“Reassure yourself, M. Jack. The world knows nothing. As far as I can see, there is no obligation for me to take the police into my confidence. Throughout the case I have acted, not for them, but for your father. Justice overtook him at last, but no one need ever know that he and Georges Conneau were one and the same.”
There were, of course, various points in the case that remained puzzling to the police, but Poirot explained things in so plausible a fashion that all query about them was gradually stilled.
Shortly after we got back to London, I noticed a magnificent model of a foxhound adorning Poirot’s mantelpiece. In answer to my inquiring glance, Poirot nodded.
“Mais, oui! I got my 500 francs! Is he not a splendid fellow? I call him Giraud!”
A few days later Jack Renauld came to see us with a resolute expression on his face.
“M. Poirot, I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m sailing for South America almost immediately. My father had large interests over the continent, and I mean to start a new life out there.”
“You go alone, M. Jack?”
“My mother comes with me—and I shall keep Stonor on as my secretary. He likes out of-the-way parts of the world.”
“No one else goes with you?”
Jack flushed.
“You mean—?”
“A girl who loves you very dearly—who has been willing to lay down her life for you.”
“How could I ask her?” muttered the boy. “After all that has happened, could I go to her and—oh, what sort of a lame story could I tell?”
“Les femmes—they have a wonderful genius for manufacturing crutches for stories like that.”
“Yes, but—I’ve been such a damned fool!”
“So have all of us, at one time and another,” observed Poirot philosophically.
But Jack’s face had hardened.
“There’s something else. I’m my father’s son. Would anyone marry me, knowing that?”
“You are your father’s son, you say. Hastings here will tell you that I believe in heredity—”
“Well, then—”
“Wait. I know a woman, a woman of courage and endurance, capable of great love, of supreme self-sacrifice—”
The boy looked up. His eyes softened.
“My mother!”
“Yes. You are your mother’s son as well as your father’s. Go then to Mademoiselle Bella. Tell her everything. Keep nothing back—and see what she will say!”
Jack looked irresolute.
“Go to her as a boy no longer, but a man—a man bowed by the fate of the Past, and the fate of Today, but looking forward to a new and wonderful life. Ask her to share it with you. You may not realize it, but your love for each other has been tested in the fire and not found wanting. You have both been willing to lay down your lives for each other.”
And what of Captain Arthur Hastings, humble chronicler of these pages?
There is some talk of his joining the Renaulds on a ranch across the seas, but for the end of this story I prefer to go back to a morning in the garden of the Villa Geneviève.
“I can’t call you Bella,” I said, “since it isn’t your name. And Dulcie seems so unfamiliar. So it’s got to be Cinderella. Cinderella married the Prince, you remember. I’m not a Prince, but—”
She interrupted me.
“Cinderella warned him, I’m sure! You see, she couldn’t promise to turn into a princess. She was only a little scullion after all—”
“It’s the Prince’s turn to interrupt,” I interpolated. “Do you know what he said?”
“No?”
“ ‘Hell!’ said the Prince—and kissed her!”
And I suited the action to the word.
Colophon
The Murder on the Links
was published in 1923 by
Agatha Christie.
This ebook was transcribed and produced for
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