The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie (read novel full TXT) 📖

“I do not see that you can fix that definitely—unless you question Mademoiselle Dabreuil again.”

“There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see nothing, Hastings!”

I looked at him for a moment.

“Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was after the stormy interview with him that Mr. Renauld apprehended danger. He sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the other’s pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.”

A faint smile crossed Poirot’s lips.

“You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same expressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used later in her story? If the mention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it, and—what is more—send his son there?”

“It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation later. We come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious lady. I confess that that fairly baffles me, unless it was Madame Daubreuil, as Françoise all along maintained.”

Poirot shook his head.

“My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the fragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly familiar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella Duveen is the full name of Jack’s unknown correspondent, and that it was she who came to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she intended to see Jack, or whether she meant all along to appeal to his father we cannot be certain, but I think we may assume that this is what occurred. She produced her claim upon Jack, probably showed letters that he had written her, and the older man tried to buy her off by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore up. The terms of her letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she would probably deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of her, and here the words that he used are significant.”

“ ‘Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now,’ ” I repeated. “They seem to me a little vehement, perhaps, that is all.”

“That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why? Not only because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that was slipping by, and for some reason time was precious.”

“Why should it be?” I asked, bewildered.

“That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the incident of the wrist watch—which again shows us that time plays a very important part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual drama. It is half-past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the evidence of the wrist watch we know that the crime was committed, or at any rate that it was staged, before twelve o’clock. We have reviewed all the events anterior to the murder, there remains only one unplaced. By the doctor’s evidence, the tramp, when found, had been dead at least forty-eight hours—with a possible margin of twenty-four hours more. Now, with no other facts to help me than those we have discussed, I place the death as having occurred on the morning of June 7th.”

I stared at him, stupefied.

“But how? Why? How can you possibly know?”

“Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically explained. Mon ami, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do you not now see what is so glaringly plain?”

“My dear Poirot, I can’t see anything glaring about it. I did think I was beginning to see my way before, but I’m now hopelessly fogged.”

Poirot looked at me sadly, and shook his head. “Mon Dieu! But it is triste! A good intelligence—and so deplorably lacking in method. There is an exercise most excellent for the development of the little grey cells. I will impart it to you—”

“For Heaven’s sake, not now! You really are the most irritating of fellows, Poirot. For goodness’ sake, get on and tell me who killed M. Renauld.”

“That is just what I am not sure of as yet.”

“But you said it was glaringly clear?”

“We talk at cross-purposes, my friend. Remember, it is two crimes we are investigating—for which, as I pointed out to you, we have the necessary two bodies. There, there, ne vous impatientez pas! I explain all. To begin with, we apply our psychology. We find three points at which M. Renauld displays a distinct change of view and action—three psychological points therefore. The occurs immediately after arriving in Merlinville, the second after quarrelling with his son on a certain subject, the third on the morning of June 7th. Now for the three causes. We can attribute No. 1 to meeting Madame Daubreuil. No. 2 is indirectly connected with her since it concerns a marriage between M. Renauld’s son and her daughter. But the cause of No. 3 is hidden from us. We have to deduce it. Now, mon ami, let me ask you a question; who do we believe to have planned this crime?”

“Georges Conneau,” I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot warily.

“Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that was Georges Conneau who dictated the lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is not Jack Renauld, follows that the third case is put out of court. And, still attributing the crime to Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are forced to the second—that Madame Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved—or in other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree to that.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It seems logical enough.”

“Bien! Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges Conneau?”

“The tramp.”

“Have we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?”

“No, but—”

“Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts no longer support them. Ask yourself instead who Madame Renauld did love.”

I shook my head perplexed.

“Mais, oui, you know perfectly. Who did Madame Renauld love so dearly that when she saw his dead body, she fell down in a swoon?”

I stared dumbfounded.

“Her husband?” I gasped.

Poirot nodded.

“Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call him.”

I rallied myself.

“But it’s impossible.”

“How ‘impossible?’ Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?”

“Yes, but—”

“And did she not very effectively blackmail M. Renauld?”

“That may be true enough, but—”

“And is it not a fact that we know nothing of M. Renauld’s youth and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?”

“All that is so,” I said more firmly, “but you seem to me to be overlooking one salient point.”

“What is it, my friend?”

“Why, we have admitted Georges Conneau planned the crime. That brings us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!”

“Eh bien, mon ami,” said Poirot placidly, “that is just what he did do!”