Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [36]
Again that wristwatch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.
“You see, mon ami? You comprehend?”
“No,” I replied with some ill humour. “I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries, and it’s useless asking you to explain. You always like keeping something up your sleeve to the last minute.”
“Do not enrage yourself, my friend,” said Poirot, with a smile. “I will explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, c’est entendu? He treats me as an old one of no importance! We shall see! In common fairness I gave him a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that is his own lookout.”
I assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion.
“C’est bien! Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell me, my friend, at what time, according to you, did the tragedy take place?”
“Why, at two o’clock or thereabouts,” I said, astonished. “You remember, Mrs. Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while the men were in the room.”
“Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate, Bex, and everyone else, accept the time without further question. But I, Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at least two hours earlier.”
“But the doctors—”
“They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason it was imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Madame Renauld’s testimony alone, someone moved on the hands of that wristwatch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying; secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time.”
“But what reason could there be?”
“Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connexion.”
“And that is?”
“The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.”
I followed it out slowly.
“So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, anyone leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!”
“Perfect, Hastings! You have it!”
I sprang up.
“But we must inquire at the station! Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!”
“You think so, Hastings?”
“Of course. Let us go there now.”
Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.
“Go by all means if you wish, mon ami—but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners.”
I stared and he said rather impatiently:
“Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire-là!”
His words took me so much aback, that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on serenely:
“You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read of a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after—” He broke off.
I was revolving sundry matters in my mind.
“But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago!”
“Undoubtedly there was a secret in Monsieur Renauld’s life—there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring,