The Murder on the Links (15 page)

I met his eyes squarely.

“Nothing that you could tell me would be any surprise to me, Poirot. Understand that. But in case you think of resuming your search for Miss Duveen, I should like you to know one thing clearly. If you have any idea that she was concerned in the crime, or was the mysterious lady who called upon Mr. Renauld that night, you are wrong. I travelled home from France with her that day, and parted from her at Victoria that evening, so that it is clearly impossible for her to have been in Merlinville.”

“Ah!” Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. “And you would swear to that in a court of law?”

“Most certainly I would.”

Poirot rose and bowed.

“
Mon ami! Vive l'amour!
It can perform miracles. It is decidedly ingenious what you have thought of there. It defeats even Hercule Poirot!”

A
fter a moment of stress, such as I have just described, reaction is bound to set in. I retired to rest that night on a note of triumph, but I awoke to realize that I was by no means out of the wood. True, I could see no flaw in the alibi I had so suddenly conceived. I had but to stick to my story, and I failed to see how Bella could be convicted in face of it.

But I felt the need of treading warily. Poirot would not take defeat lying down. Somehow or other, he would endeavour to turn the tables on me, and that in the way, and at the moment, when I least expected it.

We met at breakfast the following morning as though nothing had happened. Poirot's good temper was imperturbable, yet I thought I detected a film of reserve in his manner which was new. After breakfast, I announced my intention of going out for a stroll. A malicious gleam shot through Poirot's eyes.

“If it is information you seek, you need not be at the pains of deranging yourself. I can tell you all you wish to know. The Dul
cibella Sisters have cancelled their contract, and have left Coventry for an unknown destination.”

“Is that really so, Poirot?”

“You can take it from me, Hastings. I made inquiries the first thing this morning. After all, what else did you expect?”

True enough, nothing else could be expected under the circumstances. Cinderella had profited by the slight start I had been able to secure her, and would certainly not lose a moment in removing herself from the reach of the pursuer. It was what I had intended and planned. Nevertheless, I was aware of being plunged into a network of fresh difficulties.

I had absolutely no means of communicating with the girl, and it was vital that she should know the line of defence that had occurred to me, and which I was prepared to carry out. Of course it was possible that she might try to send word to me in some way or another, but I hardly thought it likely. She would know the risk she ran of a message being intercepted by Poirot, thus setting him on her track once more. Clearly her only course was to disappear utterly for the time being.

But, in the meantime, what was Poirot doing? I studied him attentively. He was wearing his most innocent air, and staring meditatively into the far distance. He looked altogether too placid and supine to give me reassurance. I had learned, with Poirot, that the less dangerous he looked, the more dangerous he was. His quiescence alarmed me. Observing a troubled quality in my glance, he smiled benignantly.

“You are puzzled, Hastings? You ask yourself why I do not launch myself in pursuit?”

“Well—something of the kind.”

“It is what you would do, were you in my place. I understand that. But I am not of those who enjoy rushing up and down a country seeking a needle in a haystack, as you English say. No—let Mademoiselle Bella Duveen go. Without doubt, I shall be able to find her when the time comes. Until then, I am content to wait.”

I stared at him doubtfully. Was he seeking to mislead me? I had an irritating feeling that, even now, he was master of the situation. My sense of superiority was gradually waning. I had contrived the girl's escape, and evolved a brilliant scheme for saving her from the consequences of her rash act—but I could not rest easy in my mind. Poirot's perfect calm awakened a thousand apprehensions.

“I suppose, Poirot,” I said rather diffidently, “I mustn't ask what your plans are? I've forfeited the right.”

“But not at all. There is no secret about them. We return to France without delay.”

“We?”

“Precisely—‘
we!
' You know very well that you cannot afford to let Papa Poirot out of your sight. Eh? is it not so, my friend? But remain in England by all means if you wish—”

I shook my head. He had hit the nail on the head. I could not afford to let him out of my sight. Although I could not expect his confidence after what had happened, I could still check his actions. The only danger to Bella lay with him. Giraud and the French police were indifferent to her existence. At all costs I must keep near Poirot.

Poirot observed me attentively as these reflections passed through my mind, and gave me a nod of satisfaction.

“I am right, am I not? And as you are quite capable of trying to follow me, disguised with some absurdity such as a false beard—
which everyone would perceive,
bien entendu
—I much prefer that we should voyage together. It would annoy me greatly that anyone should mock themselves at you.”

“Very well, then. But it's only fair to warn you—”

“I know—I know all. You are my enemy! Be my enemy, then. It does not worry me at all.”

“So long as it's all fair and aboveboard, I don't mind.”

“You have to the full the English passion for ‘fair play!' Now your scruples are satisfied, let us depart immediately. There is no time to be lost. Our stay in England has been short but sufficient. I know—what I wanted to know.”

The tone was light, but I read a veiled menace into the words.

“Still—” I began, and stopped.

“Still—as you say! Without doubt you are satisfied with the part you are playing. Me, I preoccupy myself with Jack Renauld.”

Jack Renauld! The words gave me a start. I had completely forgotten that aspect of the case. Jack Renauld, in prison, with the shadow of the guillotine looming over him. I saw the part I was playing in a more sinister light. I could save Bella—yes, but in doing so I ran the risk of sending an innocent man to his death.

I pushed the thought from me with horror. It could not be. He would be acquitted. Certainly he would be acquitted. But the cold fear came back. Suppose he were not? What then? Could I have it on my conscience—horrible thought! Would it come to that in the end? A decision. Bella or Jack Renauld? The promptings of my heart were to save the girl I loved at any cost to myself. But, if the cost were to another, the problem was altered.

What would the girl herself say? I remembered that no word of Jack Renauld's arrest had passed my lips. As yet she was in total ig
norance of the fact that her former lover was in prison charged with a hideous crime which he had not committed. When she knew, how would she act? Would she permit her life to be saved at the expense of his? Certainly she must do nothing rash. Jack Renauld might, and probably would, be acquitted without any intervention on her part. If so, good. But if he was not! That was the terrible, the unanswerable problem. I fancied that she ran no risk of the extreme penalty. The circumstances of the crime were quite different in her case. She could plead jealousy and extreme provocation, and her youth and beauty would go for much. The fact that by a tragic mistake it was Mr. Renauld, and not his son, who paid the penalty would not alter the motive of the crime. But in any case, however lenient the sentence of the Court, it must mean a long term of imprisonment.

No, Bella must be protected. And, at the same time, Jack Renauld must be saved. How this was to be accomplished I did not see clearly. But I pinned my faith to Poirot. He
knew.
Come what might, he would manage to save an innocent man. He must find some pretext other than the real one. It might be difficult, but he would manage it somehow. And with Bella unsuspected, and Jack Renauld acquitted, all would end satisfactorily.

So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still remained a cold fear.

W
e crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following morning saw us in St. Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot lost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any objections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.

After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the examining magistrate's room. He greeted us cordially.

“I was told that you had returned to England, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad to find that such is not the case.”

“It is true I went there, monsieur, but it was only for a flying visit. A side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.”

“And it did—eh?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.

“We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one making a mistake.”

“You think not?”

It was the examining magistrate's turn to shrug his shoulders.

“Oh, well, speaking frankly—in confidence, of course—can you come to any other conclusion?”

“Frankly, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.”

“Such as—?”

But Poirot was not to be drawn.

“I have not yet tabulated them,” he remarked. “It was a general reflection that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for himself on the matter?”

The magistrate frowned.

“I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He contents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a most obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow, perhaps you would like to be present?”

We accepted the invitation with
empressement.

“A distressing case,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “My sympathy for Madame Renauld is profound.”

“How is Madame Renauld?”

“She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger, but that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It was, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused her present state. It would be terrible if her brain became unhinged; but I should not wonder at all—no, really, not at all.”

M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful enjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect.

He roused himself at length, and observed with a start:

“That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, Monsieur Poirot. Let me see, where did I put it?”

He proceeded to rummage among his papers. At last he found the missive, and handed it to Poirot.

“It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,” he explained. “But as you left no address I could not do so.”

Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping, foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman's. Poirot did not open it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.

“Till tomorrow then. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.”

“But not at all. I am always at your service.”

We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with Giraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Aha! Monsieur Poirot,” he cried airily. “You have returned from England then?”

“As you see,” said Poirot.

“The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.”

“I agree with you, Monsieur Giraud.”

Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crestfallen manner seemed to delight the other.

“Of all the milk-and-water criminals! Not an idea of defending himself. It is extraordinary!”

“So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?” suggested Poirot mildly.

But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane amicably.

“Well, good day, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad you're satisfied of young Renauld's guilt at last.”

“
Pardon!
But I am not in the least satisfied. Jack Renauld is innocent.”

Giraud stared for a moment—then burst out laughing, tapping his head significantly with the brief remark:
“Toqué!”

Poirot drew himself up. A dangerous light showed in his eyes.

“Monsieur Giraud, throughout the case your manner to me has been deliberately insulting. You need teaching a lesson. I am prepared to wager you five hundred francs that I find the murderer of Monsieur Renauld before you do. Is it agreed?”

Giraud stared helplessly at him, and murmured again:
“Toqué!”

“Come now,” urged Poirot, “is it agreed?”

“I have no wish to take your money from you.”

“Make your mind easy—you will not!”

“Oh, well then, I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting. Well, once or twice,
your
manner has annoyed
me.
”

“I am enchanted to hear it,” said Poirot. “Good morning, Monsieur Giraud. Come, Hastings.”

I said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy. Poirot had displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than ever my powers of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This unlucky encounter with Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle.

Suddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel Stonor. We stopped and greeted him, and he proposed strolling with us back to our hotel.

“And what are you doing here, Monsieur Stonor?” inquired Poirot.

“One must stand by one's friends,” replied the other dryly. “Especially when they are unjustly accused.”

“Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?” I asked eagerly.

“Certainly I don't. I know the lad. I admit that there have been one or two things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none the less, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I'll never believe that Jack Renauld is a murderer.”

My heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret weight from my heart.

“I have no doubt that many people feel as you do,” I exclaimed. “There is really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that there was no doubt of his acquittal—no doubt whatever.”

But Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished.

“I'd give a lot to think as you do,” he said gravely. He turned to Poirot. “What's your opinion, monsieur?”

“I think that things look very black against him,” said Poirot quietly.

“You believe him guilty?” said Stonor sharply.

“No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.”

“He's behaving so damned queerly,” muttered Stonor. “Of course, I realize that there's a lot more in this affair than meets the eye. Giraud's not wise to that because he's an outsider, but the whole thing has been damned odd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs. Renauld wants to hush anything up, I'll take my cue from her. It's her show, and I've too much respect for her judge
ment to shove my oar in, but I can't get behind this attitude of Jack's. Anyone would think he
wanted
to be thought guilty.”

“But it's absurd,” I cried, bursting in. “For one thing, the dagger—” I paused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would wish me to reveal. I continued, choosing my words carefully, “We know that the dagger could not have been in Jack Renauld's possession that evening. Mrs. Renauld knows that.”

“True,” said Stonor. “When she recovers, she will doubtless say all this and more. Well, I must be leaving you.”

“One moment.” Poirot's hand arrested his departure. “Can you arrange for word to be sent to me at once should Mrs. Renauld recover consciousness?”

“Certainly. That's easily done.”

“That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,” I urged as we went upstairs. “I couldn't speak very plainly before Stonor.”

“That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to ourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack Renauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before we started from London?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed to convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult.
Eh bien,
Hastings, they made to his order not
two
paper knives, but
three.
”

“So that—”

“So that, after giving one to his mother and one to Bella Duveen, there was a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear the dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.”

“It won't come to that,” I cried, stung.

Poirot shook his head uncertainly.

“You will save him,” I cried positively.

Poirot glanced at me dryly.

“Have you not rendered it impossible,
mon ami?
”

“Some other way,” I muttered.

“Ah!
Sapristi!
But it is miracles you ask from me. No—say no more. Let us instead see what is in this letter.”

And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket.

His face contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.

“There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.”

The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great agitation.

I handed it back, moved.

“You will go?”

“At once. We will command an auto.”

Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the door to meet us, and let Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.

“Ah, you have come—it is good of you. I have been in despair, not knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I suffer horribly. I am nearly mad.

“Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the crime? But that is madness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never for one minute will I believe it.”

“Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently.

“But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.”

“Perhaps because he is screening someone,” suggested Poirot, watching her.

Marthe frowned.

“Screening someone? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning I have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy to wear widow's weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he was arrested she fell down like
that!
” She made a dramatic gesture. “And without doubt, Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, he helped her. They are thick as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he—but what do men care—if a woman is rich!”

There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.

“Stonor was in England,” I put in.

“He says so—but who knows?”

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly, “if we are to work together, you and I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.”

“Yes, monsieur?”

“Are you aware of your mother's real name?”

Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on her arms, she burst into tears.

“There, there,” said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. “Calm yourself,
petite,
I see that you know. Now a second question—did you know who Monsieur Renauld was?”

“Monsieur Renauld,” she raised her head from her hands and gazed at him wonderingly.

“Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.”

Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the day of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had finished, she drew a long breath.

“But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective in the world.”

With a swift gesture she slipped off her chair and knelt before him with an abandonment that was wholly French.

“Save him, monsieur,” she cried. “I love him so. Oh, save him, save him—save him!”