonish you, Renauld, but I consider it highly likely that Madame Renauld was mistaken, and that, by inadvertence perhaps, you had taken it with you to Paris. Doubtless you will contradict me—”

  I saw the lad’s handcuffed hands clench themselves. The perspiration stood out in beads upon his brow, as with a supreme effort he interrupted M. Hautet in a hoarse voice:

  “I shall not contradict you. It is possible.”

  It was a stupefying moment. Maître Grosier rose to his feet, protesting:

  “My client has undergone a considerable nervous strain. I should wish it put on record that I do not consider him answerable for what he says.”

  The magistrate quelled him angrily. For a moment a doubt seemed to arise in his own mind. Jack Renauld had almost overdone his part. He leaned forward, and gazed at the prisoner searchingly.

  “Do you fully understand, Renauld, that on the answers you have given me I shall have no alternative but to commit you for trial?”

  Jack’s pale face flushed. He looked steadily back.

  “Monsieur Hautet, I swear that I did not kill my father.”

  But the magistrate’s brief moment of doubt was over. He laughed a short unpleasant laugh.

  “Without doubt, without doubt—they are always innocent, our prisoners! By your own mouth you are condemned. You can offer no defence, no alibi—only a mere assertion which would not deceive a babe!—that you are not guilty. You killed your father, Renauld—a cruel and cowardly murder—for the sake of the money which you believed would come to you at his death. Your mother was an accessory after the fact. Doubtless, in view of the fact that she acted as a mother, the courts will extend an indulgence to her that they will not accord to you. And rightly so! Your crime was a horrible one—to be held in abhorrence by gods and men!”

  M. Hautet was interrupted—to his intense annoyance. The door was pushed open.

  “Monsieur le juge, Monsieur le juge,” stammered the attendant, “there is a lady who says—who says—”

  “Who says what?” cried the justly incensed magistrate. “This is highly irregular. I forbid it—I absolutely forbid it.”

  But a slender figure pushed the stammering gendarme aside. Dressed all in black, with a long veil that hid her face, she advanced into the room.

  My heart gave a sickening throb. She had come then! All my efforts were in vain. Yet I could not but admire the courage that had led her to take this step so unfalteringly.

  She raised her veil—and I gasped. For, though as like her as two peas, this girl was not Cinderella! On the other hand, now that I saw her without the fair wig she had worn on the stage, I recognized her as the girl of the photograph in Jack Renauld’s room.

  “You are the Juge d’Instruction, Monsieur Hautet?” she queried.

  “Yes, but I forbid—”

  “My name is Bella Duveen. I wish to give myself up for the murder of Mr. Renauld.”

  Twenty-six

  I RECEIVE A LETTER

  “My friend,—You will know all when you get this. Nothing that I can say will move Bella. She has gone out to give herself up. I am tired out with struggling.

  “You will know now that I deceived you, that where you gave me trust I repaid you with lies. It will seem, perhaps, indefensible to you, but I should like, before I go out of your life for ever, to show you just how it all came about. If I knew that you forgave me, it would make life easier for me. It wasn’t for myself I did it—that’s the only thing I can put forward to say for myself.

  “I’ll begin from the day I met you in the boat train from Paris. I w
as uneasy then about Bella. She was just desperate about Jack Renauld, she’d have lain down on the ground for him to walk on, and when he began to change, and to stop writing so often, she began getting in a state. She got it into her head that he was keen on another girl—and of course, as it turned out afterwards, she was quite right there. She’d made up her mind to go to their villa at Merlinville, and try and see Jack. She knew I was against it, and tried to give me the slip. I found she was not on the train at Calais, and determined I would not go on to England without her. I’d an uneasy feeling that something awful was going to happen if I couldn’t prevent it.

  “I met the next train from Paris. She was on it, and set upon going out then and there to Merlinville. I argued with her for all I was worth, but it wasn’t any good. She was all strung up and set upon having her own way. Well, I washed my hands of it. I’d done all I could. It was getting late. I went to an hotel, and Bella started for Merlinville. I still couldn’t shake off my feeling of what the books call ‘impending disaster.’

  “The next day came—but no Bella. She’d made a date with me to meet at the hotel, but she didn’t keep it. No sign of her all day. I got more and more anxious. Then came an evening paper with the news.

  “It was awful! I couldn’t be sure, of course—but I was terribly afraid. I figured it out that Bella had met Papa Renauld and told him about her and Jack, and that he’d insulted her or something like that. We’ve both got terribly quick tempers.

  “Then all the masked foreigner business came out, and I began to feel more at ease. But it still worried me that Bella hadn’t kept her date with me.

  “By the next morning I was so rattled that I’d just got to go and see what I could. First thing, I ran up against you. You know all that … When I saw the dead man, looking so like Jack, and wearing Jack’s fancy overcoat, I knew! And there was the identical paper knife—wicked little thing!—that Jack had given Bella! Ten to one it had her fingermarks on it. I can’t hope to explain to you the sort of helpless horror of that moment. I only saw one thing clearly—I must get hold of that dagger, and get right away with it before they found out it was gone. I pretended to faint, and while you were away getting water I took the thing and hid it away in my dress.