readenglishbook.com » Fiction » The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [best classic novels TXT] 📗

Book online «The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [best classic novels TXT] 📗». Author Agatha Christie



1 ... 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 ... 30
Go to page:
“Come along.”

In silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed in. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as M. Bex had done the preceding afternoon. A little gasping sound escaped from the girl’s lips, and I turned and looked at her. There was horror on her face now, and those debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly. She had not chosen to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard of it. I felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it now. I turned the corpse gently over.

“You see,” I said, “he was stabbed in the back.”

Her voice was almost soundless.

“With what?”

I nodded towards the glass jar.

“That dagger.”

Suddenly the girl reeled, and then sank down in a heap. I sprang to her assistance.

“You are faint. Come out of here. It has been too much for you.”

“Water,” she murmured. “Quick. Water. …”

I left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants were about, and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a few drops of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again. The girl was lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water revived her in a marvellous manner.

“Take me out of here—oh, quickly, quickly!” she cried, shuddering.

Supporting her with my arm I led her out into the air, and she pulled the door to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath.

“That’s better. Oh, it was horrible! Why did you ever let me go in?”

I felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I was not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so callous as I had thought her. After all she was little more than a child, and her curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order.

“I did my best to stop you, you know,” I said gently.

“I suppose you did. Well, good-bye.”

“Look here, you can’t start off like that—all alone. You’re not fit for it. I insist on accompanying you back to Merlinville.”

“Nonsense. I’m quite all right now.”

“Supposing you felt faint again? No, I shall come with you.”

But this she combated with a good deal of energy. In the end, however, I prevailed so far as to be allowed to accompany her to the outskirts of the town. We retraced our steps over our former route, passing the grave again, and making a detour on to the road. Where the first straggling line of shops began, she stopped and held out her hand.

“Good-bye, and thank you ever so much for coming with me.”

“Are you sure you’re all right now?”

“Quite, thanks. I hope you won’t get into any trouble over showing me things?”

I disclaimed the idea lightly.

“Well, good-bye.”

“Au revoir,” I corrected. “If you’re staying here, we shall meet again.”

She flashed a smile at me.

“That’s so. Au revoir, then.”

“Wait a second, you haven’t told me your address?”

“Oh, I’m staying at the Hôtel du Phare. It’s a little place, but quite good. Come and look me up tomorrow.”

“I will,” I said, with perhaps rather unnecessary empressement.

I watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the Villa. I remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed. Fortunately no one had noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed it and returned it to the sergent de ville. And, as I did so, it came upon me suddenly that though Cinderella had given me her address I still did not know her name.

9
M. Giraud Finds Some Clues

In the Salon I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the old gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present, greeted me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into a seat. M. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did not succeed in eliciting anything of importance.

The gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his. He wore them when handling a certain species of primula plant which was poisonous to some people. He could not say when he had worn them last. Certainly he had not missed them. Where were they kept? Sometimes in one place, sometimes in another. The spade was usually to be found in the small tool shed. Was it locked? Of course it was locked. Where was the key kept? Parbleu, it was in the door of course! There was nothing of value to steal. Who would have expected a party of bandits, of assassins? Such things did not happen in Madame la Vicomtesse’s time. M. Hautet signifying that he had finished with him, the old man withdrew, grumbling to the last. Remembering Poirot’s unaccountable insistence on the footprints in the flower beds, I scrutinized him narrowly as he gave his evidence. Either he had nothing to do with the crime or he was a consummate actor. Suddenly, just as he was going out of the door, an idea struck me. “Pardon M. Hautet,” I cried, “but will you permit me to ask him one question?”

“But certainly, monsieur.”

Thus encouraged, I turned to Auguste.

“Where do you keep your boots?”

Sac à papier!” growled the old man. “On my feet. Where else?”

“But when you go to bed at night?”

“Under my bed.”

“But who cleans them?”

“Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on the front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, bien entendu, but otherwise—!” he shrugged his shoulders.

I shook my head, discouraged.

“Well, well,” said the magistrate. “We do not advance very much. Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago. Has any one seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very good mind to send for him and—”

“You will not have to send far, M. le juge.”

The quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in through the open window.

He leaped lightly into the room, and advanced to the table.

“Here I am, M. le juge, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting myself sooner.”

“Not at all. Not at all,” said the magistrate, rather confused.

“Of course I am only a detective,” continued the other. “I know nothing of interrogatories. Were I conducting one, I should be inclined to do so without an open window. Any one standing outside can so easily hear all that passes. … But no matter.”

M. Hautet flushed angrily. There was evidently going to be no love lost between the examining magistrate and the detective in charge of the case. They had fallen foul of each other at the start. Perhaps in any event it would have been much the same. To Giraud, all examining magistrates were fools, and to M. Hautet who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the Paris detective could not fail to give offence.

Eh bien, M. Giraud,” said the magistrate rather sharply. “Without doubt you have been employing your time to a marvel? You have the names of the assassins for us, have you not? And also the precise spot where they find themselves now?”

Unmoved by this irony, Giraud replied:

“I know at least where they have come from.”

Comment?

Giraud took two small objects from his pocket and laid them down on the table. We crowded round. The objects were very simple ones: the stub of a cigarette, and an unlighted match. The detective wheeled round on Poirot.

“What do you see there?” he asked.

There was something almost brutal in his tone. It made my cheeks flush. But Poirot remained unmoved. He shrugged his shoulders.

“A cigarette end, and a match.”

“And what does that tell you?”

Poirot spread out his hands.

“It tells me—nothing.”

“Ah!” said Giraud, in a satisfied voice. “You haven’t made a study of these things. That’s not an ordinary match—not in this country at least. It’s common enough in South America. Luckily it’s unlighted. I mightn’t have recognized it otherwise. Evidently one of the men threw away his cigarette end, and lit another, spilling one match out of the box as he did so.”

“And the other match?” asked Poirot.

“Which match?”

“The one he did light his cigarette with. You have found that also?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you didn’t search very thoroughly.”

“Not search thoroughly—” For a moment it seemed as though the detective were going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled himself. “I see you love a joke, M. Poirot. But in any case, match or no match, the cigarette end would be sufficient. It is a South American cigarette with liquorice pectoral paper.”

Poirot bowed. The commissary spoke:

“The cigarette end and match might have belonged to M. Renauld. Remember, it is only two years since he returned from South America.”

“No,” replied the other confidently. “I have already searched among the effects of M. Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he used are quite different.”

“You do not think it odd,” asked Poirot, “that these strangers should come unprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and that they should so conveniently find all these things?”

Giraud smiled in a rather superior manner.

“Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it would be inexplicable.”

“Aha!” said M. Hautet. “An accomplice. An accomplice within the house!”

“Or outside it,” said Giraud with a peculiar smile.

“But some one must have admitted them? We cannot allow that, by an unparalleled piece of good fortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk in?”

D’accord, M. le juge. The door was opened for them, but it could just as easily be opened from outside—by some one who possessed a key.”

“But who did possess a key?”

Giraud shrugged his shoulders.

“As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if they can help it. But several people might have had one. M. Jack Renauld, the son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but he might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the gardener—he has been here many years. One of the younger servants may have a lover. It is easy to take an impression of a key and have one cut. There are many possibilities. Then there is another person who, I should judge, is exceedingly likely to have such a thing in her keeping.”

“Who is that?”

“Madame Daubreuil,” said the detective dryly.

“Eh, eh!” said the magistrate, his face falling a little, “so you have heard about that, have you?”

“I hear everything,” said Giraud imperturbably.

“There is one thing I could swear you have not heard,” said M. Hautet, delighted to be able to show superior knowledge, and without more ado, he retailed the story of the mysterious visitor the night before. He also touched on the cheque made out to “Duveen,” and finally handed Giraud the letter signed “Bella.”

Giraud listened in silence, studied the letter attentively, and then handed it back.

“All very interesting, M. le juge. But my theory remains unaffected.”

“And your theory is?”

“For the moment I prefer not to say. Remember, I am only just beginning my investigations.”

“Tell me one thing, M. Giraud,” said Poirot suddenly. “Your theory allows for the door being opened. It does not explain why it was left open. When they departed, would it not have been natural for them to close it behind them. If a sergent de ville had chanced to come up to the house, as is sometimes done to see that all is well, they might have been discovered and overtaken almost at once.”

“Bah! They forgot it. A mistake, I grant you.”

Then, to my surprise, Poirot uttered almost the same words as he had uttered to Bex the previous evening:

I do not agree with you. The door being left open was the result of either design or necessity, and any theory that does not admit that fact is bound to prove vain.”

We all regarded the little man with a good deal of astonishment. The confession of ignorance drawn from him over the match end had, I thought, been bound to humiliate him, but here he was self satisfied as ever, laying down the law to the great Giraud without a tremor.

The detective twisted his moustache, eyeing my friend in a somewhat bantering fashion.

“You don’t agree with me, eh? Well, what strikes you particularly about the case. Let’s hear your views.”

“One thing presents itself to me as being significant. Tell me, M. Giraud, does nothing strike you as familiar about this case? Is there nothing it reminds you of?”

“Familiar? Reminds me of? I can’t say off-hand. I don’t think so, though.”

“You are wrong,” said Poirot quietly. “A crime almost precisely similar has been committed before.”

“When? And where?”

“Ah, that, unfortunately, I cannot for the moment remember—but I shall

1 ... 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 ... 30
Go to page:

Free e-book «The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [best classic novels TXT] 📗» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment