The Murder on the Links, Agatha Christie [e textbook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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Standing there, in her black dress with the fresh white collar and cuffs, her hands clasped together, she looked subtly appealing and helpless.
“You wished to see me, monsieur?” she asked.
“Yes, madame.” M. Hautet cleared his throat. “I am investigating the death of M. Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?”
She bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change.
“We came to ask you whether you can—er—throw any light upon the circumstances surrounding it?”
“I?” The surprise of her tone was excellent.
“Yes, madame. It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you alone.” He looked meaningly in the direction of the girl.
Madame Daubreuil turned to her.
“Marthe, dear—”
But the girl shook her head.
“No, maman, I will not go. I am not a child. I am twenty-two. I shall not go.”
Madame Daubreuil turned back to the examining magistrate.
“You see, monsieur.”
“I should prefer not to speak before Mademoiselle Daubreuil.”
“As my daughter says, she is not a child.”
For a moment the magistrate hesitated, baffled.
“Very well, madame,” he said at last. “Have it your own way. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man at his Villa in the evenings. Is that so?”
The colour rose in the lady’s pale cheeks, but she replied quietly:
“I deny your right to ask me such a question!”
“Madame, we are investigating a murder.”
“Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder.”
“Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?”
“Never.”
“Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have made there?”
“No.”
“Then you can give us no help at all?”
“I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his wife tell you what you want to know?” Her voice held a slender inflection of irony.
“Madame Renauld has told us all she can.”
“Ah!” said Madame Daubreuil. “I wonder—”
“You wonder what, madame?”
“Nothing.”
The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.
“You persist in your statement that M. Renauld confided nothing in you?”
“Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?”
“Because, madame,” said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality. “A man tells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his wife.”
“Ah!” she sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. “Monsieur, you insult me! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to leave my house!”
The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa Marguerite like a shamefaced pack of schoolboys. The magistrate muttered angry ejaculations to himself. Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he came out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a good hotel near at hand.
“There is a small place, the Hotel des Bains, on this side of town. A few hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations. We shall see you in the morning then, I presume?”
“Yes, I thank you, M. Hautet.”
With mutual civilities, we parted company, Poirot and I going towards Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.
“The French police system is very marvellous,” said Poirot, looking after them. “The information they possess about every one’s life, down to the most commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with M. Renauld’s tastes and pursuits, and at a moment’s notice they can produce information as to Madame Daubreuil’s banking account, and the sums that have lately been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is that?” He turned sharply.
A figure was running hatless, down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.
“I beg your pardon,” she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. “I—I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that M. Renauld called in a detective before he died, and—and that you are he?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “It is quite true. But how did you learn it?”
“Françoise told our Amélie,” explained Marthe, with a blush.
Poirot made a grimace.
“The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?”
The girl hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked:
“Is—any one suspected?”
Poirot eyed her keenly.
Then he replied evasively:
“Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, I know—but—any one in particular?”
“Why do you want to know?”
The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot’s words about her earlier in the day recurred to me. The “girl with the anxious eyes!”
“M. Renauld was always very kind to me,” she replied at last. “It is natural that I should be interested.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering round two persons.”
“Two?”
I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.
“Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chilians from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!”
The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.
“I must run back now. Maman will miss me.”
And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I stared after her.
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, “is it that we are to remain planted here all night—just because you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl?”
I laughed and apologized.
“But she is beautiful, Poirot. Any one might be excused for being bowled over by her.”
Poirot groaned.
“Mon Dieu! But it is that you have the susceptible heart!”
“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember after the Styles Case when—”
“When you were in love with two charming women at once, and neither of them were for you? Yes, I remember.”
“You consoled me by saying that perhaps some day we should hunt together again, and that then—”
“Eh bien?”
“Well, we are hunting together again, and—” I paused, and laughed rather self-consciously.
But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly.
“Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!”
“Why,” I cried, “the commissary assured me that she was as good as she is beautiful! A perfect angel!”
“Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,” remarked Poirot cheerfully. “A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a madonna.”
“Poirot,” I cried, horrified, “you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent child like this!”
“Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her. But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat unusual.”
“For once, I see further than you do,” I said. “Her anxiety is not for herself—but for her mother.”
“My friend,” said Poirot, “as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. Sacré! if only I could remember where I had seen that face!”
“What face?” I asked, surprised. “The daughter’s?”
“No. The mother’s.”
Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically.
“But yes—it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. I rather fancy—”
“Yes?”
“I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!”
We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.
Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.
Léonie shook her head.
“She is terribly upset, la pauvre dame! She will eat nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, par exemple, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman!”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
“What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?”
Again Léonie shook her head.
“Never, monsieur. Never have I heard Madame utter a word of protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to Monsieur.”
“Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”
“Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—ma foi! they might have been heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!”
“Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?”
“Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!”
Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.
“And the dispute, what was it about?”
“Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!”
The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.
“And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”
“One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”
“They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder.”
“Quelle idée,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.
“You will go out and join them?”
“No, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool there on this hot morning.”
This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.
“If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.
“Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?”
“Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”
“The human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au revoir.”
I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so further to the right. If Giraud were still on the spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he knew of my presence. But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to force my way through. When
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