The Murder on the Links. Агата Кристи
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annoyance:
‘What have my police been about? They had strict orders to allow no one near the place without proper credentials!’
The man on the ground turned his head over his shoulder.
‘But I have proper credentials,’ he remarked, and rose slowly to his feet.
‘My dear Monsieur Giraud,’ cried the commissary. ‘I had no idea that you had arrived, even. The examining magistrate has been awaiting you with the utmost impatience.’
As he spoke, I was scanning the newcomer with the keenest curiosity. The famous detective from the Paris Sûreté was familiar to me by name, and I was extremely interested to see him in the flesh. He was very tall, perhaps about thirty years of age, with auburn hair and moustache, and a military carriage. There was a trace of arrogance in his manner which showed that he was fully alive to his own importance. Bex introduced us, presenting Poirot as a colleague. A flicker of interest came into the detective’s eye.
‘I know you by name, Monsieur Poirot,’ he said. ‘You cut quite a figure in the old days, didn’t you? But methods are very different now.’
‘Crimes, though, are very much the same,’ remarked Poirot gently.
I saw at once that Giraud was prepared to be hostile. He resented the other being associated with him, and I felt that if he came across any clue of importance he would be more than likely to keep it to himself.
‘The examining magistrate—’ began Bex again.
But Giraud interrupted him rudely:
‘A fig for the examining magistrate! The light is the important thing. For all practical purposes it will be gone in another half hour or so. I know all about the case, and the people at the house will do very well until tomorrow; but, if we’re going to find a clue to the murderers, here is the spot we shall find it. Is it your police who have been trampling all over the place? I thought they knew better nowadays.’
‘Assuredly they do. The marks you complain of were made by the workmen who discovered the body.’
The other grunted disgustedly.
‘I can see the tracks where the three of them came through the hedge—but they were cunning. You can just recognize the centre footmarks as those of Monsieur Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully obliterated. Not that there would really be much to see anyway on this hard ground, but they weren’t taking any chances.’
‘The external sign,’ said Poirot. ‘That is what you seek, eh?’
The other detective stared.
‘Of course.’
A very faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He seemed about to speak, but checked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying.
‘That’s what the grave was dug with, right enough,’ said Giraud. ‘But you’ll get nothing from it. It was Renauld’s own spade, and the man who used it wore gloves. Here they are.’ He gesticulated with his foot to where two soil-stained gloves were lying. ‘And they’re Renauld’s too—or at least his gardener’s. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking no chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have been buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces! But I’ll beat them. There’s always something! And I mean to find it.’
But Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short, discoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade. He touched it delicately with his finger.
‘And does this, too, belong to the murdered man?’ he asked, and I thought I detected a subtle flavour of irony in the question.
Giraud shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he neither knew nor cared.
‘May have been lying around here for weeks. Anyway, it doesn’t interest me.’
‘I, on the contrary, find it very interesting,’ said Poirot sweetly.
I guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and, if so, he succeeded. The other turned away rudely, remarking that he had no time to waste, and bending down he resumed his minute search of the ground.
Meanwhile, Poirot, as though struck by a sudden idea, stepped back over the boundary, and tried the door of the little shed.
‘That’s locked,’ said Giraud over his shoulder. ‘But it’s only a place where the gardener keeps his rubbish. The spade didn’t come from there, but from the tool-shed up by the house.’
‘Marvellous,’ murmured M. Bex ecstatically to me. ‘He has been here but half an hour, and he already knows everything! What a man! Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today.’
Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help feeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it vexed me. He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly puerile points that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he suddenly asked:
‘Monsieur Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this white-washed line that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?’
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