The Case with Nine Solutions

the best for the present,’ I said, ‘but one must think of the future as well. Recall the will which you made at the time of your marriage. All is to go to your husband, should anything happen to you. Now,’ I wrote, ‘that seems to me hardly as it should be. If you should die⁠—a motor accident might happen any day⁠—then all the money of our aunt would pass into the hands of your husband, this husband with whom you have so little in common and who had no relations with our good aunt. And I, who am your nearest in kin, would receive not one penny. Think of that,’ I wrote, ‘and consider whether it would be fair. Is the fortune of our family to pass into the hands of strangers and we ourselves to be left without a share in it?’ ”

Renard looked from the Inspector to Sir Clinton and back to the Inspector, as though seeking for sympathy. Apparently finding nothing very satisfying in their expressions, he continued his tale.

“I put it to her that this state of affairs was not as it should be. I did not plead for myself, of course. That is not my way. I tried to show her that as things stood, injustice would be done if she should happen to die. And I urged her very strongly to make a fresh will. ‘See,’ I wrote, ‘how things would fall out. To you, it would mean nothing, very naturally. You would be far beyond all cares. But this money would be left. Would you desire that it should fall into the hands of this husband of yours, with whom you cannot find anything in common? Or would you not prefer that it should be left to your brother who has always been good to you?’ That is how I put it to her. I asked her to take swift action and to call in a lawyer who could aid her to draw up a fresh will which would be fair to both her husband and myself. I desired to be fair, you understand? merely to be fair. He would have received back his own stocks and shares which he had given to her at the time of their marriage. I would have gained the fortune which descended from my aunt. That seemed reasonable, surely.”

“Yes,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “it sounds quite reasonable in the circumstances. And what happened?”

“I have been to see the lawyers,” Renard went on. “Figure to yourself what I discovered. My poor Yvonne was not a woman of affairs. She had no businesslike habits. If a thing seemed likely to give her trouble, she would put it aside for as long as she could, before dealing with it. Affairs bored her. It was her temperament, like that. So when she received my letter, she put it aside for some days. One cannot blame her. It was not in her nature to go to great trouble over a thing like that. Besides, death was not in her thoughts. One day was as good as another.”

He paused, as though wishing to heighten the interest of his narrative; for it was evident that he had produced but little impression on Sir Clinton.

“She had a good heart, my poor sister. She understood the position well enough, it seems. And she had no wish to see her good brother left out in the cold, as you English put it. But she delayed and delayed in the affair. And in the end she delayed too long.”

Again he hitched himself forward in his chair, as though he were approaching something important.

“I went to the lawyers. What did I find? This. My poor Yvonne had not forgotten her good brother. She had the intention of setting things right. One day she rang up the lawyers on the telephone and made an appointment with them for the following afternoon. She informed them that she proposed to alter her will; but of course, over the telephone, she said nothing about her wishes on the point. That is to be understood. But she said she would jot down the points to be embodied in the new will and bring that paper with her. That is all the lawyers know. That is all I know myself. For before the next afternoon, when she had made her appointment with the lawyers⁠—my poor Yvonne was dead! Is it not distressing? Twelve thousand pounds! A million and a half francs! And they slip through my fingers just by a few hours. But I make no complaint, of course. I do not grumble. It is not my way. These things happen, and one has to bear them.”

If he had expected to read any sympathy in Sir Clinton’s face, he must have been disappointed. The Chief Constable betrayed nothing of the feelings in his mind.

“Was it not most inopportune?” Renard continued. “Or most opportune indeed, for Silverdale, that things fell out as they have done. A coincidence, of course. Life is full of these things. I have seen too many to be astonished, myself. But is it not most apt that she should die just at that juncture? Another day of life, and the twelve thousand pounds goes into one pocket; a death, and the money falls into other hands. I am something of a philosopher. One has to be, in this world. And these strange chances have an attraction for my mind. I know there is nothing behind them, nothing whatever, you understand? And yet, is it not most striking that things fall out as they do?”

The Chief Constable declined to be drawn into a general discussion on the Universe.

“I am afraid it is scarcely a matter for the police, Mr. Renard. Wills hardly fall into our province, you know, unless a case of forgery turns up; and in this case there’s nothing of that sort. The only advice I could give you would be to consult a lawyer, but as you’ve already had the legal