The Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie (reading comprehension books .TXT) 📗

gentleman⁠—M. Hercule Poirot.” Poirot bowed. “He arrived today in response to a summons from your husband.” And taking the letter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady.

She read it with apparently genuine astonishment.

“I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the danger.”

“Now, madame, I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any incident in your husband’s past life in South America which might throw light on his murder?”

Mrs. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head.

“I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people he had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one distinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident⁠—only that I am not aware of it.”

The examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately.

“And you can fix the time of this outrage?”

“Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike two.” She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case which stood in the centre of the chimneypiece.

Poirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded, satisfied.

“And here too,” exclaimed M. Bex, “is a wrist watch, knocked off the dressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms. Little did they know it would testify against them.”

Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction.

“Mon Dieu!” he ejaculated.

“What is it?”

“The hands of the watch point to seven o’clock!”

“What?” cried the examining magistrate, astonished.

But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.

“The glass is broken, yes, but the watch itself is still going.”

The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the magistrate bethought him of another point.

“But surely it is not seven o’clock now?”

“No,” said Poirot gently, “it is a few minutes after five. Possibly the watch gains, is that so, madame?”

Mrs. Renauld was frowning perplexedly.

“It does gain,” she admitted, “but I’ve never known it to gain quite so much as that.”

With a gesture of impatience, the magistrate left the matter of the watch and proceeded with his interrogatory.

“Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you suggest any explanation?”

“Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to latch it when he came in.”

“Is that a likely thing to happen?”

“Very. My husband was the most absentminded of men.”

There was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke, as though this trait in the dead man’s character had at times vexed her.

“There is one inference I think we might draw,” remarked the commissary suddenly. “Since the men insisted on M. Renauld dressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the place where ‘the secret’ was concealed, lay some distance away.”

The magistrate nodded.

“Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.”

“What times does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?” asked Poirot.

“Eleven-fifty one way, and 12:17 the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.”

“Of course,” agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.

“Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,” continued the magistrate, brightening. “A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, M. Bex.”

He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld:

“There is another question. Do you know anyone of the name of ‘Duveen’?”

“Duveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.”

“You have never heard your husband mention anyone of that name?”

“Never.”

“Do you know anyone whose Christian name is Bella?”

He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions.

“Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?”

Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly.

“No, who was that?”

“A lady.”

“Indeed?”

But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary.

He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger.

“Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”

She gave a little cry.

“Yes, that is my little dagger.” Then⁠—she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is that⁠—blood?”

“Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about its being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?”

“Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.” There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. “This was made from a streamline aeroplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.”

“I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.”

“Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Aires.”

“What?”

“Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Aires last night, and he wired him to catch it.”

“Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Aires was?”

“No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Aires is not my son’s final destination.