Murder on the Links

tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night Renauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a grave in that particular plot of ground where he knows a-how do you call it?-bunkair? is to be made. It is essential that the body should be found-Madame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a little time elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened.'

'Then, Renauld will don the tramp's rags, and shuffle off to the station, where he will leave, unnoticed, by the train. Since the crime will be supposed to have taken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach to him.'

'You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl, Bella. Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create the impression that assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty- two years ago, when the looseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but leaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented before, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The night is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his underclothing, intending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the window, smoothing over the flowerbed carefully, and thereby furnishing the most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely golf links, and he digs. And then-'

'Yes?'

'And then,' said Poirot gravely, 'the justice that he has so long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. No, Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the crime that Monsieur Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to investigate, is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult-since the criminal, in his wisdoms has been content to avail himself of the devices prepared by Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and baffling mystery to solve.'

'You're marvellous, Poirot,' I said, with admiration. 'Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you would have done it!'

I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life he looked almost embarrassed.

'That poor Giraud,' said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. 'Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least, it was misleading.'

'To tell you the truth, Poirot,' I said slowly, 'even now I don't quite see-whose hair was it?'

'Madame Renauld's, of course. That is where la mauvaise chance came in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as easily have been a grey hair-and then, by no conceivable effort could Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But it is all of a piece; Always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory!'

'Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Aurora? Quelle femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only made one slip. On his unexpected return: 'It does not matter-now.' And no one noticed-no one realized the significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how resolutely she has played her part and how the anguish of it must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her son's sake no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame Daubreuil was her husband's mistress-for a hint of blackmail might be fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt will the examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband's past life. 'Nothing so romantic, I am sure, monsieur.' It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the soupcon of sad mockery. At once Monsieur Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally?'

Poirot lost himself in contemplation.

'One thing more Poirot. What about the piece of lead-piping?'

'You do not see? To disfigure the victim's face so that it would be unrecognisable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two inches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur Renauld? Someone who was near the villa just before twelve o'clock that night someone who would benefit by his death-the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!'

I started, I had not realized that point. 'Of course,' I said, 'Mrs. Renauld's dagger was the second one we found in the tramp. There were two, then?'

'Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I had a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological-heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son-Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.'

His tone was grave and earnest and I was impressed in spite of myself.

'What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?' I asked.

For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked: 'What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?'

'About five, I believe.'

'That will do very well. We shall just have time.'

'You are going to England?'

'Yes, my friend.'

'Why?'

'To find a possible witness.'

'Who?'

With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied: 'Miss Bella Duveen.'

'But how will you find her-what do you know about her?'

'I know nothing about her-but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen and since that name was faintly familiar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connexion with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur Renauld's attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all right-especially with the help-' And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld's drawer.'With love from Bella' was scrawled across the corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first rate-but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.

It was the face of Cinderella.

Chapter 22. I Find Love

For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand. Then summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same time I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.

He rose briskly to his feet. 'We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all dispatch. All is well-the sea it will be calm!'

In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the boat, secure from Poirot's observation, I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately.

How much did Poirot know, and why was he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld commit the crime? Or did he suspect- But that was impossible!