Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [32]
As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in:
“I should like to put a few questions of my own, Monsieur le juge.”
“By all means, Monsieur Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly.
Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.
“Were you on good terms with your father, Monsieur Renauld?”
“Certainly I was,” returned the lad haughtily.
“You assert that positively?”
“Yes.”
“No little disputes, eh?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone may have a difference of opinion now and then.”
“Quite so, quite so. But, if anyone were to assert that you had a violent quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person, without doubt, would be lying?”
I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast, “I know everything,” had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by the question.
“We—we did have an argument,” he admitted.
“Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument, did you use this phrase: ‘When you are dead I can do as I please?’”
“I may have done,” muttered the other. “I don’t know.”
“In response to that, did your father say: ‘But I am not dead yet!?’ To which you responded: ‘I wish you were!’”
The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the table in front of him.
“I must request an answer, please, Monsieur Renauld,” said Giraud sharply.
With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper knife to the floor.
“What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his chair, flushed and defiant.
Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:
“That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, Monsieur Hautet.”
“Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject of your quarrel?”
“That I decline to state.” M. Hautet sat up in his chair.
“Monsieur Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?”
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot:
“I will inform you, if you like, monsieur.”
“You know?”
“Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.”
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
“Is that so, monsieur?”
Jack Renauld bowed his head.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact he flew at once into a violent rage. Naturally, I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.”
M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld.
“You were aware of this—attachment, madame?”
“I feared it,” she replied simply.
“Mother,” cried the boy. “You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful. What can you have against her?”
“I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman, not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!”
Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.
Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:
“I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I hoped that it was only a boy and girl flirtation which would blow over all the quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence, but my husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and careworn, different altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to give him any additional worry.”
M. Hautet nodded.
“When