Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [29]
“You will pardon me, Monsieur Stonor, but we must begin with a few formalities. Your name?”
“Gabriel Stonor.”
“How long ago was it that you became secretary to Monsieur Renauld?”
“About two years ago, when he first arrived from South America. I met him through a mutual friend, and he offered me the post. A thundering good boss he was too.”
“Did he talk to you much about his life in South America?”
“Yes, a good bit.”
“Do you know if he was ever in Santiago?”
“Several times, I believe.”
“He never mentioned any special incident that occurred there—anything that might have provoked some vendetta against him?”
“Never.”
“Did he speak of any secret that he had acquired while sojourning there?”
“Not that I can remember. But, for all that, there was a mystery about him. I’ve never heard him speak of his boyhood, for instance, or of any incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French-Canadian by birth, I believe, but I’ve never heard him speak of his life in Canada. He could shut up like a clam if he liked.”
“So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue as to any secret to obtain possession of which he might have been murdered?”
“That’s so.”
“Monsieur Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in connexion with Monsieur Renauld?”
“Duveen. Duveen.” He tried the name over thoughtfully. “I don’t think I have. And yet it seems familiar.”
“Do you know a lady, a friend of Monsieur Renauld’s, whose Christian name is Bella?”
Again Mr. Stonor shook his head.
“Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It’s curious. I’m sure I know it. But for the moment I can’t remember in what connexion.”
The magistrate coughed.
“You understand, Monsieur Stonor—the case is like this. There must be no reservations. You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration for Madame Renauld—for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and affection—you might—in fact!” said M. Hautet, getting rather tied up in his sentence, “there must absolutely be no reservations.”
Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes.
“I don’t quite get you,” he said gently. “Where does Mrs. Renauld come in? I’ve an immense respect and affection for that lady; she’s a very wonderful and unusual type, but I don’t quite see how my reservations, or otherwise, could affect her.”
“Not if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more than a friend to her husband?”
“Ah!” said Stonor. “I get you now. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar that you’re wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He just adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.”
M. Hautet shook his head gently.
“Monsieur Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this Bella to Monsieur Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining villa.”
The secretary’s eyes narrowed.
“Hold on, sir. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is plumb impossible. There’s some other explanation.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“What other explanation could there be?”
“What leads you to think it was a love affair?”
“Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the evenings. Also, since Monsieur Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Stonor quietly. “I transmitted him those sums in notes at his request. But it wasn’t an intrigue.”
“What else could it be?”
“Blackmail,” said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a slam on the table. “That’s what it was.”
“Ah!” cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.
“Blackmail,” repeated Stonor. “The old man was being bled—and at a good rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this