The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie
“So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue as to any secret to obtain possession of which he might have been murdered?”
“That’s so.”
“Monsieur Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in connexion with Monsieur Renauld?”
“Duveen. Duveen.” He tried the name over thoughtfully. “I don’t think I have. And yet it seems familiar.”
“Do you know a lady, a friend of Monsieur Renauld’s, whose Christian name is Bella?”
Again Mr. Stonor shook his head.
“Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It’s curious. I’m sure I know it. But for the moment I can’t remember in what connexion.”
The magistrate coughed.
“You understand, Monsieur Stonor—the case is like this. There must be no reservations. You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration for Madame Renauld—for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and affection—you might—in fact!” said M. Hautet, getting rather tied up in his sentence, “there must absolutely be no reservations.”
Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.
“I don’t quite get you,” he said gently. “Where does Mrs. Renauld come in? I’ve an immense respect and affection for that lady; she’s a very wonderful and unusual type, but I don’t quite see how my reservations, or otherwise, could affect her.”
“Not if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more than a friend to her husband?”
“Ah!” said Stonor. “I get you now. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar that you’re wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He just adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.”
M. Hautet shook his head gently.
“Monsieur Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this Bella to Monsieur Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining villa.”
The secretary’s eyes narrowed.
“Hold on, sir. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is plumb impossible. There’s some other explanation.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“What other explanation could there be?”
“What leads you to think it was a love affair?”
“Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the evenings. Also, since Monsieur Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Stonor quietly. “I transmitted him those sums in notes at his request. But it wasn’t an intrigue.”
“What else could it be?”
“Blackmail,” said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a slam on the table. “That’s what it was.”
“Ah!” cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.
“Blackmail,” repeated Stonor. “The old man was being bled—and at a good rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame Daubreuil knew enough of it to put the screw on.”
“It is possible,” the commissary cried excitedly. “Decidedly it is possible.”
“Possible?” roared Stonor. “It’s certain. Tell me, have you asked Mrs. Renauld about this love affair stunt of yours?”
“No, monsieur. We did not wish to occasion her any distress if it could reasonably be avoided.”
“Distress? Why, she’d laugh in your face. I tell you, she and Renauld were a couple in a hundred.”
“Ah, that reminds me of another point,” said M. Hautet. “Did Monsieur Renauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his will?”
“I know all about it—took it to the lawyers for him after he’d drawn it out. I can give you the name of his solicitors if you want to see it. They’ve got it there. Quite simple. Half in trust to his wife for her lifetime, the other half to his son. A few legacies. I rather think he left me a thousand.”
“When was this will drawn up?”
“Oh, about a year and a half ago.”
“Would it surprise you very much, Monsieur Stonor, to hear that Monsieur Renauld had made another will, less than a fortnight ago?”
Stonor was obviously very much surprised.
“I’d no idea of it. What’s it like?”
“The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There is no mention of his son.”
Mr. Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle.
“I call that rather rough on the lad. His mother adores him of course, but to the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on his father’s part. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it all goes to prove what I told you, that Renauld and his wife were on first-rate terms.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said M. Hautet. “It is possible we shall have to revise our ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to Santiago, and are expecting a reply from there any minute. In all probability, everything will then be perfectly clear and straightforward. On the other hand, if your suggestion of blackmail is true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to give us valuable information.”
Poirot interjected a remark:
“Monsieur Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with Monsieur Renauld?”
“Over a year.”
“Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?”
“I’m quite sure he hasn’t. Before coming to M. Renauld he had been for many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.”
“In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?”
“Absolutely.”
Poirot seemed somewhat crestfallen.
Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.
“My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to her for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her upstairs.”
Marchaud saluted and disappeared.
We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and Mrs. Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.
M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his with an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld turned to M. Hautet.
“You wish to ask me something?”
“With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French-Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth or upbringing?”
She shook her head.
“My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came from the North-West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived entirely in the present and the future.”
“Was there any mystery in his past life?”
Mrs. Renauld smiled a little and shook her head.
“Nothing so romantic, I am sure, monsieur.”
M. Hautet also smiled.
“True, we must not permit ourselves to get melodramatic. There is one thing more—” He hesitated.
Stonor broke in impetuously:
“They’ve got an extraordinary idea into their heads, Mrs. Renauld. They actually fancy that Mr. Renauld was carrying on an intrigue with a Madame Daubreuil who, it seems, lives next door.”
The scarlet colour flamed into Mrs. Renauld’s cheeks. She flung her head up, then bit her lip, her face quivering. Stonor stood looking at her in astonishment, but M. Bex leaned forward and said gently:
“We regret to cause you pain, madame, but have you any reason to believe that Madame Daubreuil was your husband’s mistress?”
With a sob of anguish, Mrs. Renauld buried her
“She may have been.”
Never, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement on Stonor’s face. He was thoroughly taken aback.
Eleven
JACK RENAULD
What the next development of the conversation would have been I cannot say, for at that moment the door was thrown open violently and a tall young man strode into the room.
Just for a moment I had the uncanny sensation that the dead man had come to life again. Then I realized that this dark head was untouched with grey, and that, in point of fact, it was a mere boy who now burst in among us with so little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs. Renauld with an impetuosity that took no heed of the presence of others.
“Mother!”
“Jack!” With a cry she folded him in her arms. “My dearest! But what brings you here? You were to sail on the Anzora from Cherbourg two days ago?” Then, suddenly recalling to herself the presence of others, she turned with a certain dignity: “My son, messieurs.”
“Aha!” said M. Hautet, acknowledging the young man’s bow. “So you did not sail on the Anzora?”
“No, monsieur. As I was about to explain, the Anzora was detained twenty-four hours through engine trouble. I should have sailed last night instead of the night before, but, happening to buy an evening paper, I saw in it an account of the—the awful tragedy that had befallen us—” His voice broke and the tears came into his eyes. “My poor father—my poor, poor father.”
Staring at him like one in a dream, Mrs. Renauld repeated:
“So you did not sail?” And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she murmured as though to herself: “After all, it does not matter—now.”
“Sit down, Monsieur Renauld, I beg of you,” said M. Hautet, indicating a chair. “My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible shock to you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that you were prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us just the information we need to clear up this mystery.”
“I am at your disposal, monsieur. Ask me any questions you please.”
“To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at your father’s request?”
“Quite so, monsieur. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed without delay to Buenos Aires, and from thence via the Andes to Valparaiso, and on to Santiago.”
“Ah! And the object of this journey?”
“I have no idea.”
“What?”
“No. See, here in the telegram.”
The magistrate took it and read it aloud:
“‘Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark Anzora sailing tonight Buenos Aires. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will await you Buenos Aires. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance. Renauld.’ And there had been no previous correspondence on the matter?”
Jack Renauld shook his head.
“That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my father, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in South America. But he had never mooted any suggestion of sending me out.”
“You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M. Renauld?”
“I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of my holidays in that country, so I really know far less of South America than might be supposed. You see, the War broke out when I was seventeen.”
“You served in the English Flying Corps, did you not?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
M. Hautet nodded his head and proceeded with his inquiries along the, by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the city of Santiago or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had noticed no change in his father’s manner of late, and that he had never heard him refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as connected with business interests.
As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in:
“I should like to put a few questions of my own, Monsieur le juge.”
“By all means, Monsieur Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly.
Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.
“Were you on good terms with your father, Monsieur Renauld?”
“Certainly I was,” returned the lad haughtily.
“You assert that positively?”
“Yes.”
“No little disputes, eh?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone may have a difference of opinion now and then.”
“Quite so, quite so. But, if anyone were to assert that you had a violent quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person, without doubt, would be lying?”
I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast, “I know everything,” had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by the question.
“We—we did have an argument,” he admitted.
“Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument, did you use this phrase: ‘When you are dead I can do as I please?’”
“I may have done,” muttered the other. “I don’t know.”
“In response to that, did your father say: ‘But I am not dead yet!?’ To which you responded: ‘I wish you were!’”
The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the table in front of him.
“I must request an answer, please, Monsieur Renauld,” said Giraud sharply.
With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper knife to the floor.
“What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his chair, flushed and defiant.
Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:
“That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, Monsieur Hautet.”
“Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject of your quarrel?”
“That I decline to state.” M. Hautet sat up in his chair.
“Monsieur Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?”
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot:
“I will inform you, if you like, monsieur.”
“You know?”
“Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.”
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
“Is that so, monsieur?”
Jack Renauld bowed his head.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact he flew at once into a violent rage. Naturally, I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.”
M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld.
“You were aware of this—attachment, madame?”
“I feared it,” she replied simply.
“Mother,” cried the boy. “You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful. What can you have against her?”
“I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman, not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!”
Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.
Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:
“I ough
M. Hautet nodded.
“When you informed your father of your intentions towards Mademoiselle Daubreuil,” he resumed, “he was surprised?”
“He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily to dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to such a marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle Daubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting terms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I answered that I was marrying Marthe and not her antecedents, but he shouted me down with a peremptory refusal to discuss the matter in any way. The whole thing must be given up. The injustice and high-handedness of it all maddened me—especially since he himself always seemed to go out of his way to be attentive to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that they should be asked to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in earnest. My father reminded me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it must have been in answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I pleased after his death—”
Poirot interrupted with a quick question:
“You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?”
“I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for my mother, to come to me at her death,” replied the lad.
“Proceed with your story,” said the magistrate.
“After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed down. I wrote to Marthe, telling her what had happened, and her reply soothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be steadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection for each other must be tried and proved, and when my parents realized that it was no light infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent towards us. Of course, to her, I had not dwelt on my father’s principal objection to the match. I soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence.”