Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [52]
Poirot uttered an exclamation.
“But why did you not say at the time, mademoiselle?”
“Because at first it only struck me that the face was vaguely familiar in some way. The man was differently dressed, and apparently belonged to a superior station in life.”
A voice called from the house.
“Maman,” whispered Marthe: “I must go.” And she slipped away through the trees.
“Come,” said Poirot and, taking my arm, turned in the direction of the villa.
“What do you really think?” I asked in some curiosity. “Was that story true, or did the girl make it up in order to divert suspicion from her lover?”
“It is a curious tale,” said Poirot, “but I believe it to be the absolute truth. Unwittingly, Mademoiselle Marthe told us the truth on another point—and incidentally gave Jack Renauld the lie. Did you notice his hesitation when I asked him if he saw Marthe Daubreuil on the night of the crime? He paused and then said ‘Yes.’ I suspected that he was lying. It was necessary for me to see Mademoiselle Marthe before he could put her on her guard. Three little words gave me the information I wanted. When I asked her if she knew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered, ‘He told me.’ Now, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening, and if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?”
“Surely, Poirot,” I cried, aghast, “you cannot believe that a boy like that would murder his own father!”
“Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You continue to be of a sentimentality unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.”
“And the motive?”
“Money of course. Remember that Jack Renauld thought that he would come into half his father’s fortune at the latter’s death.”
“But the tramp. Where does he come in?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Giraud would say that he was an accomplice—an apache who helped young Renauld to commit the crime, and who was conveniently put out of the way afterwards.”
“But the hair round the dagger? The woman’s hair?”
“Ah!” said Poirot, smiling broadly. “That is the cream of Giraud’s little jest. According to him, it is not a woman’s hair at all. Remember that the youths of today wear their hair brushed straight back from the forehead with pomade or hair wash to make it lie flat. Consequently some of the hairs are of considerable length.”
“And you believe that too?”
“No,” said Poirot, with a curious smile. “For I know it to be the hair of a woman—and more, which woman!”
“Madame Daubreuil,” I announced positively.
“Perhaps,” said Poirot, regarding me quizzically. But I refused to allow myself to get annoyed.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked, as we entered the hall of the Villa Geneviève.
“I wish to make a search among the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That is why I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.”
Neatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined the contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a singularly dull and uninteresting proceeding. Poirot waded on through collars, pyjamas, and socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the window. Instantly I became galvanized into life.
“Poirot!” I cried. “A car has just driven up. Giraud is in it, and Jack Renauld, and two gendarmes.”
“Sacré tonnerre!” growled Poirot. “That animal of a Giraud, could he not wait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this last drawer with the proper method. Let us be quick.”
Unceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and handkerchiefs. Suddenly with a cry of triumph Poirot pounced on something, a small square of cardboard, evidently a photograph. Thrusting it into his