The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [best classic novels TXT] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“Aha!” roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table. “You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit M. Renauld in the evenings.”
“The police—the police,” grumbled Françoise. “Never did I think that I should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.”
The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter astonishment.
“Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?”
“That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one, cellela!” The old woman tossed her head scornfully.
“Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary. “Impossible.”
“Voilà,” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the truth.”
“Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were—” he paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without doubt?”
“How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was milor anglais—trés riche—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one—and trés chic for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer young, but ma foi! I who speak to you have seen the men’s heads turn after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she has had more money to spend—all the town knows it. The little economies, they are at an end.” And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable certainty.
M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.
“And Madame Renauld?” he asked at length. “How did she take this—friendship.”
Françoise shrugged her shoulders.
“She was always most amiable—most polite. One would say that she suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur? Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair conducted such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. Style anglais, without doubt!”
I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.
“You say that M. Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she left, then?”
“Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door. Monsieur said good night, and shut the door after her.”
“What time was that?”
“About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.”
“Do you know when M. Renauld went to bed?”
“I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so that one hears every one who goes up and down.”
“And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?”
“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”
“Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?”
“I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.”
“What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?”
“Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place anywhere.”
“Good, Françoise, you can go.”
The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked back.
“I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember that.” And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.
“Léonie Oulard,” called the magistrate.
Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M. Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the night.
Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had changed greatly of late.
“Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always depressed.” But Denise had her own theory. “Without doubt it was the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A terrible society that!”
“It is, of course, possible,” said the magistrate smoothly. “Now, my girl, was it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last night?”
“Not last night, monsieur, the night before.”
“But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last night?”
“No, monsieur. A lady did come to see M. Renauld last night, but it was not Madame Daubreuil.”
Surprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew Madame Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but shorter, and much younger. Nothing could shake her statement.
“Had you ever seen this lady before?”
“Never, monsieur.” And then the girl added diffidently: “But I think she was English.”
“English?”
“Yes, monsieur. She asked for M. Renauld in quite good French, but the accent—one can always tell it, n’est-ce pas? Besides when they came out of the study they were speaking in English.”
“Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?”
“Me, I speak the English very well,” said Denise with pride. “The lady was speaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I heard Monsieur’s last words as he opened the door for her.” She paused, and then repeated carefully and laboriously:
“ ‘Yeas—yeas—butt for Gaud’s saike go nauw!’ ”
“Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now!” repeated the magistrate.
He dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled Françoise. To her he propounded the question as to whether she had not made a mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil’s visit. Françoise, however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame Daubreuil had come. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make herself interesting, voilà tout! So she had cooked up this fine tale about a strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English too! Probably Monsieur had never spoken that sentence in English at all, and even if he had, it proved nothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used that language when talking to M. and Madame Renauld. “You see, M. Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the French very badly.”
The magistrate did not insist. Instead he inquired about the chauffeur, and learned that only yesterday, M. Renauld had declared that he was not likely to use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a holiday.
A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s eyes.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:
“Pardon, M. Bex, but without doubt M. Renauld could drive the car himself?”
The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied promptly:
“No, Monsieur did not drive himself.”
Poirot’s frown deepened.
“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said impatiently.
“See you not? In his letter M. Renauld speaks of sending the car for me to Calais.”
“Perhaps he meant a hired car,” I suggested.
“Doubtless that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your own. Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday—suddenly, at a moment’s notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him out of the way before we arrived?”
The Letter Signed “Bella”
Françoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully on the table.
“M. Bex,” he said at length, “here we have directly conflicting testimony. Which are we to believe, Françoise or Denise?”
“Denise,” said the commissary decidedly. “It was she who let the visitor in. Françoise is old and obstinate, and has evidently taken a dislike to Madame Daubreuil. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that Renauld was entangled with another woman.”
“Tiens!” cried M. Hautet. “We have forgotten to inform M. Poirot of that.” He searched amongst the papers on the table, and finally handed the one he was in search of to my friend. “This letter, M. Poirot, we found in the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat.”
Poirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumbled, and was written in English in a rather unformed hand:
“My dearest one:”
Why have you not written for so long? You do love me still, don’t you? Your letters lately have been so different, cold and strange, and now this long silence. It makes me afraid. If you were to stop loving me! But that’s impossible—what a silly kid I am—always imagining things! But if you did stop loving me, I don’t know what I should do—kill myself perhaps! I couldn’t live without you. Sometimes I fancy another woman is coming between us. Let her look out, that’s all—and you too! I’d as soon kill you as let her have you! I mean it.
“But there, I’m writing high-flown nonsense. You love me, and I love you—yes, love you, love you, love you!
“Your own adoring
“BELLA.”
There was no address or date. Poirot handed it back with a grave face.
“And the assumption is, M. le juge—?”
The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“Obviously M. Renauld was entangled with this Englishwoman—Bella. He comes over here, meets Madame Daubreuil, and starts an intrigue with her. He cools off to the other, and she instantly suspects something. This letter contains a distinct threat. M. Poirot, at first sight the case seemed simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that M. Renauld was stabbed in the back seemed to point distinctly to its being a woman’s crime.”
Poirot nodded.
“The stab in the back, yes—but not the grave! That was laborious work, hard work—no woman dug that grave, monsieur. That was a man’s doing.”
The commissary exclaimed excitedly: “Yes, yes, you are right. We did not think of that.”
“As I said,” continued M. Hautet, “at first sight the case seemed simple, but the masked men, and the letter you received from M. Renauld complicate matters. Here we seem to have an entirely different set of circumstances, with no relationship between the two. As regards the letter written to yourself, do you think it is possible that it referred in any way to this ‘Bella,’ and her threats?”
Poirot shook his head.
“Hardly. A man like M. Renauld, who has led an adventurous life in out-of-the-way places, would not be likely to ask for protection against a woman.”
The examining magistrate nodded his head emphatically.
“My view exactly. Then we must look for the explanation of the letter—”
“In Santiago,” finished the commissary. “I shall cable without delay to the police in that city, requesting full details of the murdered man’s life out there, his love affairs, his business transactions, his friendships, and any enmities he may have incurred. It will be strange if, after that, we do not hold a clue to his mysterious murder.”
The commissary looked round for approval.
“Excellent,” said Poirot appreciatively.
“His wife, too, may be able to give us a pointer,” added the magistrate.
“You have found no other letters from this Bella amongst M. Renauld’s effects?” asked Poirot.
“No. Of course one of our first proceedings was to search through his private papers in the study. We found nothing of interest, however. All seemed square and above-board. The only thing at all out of the ordinary was his will. Here it is.”
Poirot ran through the document.
“So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr. Stonor—who is he, by the way?”
“M. Renauld’s secretary. He remained in England, but was over here once or twice for a week-end.”
“And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise. Simply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants, Denise and Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.” He handed it back.
“Perhaps,” began Bex, “you did not notice—”
“The date?” twinkled Poirot. “But yes, I noticed it. A fortnight ago. Possibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men die intestate through never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it is dangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his having a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous intrigues.”
“Yes,” said M. Hautet doubtfully. “But it is possibly a little unfair on his son, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother. If she were to marry again, and her second husband obtained an ascendancy over her, this boy might never touch a penny of his father’s money.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Man is a vain animal. M. Renauld figured to himself, without doubt, that his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have been a wise precaution to leave the money in his mother’s hands. The sons of rich men are proverbially wild.”
“It may be as you say. Now, M. Poirot, you would without doubt like to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been removed, but of course photographs have been taken from every conceivable angle, and will be
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