The Murder on the Links (2 page)

“By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess?”

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

“Ça commence!”
he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!”

“But, hang it all, wasn't she?”

“Possibly, I did not remark the fact.”

“Surely you noticed her?”

“
Mon ami,
two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I—” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.

But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously, we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing
sergent de ville.
He held up his hand to bar our way.

“You cannot pass, messieurs.”

“But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an appointment. This is his villa, isn't it?”

“Yes, monsieur, but—”

Poirot leaned forward.

“But what?”

“Monsieur Renauld was murdered this morning.”

I
n a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement.

“What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?”

The
sergent de ville
drew himself up.

“I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.”

“True. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.

“
Voilà!
Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the commissary at once?”

The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few seconds a comrade joined him, and was handed Poirot's message. There was a wait of some minutes, and then a short, stout man with a huge moustache came bustling down to the gate. The
sergent de ville
saluted and stood aside.

“My dear Monsieur Poirot,” cried the newcomer, “I am delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.”

Poirot's face had lighted up.

“Monsieur Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.” He turned to me. “This is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings—Monsieur Lucien Bex.”

The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, and M. Bex turned once more to Poirot.

“
Mon vieux,
I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. You have information to give which may assist us?”

“Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent for?”

“No. By whom?”

“The dead man. It seems that he knew an attempt was going to be made on his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.”

“
Sacré tonnerre!
” ejaculated the Frenchman. “So he foresaw his own murder. That upsets our theories considerably! But come inside.”

He held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house. M. Bex continued to talk:

“The examining magistrate, Monsieur Hautet, must hear of this at once. He has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin his interrogations.”

“When was the crime committed?” asked Poirot.

“The body was discovered this morning about nine o'clock. Madame Renauld's evidence and that of the doctors goes to show that death must have occurred about 2 a.m. But enter, I pray of you.”

We had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the villa. In the hall another
sergent de ville
was sitting. He rose at sight of the commissary.

“Where is Monsieur Hautet now?” inquired the latter.

“In the
salon,
monsieur.”

M. Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M. Hautet and his clerk were sitting at a big round table. They looked up as we entered. The commissary introduced us, and explained our presence.

M. Hautet, the Juge d'Instruction, was a tall gaunt man, with piercing dark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of caressing as he talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man, with slightly stooping shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr. Durand.

“Most extraordinary,” remarked M. Hautet as the commissary finished speaking. “You have the letter here, monsieur?”

Poirot handed it to him, and the magistrate read it.

“H'm! He speaks of a secret. What a pity he was not more explicit. We are much indebted to you, Monsieur Poirot. I hope you will do us the honour of assisting us in our investigations. Or are you obliged to return to London?”

“Monsieur le juge, I propose to remain. I did not arrive in time to prevent my client's death, but I feel myself bound in honour to discover the assassin.”

The magistrate bowed.

“These sentiments do you honour. Also, without doubt, Madame Renauld will wish to retain your services. We are expecting M. Giraud from the Sûreté in Paris any moment, and I am sure that you and he will be able to give each other mutual assistance in
your investigations. In the meantime, I hope that you will do me the honour to be present at my interrogations, and I need hardly say that if there is any assistance you require it is at your disposal.”

“I thank you, monsieur. You will comprehend that at present I am completely in the dark. I know nothing whatever.”

M. Hautet nodded to the commissary, and the latter took up the tale:

“This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her work, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to burglars, she looked into the dining room, but seeing the silver was safe she thought no more about it, concluding that her master had, without doubt, risen early, and gone for a stroll.”

“Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of his?”

“No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the English—that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable things at any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a young maid, Léonie, was horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and almost at the same moment news was brought that Monsieur Renauld's body had been discovered, stone dead, stabbed in the back.”

“Where?”

“That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. Monsieur Poirot, the body was lying face downwards,
in an open grave.
”

“What?”

“Yes. The pit was freshly dug—just a few yards outside the boundary of the villa grounds.”

“And it had been dead—how long?”

Dr. Durand answered this.

“I examined the body this morning at ten o'clock. Death must have taken place at least seven, and possibly ten hours previously.”

“H'm! that fixes it at between midnight and 3 a.m.”

“Exactly, and Mrs. Renauld's evidence places it at after 2 a.m., which narrows the field still farther. Death must have been instantaneous, and naturally could not have been self-inflicted.”

Poirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:

“Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by the horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost unconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men entered the bedroom, gagged and bound her, while forcibly abducting her husband. This we know at second hand from the servants. On hearing the tragic news, she fell at once into an alarming state of agitation. On arrival, Dr. Durand immediately prescribed a sedative, and we have not yet been able to question her. But without doubt she will awake more calm, and be equal to bearing the strain of the interrogation.”

The commissary paused.

“And the inmates of the house, monsieur?”

“There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with the former owners of the Villa Geneviève. Then there are two young girls, sisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville, and they come of most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom Monsieur Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is away on a holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, Monsieur Jack Renauld. He, too, is away from home at present.”

Poirot bowed his head. M. Hautet spoke:

“Marchaud!”

The
sergent de ville
appeared.

“Bring in the woman Françoise.”

The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two he returned, escorting the frightened Françoise.

“Your name is Françoise Arrichet?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?”

“Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the Villa this spring, I consented to remain on with the English milor'. Never did I imagine—”

The magistrate cut her short.

“Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?”

“Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.”

“And last night?”

“I fastened it as usual.”

“You are sure of that?”

“I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.”

“What time would that be?”

“The same time as usual, half past ten, monsieur.”

“What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?”

“Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me. Monsieur was still in his study.”

“Then, if anyone unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been Monsieur Renauld himself?”

Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.

“What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins pass
ing every minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had had to let the lady out—”

The magistrate interrupted sharply:

“The lady? What lady do you mean?”

“Why, the lady who came to see him.”

“Had a lady been to see him that evening?”

“But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.”

“Who was she? Did you know her?”

A rather cunning look spread over the woman's face.

“How should I know who it was?” she grumbled. “I did not let her in last night.”

“Aha!” roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table. “You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit Monsieur Renauld in the evenings.”

“The police—the police,” grumbled Françoise. “Never did I think that I should be mixed-up with the police. But I know well enough who she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.”

The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter astonishment.

“Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?”

“That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one.”

The old woman tossed her head scornfully.

“Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary. “Impossible.”

“
Voilà,
” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the truth.”

“Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We
were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were—?” He paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without doubt?”

“How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was
milord anglais—très riche
—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one—and
très chic,
for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer young, but
ma foi!
I who speak to you have seen the men's heads turn after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she had had more money to spend—all the town knows it. The little economies, they are at an end.” And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable certainty.

M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.

“And Madame Renauld?” he asked at length. “How did she take this—friendship?”

Françoise shrugged her shoulders.

“She was always most amiable—most polite. One would say that she suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur? Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair conducted in such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion.
Style anglais,
without doubt!”

I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.

“You say that Monsieur Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she left, then?”

“Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door. Monsieur said goodnight, and shut the door after her.”

“What time was that?”

“About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.”

“Do you know when Monsieur Renauld went to bed?”

“I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so that one hears everyone who goes up and down.”

“And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?”

“Nothing whatever, monsieur.”

“Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?”

“I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.”

“What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?”

“Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place anywhere.”

“Good. Françoise, you can go.”

The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked back.

“I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember that.” And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.

“Léonie Oulard,” called the magistrate.

Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M. Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the night.

Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had changed greatly of late.

“Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always depressed.” But Denise had her own theory. “Without doubt it was the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A terrible society that!”

“It is, of course, possible,” said the magistrate smoothly. “Now, my girl, was it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last night?”

“Not
last
night, monsieur, the night before.”

“But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last night?”