Murder on the Links

On the 28th day of November the blow fell. The woman who came daily to clean and cook for the Beroldys was surprised to find the door of the apartment standing wide open. Hearing faint moans issuing from the bedroom, she went in. A terrible sight met her eyes. Madame Beroldy lay on the floor bound hand and foot, uttering feeble moans, having managed to free her mouth from a gag. On the bed was Monsieur Beroldy, lying in a pool of blood, with a knife driven through his heart.
Madame Beroldy's story was clear enough. Suddenly awakened from sleep, she had discerned two masked men bending over her. Stifling her cries, they had bound and gagged her. They had then demanded of Monsieur Beroldy the famous 'secret'.
But the intrepid wine merchant refused point-blank to accede to their request. Angered by his refusal, one of the men stabbed him through the heart. With the dead man's keys, they had opened the safe in the corner, and had carried away with them a mass of papers. Both men were heavily bearded, and had worn masks, but Madame Beroldy declared positively that they were Russians.
The affair created an immense sensation. Time went on, and the mysterious bearded men were never traced. And then, just as public interest was beginning to die down, a startling development occurred: Madame Beroldy was arrested and charged with the murder of her husband. The trial, when it came on, aroused widespread interest.
The youth and beauty of the accused, and her mysterious story, were sufficient to make of it a cause célèbre.
It was proved beyond doubt that Jeanne Beroldy's parents were a highly respectable and prosaic couple, fruit merchants who lived on the outskirts of Lyons. The Russian Grand Duke, the court intrigues, and the political schemes - all the stories about were traced back to the lady herself! Remorselessly, the whole story of her life was laid bare. The motive for the murder was found in Mr Hiram P. Trapp. Mr Trapp did his best, but, relentlessly and agilely cross-questioned, he was forced to admit that he loved the lady, and that, had she been free, he would have asked her to be his wife. The fact that the relations between them were admittedly platonic strengthened the case against the accused. Debarred from becoming his mistress by the simple honourable nature of the man, Jeanne Beroldy had conceived the monstrous project of ridding herself of her elderly, undistinguished husband and becoming the wife of the rich American.
Throughout, Madame Beroldy confronted her accusers with complete sang-froid and self-possession. Her story never varied. She continued to declare strenuously that she was of royal birth and that she had been substituted for the daughter of the fruit-seller at an early age. Absurd and completely unsubstantiated as these statements were, a great number of people believed implicitly in their truth.
But the prosecution was implacable. It denounced the masked 'Russians' as a myth, and asserted that the crime had been committed by Madame Beroldy and her lover, Georges Conneau. A warrant was issued for the arrest of the latter, but he had wisely disappeared. Evidence showed that the bonds which secured Madame Beroldy were so loose that she could easily have freed herself.
And then, towards the close of the trial, a letter, posted in Paris, was sent to the Public Prosecutor. It was from Georges Conneau and, without revealing his whereabouts, it contained a full confession of the crime. He declared that he had indeed struck the fatal blow at Madame Beroldy's instigation. The crime had been planned between them. Believing that her husband ill-treated her, and maddened by his own passion for her, a passion which he believed her to return, he had planned the crime and struck the fatal blow that should free the woman he loved from a hateful bondage.
Now, for the first time, he learnt of Mr Hiram P. Trapp, and realized that the woman he loved had betrayed him! Not for his sake did she wish to be free, but in order to marry the wealthy American. She had used him as a cat's paw, and now, in his jealous rage, he turned and denounced her, declaring that throughout he had acted at her instigation.
And then Madame Beroldy proved herself the remarkable woman she undoubtedly was. Without hesitation, she dropped her previous defence, and admitted that the 'Russians' were a pure invention on her part. The real murderer was Georges Conneau. Maddened by passion, he had committed the crime, vowing that if she did not keep silence he would exact a terrible vengeance from her. Terrified by his threats, she had consented - also fearing it likely that if she told the truth she might be accused of conniving at the crime, but she had steadfastly refused to have anything more to do with her husband's murderer, and it was in revenge for this attitude on her part that he had written this letter accusing her.
She swore solemnly that she had had nothing to do with the planning of the crimes - that she had awoke on that memorable night to find Georges Conneau standing over her, the blood-stained knife in his hand.
It was a touch-and-go affair. Madame Beroldy's story was hardly credible. But her address to the jury was a masterpiece. The tears streaming down her face, she spoke of her child - of her woman's honour - of her desire to keep her reputation untarnished for the child's sake. She admitted that, Georges Conneau having been her lover, she might perhaps be held morally responsible for the crime - but, before God, nothing more! She knew that she had committed a grave fault in not denouncing Conneau to the law but she declared in a broken voice that that was a thing no woman could have done. She had loved him! Could she let her hand be the one to send him to the guillotine? She had been guilty of much, but she was innocent of the terrible crime imputed to her.
However that may have been, her eloquence and personality won the day. Madame Beroldy, amidst a scene of unparalleled excitement, was acquitted.
Despite the utmost endeavours of the police, Georges Conneau was never traced. As for Madame Beroldy, nothing more was heard of her. Taking the child with her, she left Paris to begin a new life.

Chapter 17

WE MAKE FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS

I have set down the Beroldy case in full. Of course all the details did not present themselves to my memory as I have recounted them here. Nevertheless, I recalled the case fairly accurately. It had attracted a great deal of interest at the time, and had been fully reported by the English papers, so that it did not need much effort of memory on my part to recollect the salient details.

Just for the moment, in my excitement, it seemed to clear up the whole matter. I admit that I am impulsive, and Poirot deplores my custom of jumping to conclusions, but I think I had some excuse in this instance. The remarkable way in which this discovery justified Poirot's point of view struck me at once.
'Poirot,' I said 'I congratulate you. I see everything now.'
Poirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he looked up.
'And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it that you see?'
'Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil - Beroldy - who murdered Mr Renauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.'
'Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly acquitted? That in actual fact she was guilty of connivance in her husband's murder?'
I opened my eyes wide.
'Of course! Don't you?'
Poirot walked to the end of the room, absent-mindedly straightened a chair, and then said thoughtfully:
'Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no "of course" about it, my friend. Technically speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.'
'Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.'
Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked than ever.
'So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil murdered Monsieur Renauld?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.
'Why?' I stammered. 'Why? Oh, because -' I came to a stop.
Poirot nodded his head at me.
'You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness' sake) murder Monsieur Renauld? We can find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his death; considered as either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You cannot have a murder without motive. The first crime was different - there we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband's shoes.'
'Money is not the only motive for murder,' I objected.
'True,' agreed Poirot placidly. 'There are two others, the crime passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea which implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the murderer. Homicidal mania and religious fanaticism belong to that class. We can rule it out here.'
'But what about the crime passionnel? Can you rule that out? If Madame Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, if she found that his affection was cooling, or if her jealousy was aroused in any way, might she not have struck him down in a moment of anger?'
Poirot shook his head.
'If - I say if, you note - Madame Daubreuil was Renauld's mistress, he had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she has been cold-blooded and calculating in her motives and actions. It was not to link her life with that of her young lover that she contrived at her husband's murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective. If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That was a man's work.'
'She might have had an accomplice,' I suggested, unwilling to relinquish my belief.
'I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?'
I stared at him in astonishment.
'Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked men, the "secret", the papers!'
Poirot smiled a little.
'Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably. But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale - if it were, all would indeed be plain sailing - it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?'
'I can't believe that,' I said slowly. 'If she is, she must be the most consummate actress the world has ever known.'
'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot impatiently. 'Again you have the sentiment and not the logic! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Mrs Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already presented. The others are more evident. So, having discarded this possibility, we come very close to the truth, which is extremely curious and interesting, as it always happens.'
'What else do you know, Poirot?'
'You must make your own deductions, mon ami. You had access to the facts! Put your grey cells to work. Think... not like Giraud, but like Hercule Poirot.'
'But do you know?'
'My friend, I have been a fool about many things. But, at last, I see clearly.'
'Do you know everything?'
'I found out what M. Renauld called me to find out.'
'And you know who the murderer is?'
'I know who the murderer is.'
'How?'
'I think we are talking about different things. There is not only one crime, but two. The first I solved. The second - eh bien, I confess I am not sure yet!'
'But I thought you said the man in the shed died of natural causes.'
'Ta-ta-ta!' said Poirot. 'You still don't understand. You may have one crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential that you have two bodies.'
This observation of Poirot's seemed so strange to me, that I gazed at him with some anxiety. But he seemed perfectly normal. Suddenly he stood up and went to the window, saying:
'There he comes.'
'Who?'
'M. Jack Renauld. I sent him a note asking him to come here.'
This changed entirely the course of my thoughts. I asked Poirot if he knew that Jack Renauld had been at Merlinville on the night of the crime. I had hoped to catch my astute little friend napping, but as usual he was omniscient. He, too, had inquired at the station.
'And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made inquiries.'
'You don't think -' I said and then stopped. 'Ah no, it would be too horrible!'
Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me that though there were seven women, directly and indirectly connected with the case - Mrs Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor and the three servants - there was, with the exception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man - Jack Renauld. And only a man could have dug the grave.
I had no time to develop farther the appalling idea that had occurred to me, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.
Poirot greeted him in business-like manner.
'Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the Villa is not too congenial to me. Monsieur Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me has not been striking, and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.'
'Exactly, Monsieur Poirot' said the lad. 'That fellow Giraud is an ill-conditioned brute, and I'd be delighted to see someone score at his expense.'
'Then I may ask a little favour of you?'
'Certainly.'
'I will ask you to go to he railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask at the cloak-room whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?'
'Of course I will,' said the boy mystified, though ready for the task.
'I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,' explained Poirot. 'There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to return to the Villa as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your errand.'
'Very well, I will go straight to the station.'
He rose to his feet. Poirot's voice stopped him:
'One moment, Monsieur Renauld - there is one little matter that puzzles me. Why did you not mention to Monsieur Hautet this morning that you were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?'
Jack Renauld's face went crimson. With an effort he controlled himself.
'You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg as I told the examining magistrate this morning.'
Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed cat-like until they only showed a gleam of green.
'Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there - for it is shared by the station staff. They say you arrived by the 11.40 train.'
For a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.
'And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating in my father's murder?' He asked the question haughtily, his head thrown back.
'I should like an explanation of the reason that brought you here.'
'That is simple enough. I came to see my fiancée, Mademoiselle Daubreuil. I was on the eve of a long voyage, uncertain as to when I should return. I wished to see her before I went, to assure her of my unchanging devotion.'
'And did you see her?' Poirot's eyes never left the other's face.
There was an appreciable pause before Renauld replied. Then he said:
'Yes.'
'And after?'
'I found I had missed the last train. I walked to St Beauvais, where I knocked up a garage and got a car to take me back to Cherbourg.'
'St Beauvais? That is fifteen kilometres. A long walk, M. Renauld.'
'I - I felt like walking.'
Poirot bowed his head as a sign that he accepted the explanation. Jack Renauld took up his hat and cane and departed. In a trice Poirot jumped to his feet.
'Quick, Hastings. We will go after him.'
Keeping a discreet distance behind our quarry, we followed him through the streets of Merlinville. But when Poirot saw that he took the turning to the station he checked himself.
'All is well. He has taken the bait. He will go to Abbalac, and will inquire for the mythical valise left by the mythical foreigners. Yes, mon ami, all that was a little invention of mine.'
'You wanted him out of the way!' I exclaimed.
'Your penetration is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go up to the Villa Geneviève.'

Chapter 18

GIRAUD ACTS

We went back by the road in the heat.

'I was forgetting to tell you something, Poirot. I have a complaint to make. I know your intentions were good, but you shouldn't go and investigate at the Hôtel du Phare without at least telling me.'
Poirot threw me a quick glance before asking:
'And how do you know I was there?'
I felt that I was growing red in the face.
'I happened to pass by and asked,' I explained with all the dignity I could muster.
I feared that Poirot would laugh but, to my relief, he only shook his head in unexpected earnestness.
'If I have offended you in any way, I ask you to forgive me. Soon you will understand better.'
'No problem,' I murmured, soothed by the apologies. 'I know you did it because you were concerned for me. But I can look after myself.'
It seemed that Poirot had something more to say, but then he changed his mind and remained silent.
Arriving at the Villa Poirot led the way up to the shed where the second body had been discovered. He did not, however, go in, but paused by the bench which I have mentioned before as being set some few yards away from it. After contemplating it for a moment or two, he paced carefully from it to the hedge which marked the boundary between the Villa Geneviève and the Villa Marguerite. Then he paced back again, nodding his head as he did so. Returning again to the hedge, he parted the bushes with his hands.
'With good luck,' he remarked to me over his shoulder, 'Mademoiselle Marthe may find herself in the garden. I desire to speak to her and would prefer not to call formally at the Villa Marguerite. Ah, all is well, there she is. Pst, Mademoiselle! Pst! Un moment, s'il vous plaît.'
I joined him at the moment that Marthe Daubreuil, looking slightly startled, came running up to the hedge at his call.
'A little word with you mademoiselle, if it is permitted?'
'Certainly, Monsieur Poirot.'
Despite her acquiescence, her eyes looked troubled and afraid.
'Mademoiselle, do you remember running after me on the road the day that I came to your house with the examining magistrate? You asked me if anyone was suspected of the crime.'
'And you told me two Chileans.' Her voice sounded rather breathless, and her left hand stole to her breast.
'Will you ask me the same question again, mademoiselle?'
'What do you mean?'
'This. If you were to ask me that question again, I should give you a different answer. Someone is suspected - but not a Chilean.'
'Who?' The word came faintly between her parted lips.
'Monsieur Jack Renauld!'
'What?' It was a cry. 'Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?'
'Giraud.'
'Giraud!' The girl's face was ashy. 'I am afraid of that man. He is cruel. He will - he will -' She broke off. There was courage gathering in her face and determination. I realized in that moment that she was a fighter. Poirot too, watched her intently.
'You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?' he asked.
'Yes,' she replied mechanically. 'He told me.'
'It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,' ventured Poirot.
'Yes, yes' she replied impatiently. 'But we cannot waste time on regrets. We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course; but that will not help him with a man like Giraud, who has his reputation to think of. He must arrest someone, and that someone will be Jack.'
'The facts will tell against him,' said Poirot. 'You realize that?'
She faced him squarely.
'I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face. He is innocent, and we must save him.'
She spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as she thought.
'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, observing her keenly, 'is there not something that you are keeping back that you could tell us?'
She nodded perplexedly.
'Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe it - it seems so absurd.'
'At any rate, tell us, mademoiselle.'
'It is this. M. Giraud sent for me, as an afterthought, to see if I could identify the man in there.' She signed with her head towards the shed. 'I could not. At least I could not at the moment. But since I have been thinking -'
'Well?'
'It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the morning of the day Monsieur Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the garden here, when I heard a sound of men's voices quarrelling. I pushed aside the bushes and looked through. One of the men was Monsieur Renauld and the other was a tramp, a dreadful-looking creature in filthy rags. He was alternately whining and threatening. I gathered he was asking for money, but at that moment maman called me from the house, and I had to go. That is all, only I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead man in the shed are one and the same.'
Poirot uttered an exclamation.
'But why did you not say so at the time, mademoiselle?'
'Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar in some way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged to a superior station in life.'
A voice called from the house.
'Maman,' whispered Marthe. 'I must go.' And she slipped away through the trees.
'Come,' said Poirot, and taking my arm, he turned in the direction of the Villa.
'What do you really think?' I asked in some curiosity. 'Was that story true, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from her lover?'
'It is a curious tale,' said Poirot 'but I believe it to be the absolute truth. Unwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on another point - and incidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you notice his hesitation when I asked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on the night of the crime? He paused and then said "Yes". I suspected that he was lying. It was necessary for me to see Mademoiselle Marthe before he could put her on her guard. Three little words gave me the information I wanted. When I asked her if she knew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered, "He told me". Now, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening, and if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?'
'Surely, Poirot,' I cried, aghast, 'you cannot believe that a boy like that would murder his own father!'
'Mon ami,' said Poirot. 'You continue to be of a sentimentality unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.'
'And the motive?'
'Money of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would come into half his father's fortune at the latter's death.'
'But the tramp. Where does he come in?'
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'Giraud would say that he was an accomplice - an apache who helped young Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of the way afterwards.'