The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [best classic novels TXT] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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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.”
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 the tragic news, she fell at once into an alarming state of agitation. On arrival, Dr. Durand immediately prescribed a sedative, and we have not yet been able to question her. But without doubt she will awake more calm, and be equal to bearing the strain of the interrogation.”
The commissary paused.
“And the inmates of the house, monsieur?”
“There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with the former owners of the Villa Geneviève. Then there are two young girls, sisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville, and they come of the most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom M. Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is away on a holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, M. Jack Renauld. He, too, is away from home at present.”
Poirot bowed his head. M. Hautet spoke:
“Marchaud!”
The sergent de ville appeared.
“Bring in the woman Françoise.”
The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two, he returned, escorting the frightened Françoise.
“You name is Françoise Arrichet?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?”
“Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the Villa this spring, I consented to remain on with the English milor. Never did I imagine—”
The magistrate cut her short.
“Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?”
“Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.”
“And last night?”
“I fastened it as usual.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.”
“What time would that be?”
“The same time as usual, half-past ten, monsieur.”
“What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?”
“Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me. Monsieur was still in his study.”
“Then, if any one unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been M. Renauld himself?”
Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.
“What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had had to let cette dame out—”
The magistrate interrupted sharply:
“Cette dame? What lady do you mean?”
“Why, the lady who came to see him.”
“Had a lady been to see him that evening?”
“But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.”
“Who was she? Did you know her?”
A rather cunning look spread over the
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