The Murder on the Links. Agatha Christie
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ran through the document.
“So. A legacy of a thousand pounds to Mr Stonor—who is he, by the way?”
“Monsieur Renauld’s secretary. He remained in England, but was over here once or twice for a weekend.”
“And everything else left unconditionally to his beloved wife, Eloise. Simply drawn up, but perfectly legal. Witnessed by the two servants, Denise and Françoise. Nothing so very unusual about that.” He handed it back.
“Perhaps,” began Bex, “you did not notice—”
“The date?” twinkled Poirot. “But, yes, I noticed it. A fortnight ago. Possibly it marks his first intimation of danger. Many rich men die intestate through never considering the likelihood of their demise. But it is dangerous to draw conclusions prematurely. It points, however, to his having a real liking and fondness for his wife, in spite of his amorous intrigues.”
“Yes,” said M. Hautet doubtfully. “But it is possibly a little unfair on his son, since it leaves him entirely dependent on his mother. If she were to marry again, and her second husband obtained an ascendancy over her, this boy might never touch a penny of his father’s money.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Man is a vain animal. Monsieur Renauld figured to himself, without doubt, that his widow would never marry again. As to the son, it may have been a wise precaution to leave the money in his mother’s hands. The sons of rich men are proverbially wild.”
“It may be as you say. Now, Monsieur Poirot, you would without doubt like to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been removed, but of course photographs have been taken from every conceivable angle, and will be at your disposal as soon as they are available.”
“I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.”
The commissary rose.
“Come with me, messieurs.”
He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him. Poirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.
“Monsieur.”
“Monsieur.”
At last they got out into the hall.
“That room there, it is the study, hein?” asked Poirot suddenly, nodding towards the door opposite.
“Yes. You would like to see it?” He threw open the door as he spoke, and we entered.
The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was small, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A business-like writing-desk, with many pigeon-holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-covered arm-chairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books and magazines.
Poirot stood a moment taking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.
“No dust?” I asked, with a smile.
He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.
“Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.”
His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.
“Ah!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. “The hearth-rug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small fragment of pink paper.
“In France, as in England,” he remarked, “the domestics omit to sweep under the mats?”
Bex took the fragment from him, and I came close to examine it.
“You recognize it—eh, Hastings?”
I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was very familiar.
The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine.
“A fragment of a cheque,” he exclaimed.
The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was written in ink the word “Duveen”.
“Bien,” said Bex. “This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, someone named Duveen.”
“The former, I fancy,” said Poirot. “For, if I am not mistaken, the handwriting is that of Monsieur Renauld.”
That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk.
“Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”
Poirot laughed.
“The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As soon as I saw that the hearth-rug was out of the straight, I said to myself: ‘Tiens! The legs of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly there may be something beneath it which the good Françoise overlooked.’”
“Françoise?”
“Or Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust, the room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like this. Yesterday, possibly last night, Monsieur Renauld drew a cheque to the order of someone named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered on the floor. This morning—”
But M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell. Françoise answered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What else? With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face lightening, he ran to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead man’s cheque book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last counterfoil was blank.
“Courage!” cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. “Without doubt, Madame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person named Duveen.”
The commissary’s face cleared. “That is true. Let us proceed.”
As we turned to leave the room, Poirot remarked casually:
“It was here that Monsieur Renauld received his guest last night, eh?”
“It was—but how did you know?”
“By this. I found it on the back of the leather chair.” And he held up between his finger and thumb a long black hair—a woman’s hair!
M. Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small shed leaning against the house. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it.
“The body is here. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before you arrived, as the photographers had done their job.”
He opened the door and we passed. The murdered man lay on the ground, with a sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the covering. Renauld was a man of medium height, slender, and lithe figure. He looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey. He was clean shaven, with a long thin nose, and eyes set rather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who had spent most of his life beneath tropical skies. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was stamped on the livid features.
“One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the back,” remarked Poirot.
Very gently, he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder-blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the middle of it there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.
“Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?”
“It was