The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie
“Very curious,” I agreed.
“And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know—he was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.”
He looked down at the body again.
“As before, there are no fingerprints on the handle of the dagger. The murderer again wore gloves.”
“You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I asked eagerly.
Giraud became inscrutable.
“Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!”
The sergent de ville appeared at the door.
“Monsieur?”
“Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour ago.”
“She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.”
“Good. I only want one at a time, though.”
Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs. Renauld.
“Here is Madame.”
Giraud came forward with a curt bow.
“This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly aside, “Here is the man. Do you know him?”
And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to read her mind, noting every indication of her manner.
But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of agitation or recognition.
“No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?”
“No.” She seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. “No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the examining magistrate thought—but still, no.” Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this man.”
“Very well, madame. That is all, then.”
She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads in her hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man in a completely natural manner.
Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could not tell. He called to Marchaud.
“You have got the other there?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Bring her in, then.”
“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting with vehemence.
“I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?”
“Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.”
“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous!”
“Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced towards her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”
With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.
“It is false, I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Anyone who says I do lies! Ah, mon Dieu, what shall I do?”
“Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.”
“Anything you wish, monsieur.”
“Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?”
Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head.
“I do not know him.”
It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud dismissed her with a nod of the head.
“You are letting her go?” I asked in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her head.”
“I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud dryly. “She is under surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.”
Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.
“Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?” he asked suddenly.
I considered the face carefully.
“No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman most decidedly.”
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Same here.”
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside, and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end he rose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence.
But at that moment a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old friend, the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex, with the doctor behind them, came bustling in.
“But this is extraordinary, Monsieur Giraud,” cried M. Hautet. “Another crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?”
“That is just what nobody can tell us, monsieur. He has not been identified.”
“Where is the body?” asked the doctor.
Giraud moved aside a little.
“There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the murder followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can handle the dagger freely—there are no fingerprints on it.”
The doctor knelt down by the dead man, and Giraud turned to the examining magistrate.
“A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.”
“And so no one can identify him,” mused the magistrate. “Could it possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among themselves.”
Giraud shook his head.
“The man is a Frenchman—I would take my oath on that—”
But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor, who was sitting back on his heels with a perplexed expression.
“You say he was killed yesterday morning?”
“I fix it by the theft of the dagger,” explained Giraud. “He may, of course, have been killed later in the day.”
“Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least forty-eight hours, and probably longer.”
We stared at each other in blank amazement.
Fifteen
A PHOTOGRAPH
The doctor’s words were so surprising that we were all momentarily taken aback. Here was a man stabbed with a dagger which we knew to have been stolen only twenty-four hours previously, and yet Dr. Durand asserted positively that he had been dead at least forty-eight hours! The whole thing was fantastic to the last extreme.
We were still recovering from the surprise of the doctor’s announcement, when a telegram was brought to me. It had been sent up from the hotel to the villa. I tore it open. It was from Poirot, and announced his return by the train arriving at Merlinville at 12:28.
I looked at my watch and saw that I had just time to get comfortably to the station and meet him there. I felt that it was of the utmost importance that he should know at once of the new and startling developments in the case.
Evidently, I reflected, Poirot had had no difficulty in finding what he wanted in Paris. The quickness of his return proved
The train was some minutes late, and I strolled aimlessly up and down the platform, until it occurred to me that I might pass the time by asking a few questions as to who had left Merlinville by the last train on the evening of the tragedy.
I approached the chief porter, an intelligent-looking man, and had little difficulty in persuading him to enter upon the subject. It was a disgrace to the police, he hotly affirmed, that such brigands or assassins should be allowed to go about unpunished. I hinted that there was some possibility they might have left by the midnight train, but he negatived the idea decidedly. He would have noticed two foreigners—he was sure of it. Only about twenty people had left by the train, and he could not have failed to observe them.
I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly:
“Young Monsieur Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?”
“Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it would not be amusing, that!”
I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me. Then I saw.
“You mean,” I said, my heart beating a little, “that Monsieur Jack Renauld arrived at Merlinville that evening?”
“But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the 11:40.”
My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. But why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that he had any connexion with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about so vital a matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along. Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot as to whether anyone was suspected.
My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced me warmly on the platform.
“Mon cher ami, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!”
“Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?”
“How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even arrests, perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must rearrange.”
I cut short his remonstrances.
“My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the villa at once. There has been another murder!”
Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me openmouthed.
“What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, but I am all wrong. I have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!”
“You did not expect it, then?”
“I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins everything—it—Ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest. “It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts, taken methodically, and in their proper order, admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I am right!”
“But then—”
He interrupted me.
“Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is impossible unless—unless—Oh, wait, I implore you. Say no word.”
He was silent for a moment or two, then resuming his normal manner, he said in a quiet assured voice:
“The victim is a man of middle age. His body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to Mr. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.”
It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably, a doubt crossed my mind.
“Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it already.”
He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.
“Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?”
“But how on earth could you know all that?”
“I was right, then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the Villa Geneviève much more quickly.”
As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew. Poirot listened attentively.
“The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it was the same one?”
“Absolutely certain. That’s what makes it so impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most extraordinary coincidence.”
“You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two identical weapons would be highly improbable. But not here. This particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he should have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for his own use.”
“But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected.
A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone.
“My friend, in working upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are ‘mentioned.’ There is no reason to mention many things which may be important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for not mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.”
I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought us to the famous shed. We found all our friends there, and after an interchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task.
Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot bestowed but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose to Giraud’s lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down again.
“Old clothes of the gardener’s?” he queried.
“Exactly,” said Giraud.
Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical. He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and broken fingernails. While examining the latter he threw a quick question at Giraud.
“You saw them?”
“Yes, I saw them,” replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.
Suddenly Poirot stiffened.
“Dr. Durand!”
“Yes?” The doctor came forward.
“There is foam on the lips. You observed it?”
“I didn’t notice it, I must admit.”
“But you observe it now?”
“Oh, certainly.”
Poirot again shot a question at Giraud.
“You noticed it without doubt?”
The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been withdrawn from the wound. It reposed in a glass jar by the side of the body. Poirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up, his eyes were excited and shone with the green light I knew so well.
“It is a strange wound, this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly
“I can only say that it is most abnormal.”
“It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed after he was dead.” And, stilling the clamour of voices that arose with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added: “M. Giraud agrees with me, do you not, monsieur?”
Whatever Giraud’s real belief, he accepted the position without moving a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he replied:
“Certainly I agree.”
The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.
“But what an idea!” cried M. Hautet. “To stab a man after he is dead! Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate perhaps.”
“No,” said Poirot. “I should fancy it was done quite cold-bloodedly—to create an impression.”
“What impression?”
“The impression it nearly did create,” returned Poirot oracularly.
M. Bex had been thinking.
“How, then, was the man killed?”
“He was not killed. He died. He died, if I am not much mistaken, of an epileptic fit!”
This statement of Poirot’s again aroused considerable excitement. Dr. Durand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he rose to his feet.
“Monsieur Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your assertion. I was misled to begin with. The incontrovertible fact that the man had been stabbed distracted my attention from any other indications.”
Poirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse in compliments. Poirot responded gracefully, and then excused himself on the pretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched, and that he wished to repair the ravages of the journey. As we were about to leave the shed, Giraud approached us.
“One other thing, Monsieur Poirot,” he said, in his suave mocking voice. “We found this coiled round the handle of the dagger—a woman’s hair.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “A woman’s hair? What woman’s, I wonder?”
“I wonder also,” said Giraud. Then, with a bow, he left us.
“He was insistent, the good Giraud,” said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked towards the hotel. “I wonder in what direction he hopes to mislead me? A woman’s hair—h’m!”