Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [12]
“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 left in the wound.” The commissary reached down a large glass jar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper knife than anything else. It had a black handle and a narrow shining blade. The whole thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured point gingerly with his fingertip.
“Ma foi! but it is sharp! A nice easy little tool for murder!”
“Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,” remarked Bex regretfully. “The murderer must have worn gloves.”
“Of course he did,” said Poirot contemptuously. “Even in Santiago they know enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English Mees knows it—thanks to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no fingerprints. It is so amazingly simple to leave the fingerprints of someone else! And then the police are happy.” He shook his head. “I very much fear our criminal is not a man of method—either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.”
He let the body fall back into its original position.
“He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,” he remarked.
“Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious point.”
At this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after him. He strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She endeavoured to peep in with ghoulish curiosity.
“Well, what is it?” demanded Bex impatiently.
“Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered and is quite ready to receive the examining magistrate.”
“Good,” said M. Bex briskly. “Tell Monsieur Hautet and say that we will come at once.”
Poirot lingered a moment, looking back towards the body. I thought for a moment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his determination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But when he spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.
“He wore his overcoat very long,” he said constrainedly.
Five
MRS. RENAULD’S STORY
We found M. Hautet awaiting us in the hall, and we all proceeded upstairs together, Françoise marching ahead to show us the way. Poirot went up in a zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a grimace:
“No wonder the servants heard M. Renauld mounting the stairs, not a board of them but creaks fit to awake the dead!”
At the head of the staircase, a small passage branched off.
“The servants’ quarters,” explained Bex.
We continued along a corridor, and Françoise tapped on the last door to the right of it.
A faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large, sunny apartment looking out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a quarter of a mile distant.
On a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr. Durand, lay a tall, striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark hair was now almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality, and strength of her personality would have made itself felt anywhere. You knew at once that you were in the presence of what the French call une maîtresse femme.
She greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head.
“Pray be seated, messieurs.”
We took chairs, and the magistrate’s clerk established himself at a round table.
“I hope, madame,” began M. Hautet, “that it will not distress you unduly to relate to us what occurred last night?”
“Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if these scoundrelly assassins are to be caught and punished.”
“Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did you go to bed last night?”
“At half