Murder on the Links

'Well, if that doesn't beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see all the horrors.'
'What do you mean?'
'What I say. Bless the boy, didn't I tell you I doted on crimes? I've been nosing round for hours. It's a real piece of luck happening on you this way. Come on, show me all the sights.'
'But look here - wait a minute - I can't. Nobody's allowed in.'
'Aren't you and your friend the big bugs?'
I loath to relinquish my position of importance.
'Why are you so keen?' I asked weakly. 'And what is it you want to see?'
'Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the body, and any fingerprints or interesting things like that. I've never had a chance before of being right in on a murder like this. It'll last me all my life.'
I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The girl's ghoulish excitement nauseated me.
'Come off your high horse,' said the lady suddenly. 'And don't give yourself airs. When you got called to this job, did you put your nose in the air and say it was a nasty business, and you wouldn't be mixed up in it?'
'No, but -'
'If you'd been here on a holiday, wouldn't you be nosing round just the same as I am? Of course you would.'
'I'm a man. You're a woman.'
'Your idea of a woman is someone who gets on a chair and shrieks if she sees a mouse. That's all prehistoric. But you will show me round, won't you? You see, it might make a big difference to me.'
'In what way?'
'They're keeping all the reporters out. I might make a big scoop with one of the papers. You don't know how much they pay for a bit of inside stuff.'
I hesitated. She slipped a small soft hand into mine. 'Please - there's a dear.'
I capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of showman.
We repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A man was on guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight, and raised no questions as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as vouched for by me. I explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had been made, and she listened attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent question. Then we turned our steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded rather cautiously, for, truth to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet anyone. I took the girl through the shrubbery round to the back of the house where the small shed was. I recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the door, M. Bex had left the key with the sergent de ville, Marchaud, 'In case Monsieur Giraud should require it while we are upstairs.' I thought it quite likely that the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud again. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house. Marchaud was on duty outside the door of the salon. From within came the murmur of voices.
'Monsieur desires Monsieur Hautet? He is within. He is again interrogating Françoise.'
'No,' I said hastily, 'I don't want him. But I should very much like the key of the shed outside if it is not against regulations.'
'But certainly, monsieur.' He produced it. 'Here it is. Monsieur Hautet gave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You will return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.'
'Of course.'
I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud's eyes, at least, I ranked equally in importance with Poirot.
The girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she saw the key in my hand.
'You've got it then?'
'Of course,' I said coolly. 'All the same, you know, what I'm doing is highly irregular.'
'You've been a perfect darling and I shan't forget it. Come along. They can't see us from the house, can they?'
'Wait a minute.' I arrested her eager advance. 'I won't stop you if you really wish to go in. But do you? You've seen the grave, and the grounds, and you've heard all the details of the affair. Isn't that enough for you? This is going to be gruesome, you know, and unpleasant.'
She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite fathom. Then she laughed.
'I'm for the horrors,' she said. 'Come along.'
In silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed in. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as Bex had done the preceding afternoon. A little gasping sound escaped from the girl's lips, and I turned and looked at her. There was horror on her face now, and those debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly. She had not chosen to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard of it. I felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it now. I turned the corpse over gently.
'You see,' I said. 'He was stabbed in the back.'
Her voice was almost soundless. 'With what?'
I nodded towards the glass jar.
'That dagger.'
Suddenly the girl reeled, and then sank down in a heap. I sprang to her assistance.
'You are faint. Come out of here. It has been too much for you.'
'Water,' she murmured. 'Quick. Water.'
I left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants were about and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a few drops of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again. The girl was lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water revived her in a marvellous manner.
'Take me out of here - oh quickly, quickly!' she cried, shuddering.
Supporting her with my arm, I led her out into the air, and she pulled the door to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath.
'That's better. Oh, it was horrible! Why did you ever let me go in?'
I felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I was not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so callous as I had thought her. After all she was little more than a child, and her curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order.
'I did my best to stop you, you know,' I said gently.
'I suppose you did. Well, goodbye.'
'Look here, you can't start off like that - all alone. You're not fit for it. I insist on accompanying you back to Merlinville.'
'Nonsense. I'm quite all right now.'
'Supposing you felt faint again? No, I shall come with you.'
But this she combated with a good deal of energy. In the end, however, I prevailed so far as to be allowed to accompany her to the outskirts of the town. We retraced our steps over our former route, passing the grave again, and making a detour on to the road. Where the first straggling line of shops began, she stopped and held out her hand.
'Goodbye, and thank you ever so much for coming with me.'
'Are you sure you're all right now?'
'Quite, thanks. I hope you won't get into any trouble over showing me things.'
I disclaimed the idea lightly.
'Well, good-bye.'
'Au revoir,' I corrected. 'If you're staying here, we shall meet again.'
She flashed a smile at me.
'That's so. Au revoir, then.'
'Wait a second, you haven't told me your address.'
'Oh, I'm staying at the Hôtel du Phare. It's a little place, but quite good. Come and look me up tomorrow.'
'I will,' I said, with perhaps rather unnecessary empressement.
I watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the Villa. I remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed. Fortunately no one had noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed it and returned it to the sergent de ville. And, as I did so, it came upon me suddenly that though Cinderella had given me her address I still did not know her name.

Chapter 9

M. GIRAUD FINDS SOME CLUES

In the salon I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the old gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present, greeted me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into a seat. M. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did not succeed in eliciting anything of importance.

The gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his. He wore them when handling a certain species of primula plant which was poisonous to some people. He could not say when he had worn them last. Certainly he had not missed them. Where were they kept? Sometimes in one place, sometimes in another. The spade was usually to be found in the small tool-shed. Was it locked? Of course it was locked. Where was the key kept? Parbleu, it was in the door of course. There was nothing of value to steal. Who would have expected a party of bandits, or assassins? Such things did not happen in Madame la Vicomtesse's time.
M. Hautet signifying that he had finished with him, the old man withdrew, grumbling to the last. Remembering Poirot's unaccountable insistence on the footprints in the flower-beds, I scrutinized him narrowly as he gave his evidence. Either he had nothing to do with the crime or he was a consummate actor. Suddenly just as he was going out of the door an idea struck me.
'Pardon, Monsieur Hautet,' I cried, 'but will you permit me to ask him one question?'
'But certainly monsieur.'
Thus encouraged, I turned to Auguste.
'Where do you keep your boots?'
'On my feet,' growled the old man. 'Where else?'
'But when you go to bed at night?'
'Under my bed.'
'But who cleans them?'
'Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on the front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, but otherwise -' He shrugged his shoulders.
I shook my head, discouraged.
'Well, well,' said the magistrate, 'we do not advance very much. Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago. Has anyone seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very good mind to send for him and -'
'You will not have to send far.'
The quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in through the open window.
He leapt lightly into the room and advanced to the table.
'Here I am, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting myself sooner.'
'Not at all - not at all!' said the magistrate, rather confused.
'Of course I am only a detective,' continued the other. 'I know nothing of interrogatories. Were I conducting one, I should be inclined to do so without an open window. Anyone standing outside can so easily hear all that passes. But no matter.'
M. Hautet flushed angrily. There was evidently going to be no love lost between the examining magistrate and the detective in charge of the case. They had taken foul of each other at the start. Perhaps in any event it would have been much the same. To Giraud, all examining magistrates were fools, and to M. Hautet, who took himself seriously, the casual manner of the Paris detective could not fail to give offence.
'Eh bien, Monsieur Giraud,' said the magistrate rather sharply. 'Without doubt you have been employing your time to a marvel! You have the names of the assassins for us, have you not? And also the precise spot where they find themselves now?'
Unmoved by this irony, M. Giraud replied:
'I know at least where they have come from.'
Giraud took two small objects from his pocket and laid them down on the table. We crowded round. The objects were very simple ones: the stub of a cigarette and an unlighted match. The detective wheeled round on Poirot.
'What do you see there?' he asked.
There was something almost brutal in his tone. It made my cheeks flush. But Poirot remained unmoved. He shrugged his shoulders.
'A cigarette end and a match.'
'And what does that tell you?'
Poirot spread out his hands.
'It tells me - nothing.'
'Ah!' said Giraud, in a satisfied voice. 'You haven't made a study of these things. That's not an ordinary match - not in this country at least. It's common enough in South America. Luckily it's unlighted. I mightn't have recognized it otherwise. Evidently one of the men threw away his cigarette and lit another, spilling one match out of the box as he did so.'
'And the other match?' asked Poirot.
'Which match?'
'The one he did light his cigarette with. You have found that also?'
'No.'
'Perhaps you didn't search very thoroughly.'
'Not search thoroughly -' For a moment it seemed as though the detective was going to break out angrily, but with an effort he controlled himself. 'I see you love a joke, Monsieur Poirot. But in any case, match or no match, the cigarette end would be sufficient. It is a South American cigarette with liquorice pectoral paper.'
Poirot bowed. The commissary spoke:
'The cigarette end and match might have belonged to Monsieur Renauld. Remember, it is only two years since he returned from South America.'
'No,' replied the other confidently. 'I have already searched among the effects of Monsieur Renauld. The cigarettes he smoked and the matches he used are quite different.'
'You do not think it odd,' asked Poirot, 'that these strangers should come unprovided with a weapon, with gloves, with a spade, and that they should so conveniently find all these things?'
Giraud smiled in a rather superior manner.
'Undoubtedly it is strange. Indeed, without the theory that I hold, it would be inexplicable.'
'Aha!' said M. Hautet. 'An accomplice within the house!'
'Or outside it,' said Giraud, with a peculiar smile. 'But someone must have admitted them. We cannot allow that, by an unparalleled piece of good fortune, they found the door ajar for them to walk in?'
'The door was opened for them; but it could just as easily be opened from outside - by someone who possessed a key.'
'But who does possess a key?'
Giraud shrugged his shoulders.
'As for that, no one who possesses one is going to admit the fact if he can help it. But several people might have had one. Monsieur Jack Renauld, the son, for instance. It is true that he is on his way to South America, but he might have lost the key or had it stolen from him. Then there is the gardener - he has been here many years. One of the younger servants may have a lover. It is easy to take an impression of a key and have one cut. There are many possibilities. Then there is another person who, I should judge, is exceedingly likely to have such a thing.'
'Who is that?'
'Madame Daubreuil,' said the detective.
'Eh, bien,' said the magistrate. 'So you have heard about that, have you?'
'I hear everything,' said Giraud imperturbably.
'There is one thing I could swear you have not heard,' said Hautet, delighted to be able to show superior knowledge, and without more ado he retailed the story of the mysterious visitor the night before. He also touched on the cheque made out to 'Duveen', and finally handed Giraud the letter signed 'Bella'.
'All very interesting. But my theory remains unaffected.'
'And your theory is?'
'For the moment I prefer not to say. Remember, I am only just beginning my investigations.'
'Tell me one thing, Monsieur Giraud,' said Poirot suddenly. 'Your theory allows for the door being opened. It does not explain why it was still open. When they departed, would it not have been natural for them to close it behind them. If a sergent had chanced to come up to the house, as is sometimes done to see that all is well, they might have been discovered and overtaken almost at once.'
'Bah! They forgot it. A mistake, I grant you.'
Then to my surprise Poirot uttered almost the same words as he had uttered to Bex the previous evening:
'I do not agree with you. The door being left open was the result of either design or necessity, and any theory that does not admit that fact is bound to prove vain.'
We all regarded the little man with a good deal of astonishment. The confession of ignorance drawn from him over the match end had, I thought, been bound to humiliate him, but here he was self-satisfied as ever, lying down the great Giraud without a tremor.
The detective twisted his moustache, eyeing my friend in a somewhat bantering fashion.
'You don't agree with me, eh? Well, what strikes you particularly about the case? Let's hear your views.'
'One thing presents itself to me as being significant. Tell me, Monsieur Giraud, does nothing strike you as familiar about this case? Is there nothing it reminds you of?'
'Familiar? Reminds me of? I can't say off-hand. I don't think so, though.'
'You are wrong,' said Poirot quietly. 'A crime almost precisely similar has been committed before.'
'When? And where?'
'Ah, that, unfortunately, I cannot for the moment remember, but I shall do so. I had hoped you might be able to assist me.'
Giraud snorted incredulously.
'There have been many affairs of masked men. I cannot remember the details of them all. The crimes all resemble each other more or less.'
'There is such a thing as the individual touch.' Poirot suddenly assumed his lecturing manner, and addressed us collectively. 'I am speaking to you now of the psychology of crime. Monsieur Giraud knows quite well that each criminal has his particular method, and that the police, when called in to investigate, say, a case of burglary, can often make a shrewd guess at the offender, simply by the peculiar methods he has employed. (Japp would tell you the same, Hastings.) Man is an unoriginal animal. Unoriginal within the law in his daily respectable life, equally unoriginal outside the law. If a man commits a crime, any other crime he commits will resemble it closely. The English murderer who disposed of his wives in succession by drowning them in their baths was a case in point. Had he varied his methods, he might have escaped detection to this day. But he obeyed the common dictates of human nature, arguing that what had once succeeded would succeed again, and he paid the penalty of his lack of originality.'
'And the point of all this?' sneered Giraud.
'That, when you have two crimes precisely similar in design and execution, you find the same brain behind them both. I am looking for that brain, Monsieur Giraud, and I shall find it. Here we have a true clue - a psychological clue. You may know all about cigarettes and match ends, Monsieur Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man.'
Giraud remained singularly unimpressed.
'For your guidance,' continued Poirot, 'I will also advise you of one fact which might fail to be brought to your notice. The wristwatch of Madame Renauld, on the day following the tragedy, had gained two hours.'
Giraud stared.
'Perhaps it was in the habit of gaining?'
'As a matter of fact, I am told it did.'
'Very well, then.'
'All the same, two hours is a good deal,' said Poirot softly. 'Then there is the matter of the footprints in the flower-bed.'
He nodded his head towards the open window. Giraud took two eager strides, and looked out.
'But I see no footprints?'
'No,' said Poirot, straightening a little pile of books on a table. 'There are none.'
For a moment an almost murderous rage obscured Giraud's face. He took two strides towards his tormentor, but at that moment the salon door was opened, and Marchaud announced:
'Monsieur Stonor, the secretary, has just arrived from England. May he enter?'

Chapter 10

GABRIEL STONOR

The man who now entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall, with a well-knit, athletic frame and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he dominated the assembly. Even Giraud seemed anaemic beside him. When I knew him better I realized that Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual personality. English by birth, he had knocked about all over the world. He had shot big game in Africa, travelled in Korea, ranched in California, and traded in the South Sea islands.

His unerring eye picked out M. Hautet.
'The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you, sir. This is a terrible business. How's Mrs Renauld? Is she bearing up fairly well? It must have been an awful shock to her.'
'Terrible, terrible,' said M. Hautet. 'Permit me to introduce Monsieur Bex, our commissary of police Monsieur Giraud of the Sûreté. This gentleman is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. Mr Renauld sent for him, but he arrived too late to do anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of Monsieur Poirot's, Captain Hastings.'
Stonor looked at Poirot with some interest.
'Sent for you, did he?'
'You did not know, then, that Monsieur Renauld contemplated calling in a detective?' interposed M. Bex.
'No, I didn't. But it doesn't surprise me a bit.'
'Why?'
'Because the old man was rattled. I don't know what it was all about. He didn't confide in me. We weren't on those terms. But rattled he was - and badly.'
'H'm!' said M. Hautet. 'But you have no notion of the cause?'
'That's what I said, sir.'
'You will pardon me, Monsieur Stonor, but we must begin with a few formalities. Your name?'
'Gabriel Stonor.'
'How long ago was it that you became secretary to Monsieur Renauld?'
'About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met him through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering good boss he was too.'
'Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?'
'Yes, a good bit.'
'Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?'
'Several times, I believe.'
'He never mentioned any special incident that occurred there - anything that might have provoked some vendetta against him?'
'Never.'
'Did he speak of any secret that he had acquired while sojourning there?'
'Not that I can remember. But for all that, there was a mystery about him. I've never heard him speak of his boyhood, for instance, or of any incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French-Canadian by birth, I believe, but I've never heard him speak of his life in Canada. He could shut up like a clam if he liked.'
'So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue as to any secret to obtain posession of which he might have been murdered?'
'That's so.'
'Monsieur Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in connection with Monsieur Renauld?'
'Duveen. Duveen.' He tried the name over thoughtfully. 'I don't think I have. And yet it seems familiar.'
'Do you know a lady, a friend of Monsieur Renauld's, whose Christian name is Bella?'
Again Mr Stonor shook his head.
'Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It's curious. I'm sure I know it. But for the moment I can't remember in what connection.
The magistrate coughed.
'You understand, Monsieur Stonor… the case is like this. There must be no reservations. You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration for Madame Renauld - for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and affection - you might - in fact!' said M. Hautet, getting rather tied up in his sentence, 'there must absolutely be no reservations.'
Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.
'I don't quite get you,' he said gently. 'Where does Mrs Renauld come in? I've an immense respect and affection for that lady; she's a very wonderful and unusual type, but I don't quite see how my reservations or otherwise, could affect her?'
'A lot if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more than a friend to her husband?'
'Ah!' said Stonor. 'I get you now. But I'll bet my bottom dollar that you're wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He just adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.'
M. Hautet shook his head gently.
'Monsieur Stonor. I hold absolute proof - a love-letter written by this Bella to Monsieur Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining Villa.'