The Murder on the Links (Hercule Poirot 2)

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, good-bye.”

“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.

“Good-bye, and thank you ever so much for coming with me.”

“Are you sure you’re all right now?”

“Quite, thanks. I hope you don’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.

Nine

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 toolshed. 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 fallen 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.”