Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [61]
Poirot lost himself in contemplation.
“One thing more, Poirot, what about the piece of lead-piping?”
“You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two inches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur Renauld? Someone who was near the villa just before twelve o’clock that night, someone who would benefit by his death—the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!”
I started, I had not realized that point.
“Of course,” I said, “Mrs. Renauld’s dagger was the second one we found in the tramp. There were two, then?”
“Certainly, and since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I had a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological—heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.”
His tone was grave and earnest, and I was impressed in spite of myself.
“What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?” I asked.
For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked:
“What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?”
“About five, I believe.”
“That will do very well. We shall just have time.”
“You are going to England?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“Why?”
“To find a possible—witness.”
“Who?”
With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied:
“Miss Bella Duveen.”
“But how will you find her—what do you know about her?”
“I know nothing about her—but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen, and since that name was faintly familiar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connexion with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur Renauld’s attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all right—especially with the help of this.”
And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld’s drawer. “With love from Bella” was scrawled across the corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first rate—but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.
It was the face of Cinderella.
Twenty-two
I FIND LOVE
For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand. Then summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same time I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.
He rose briskly to his feet.
“We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all dispatch. All is well—the sea it will be calm!”
In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the boat, secure from Poirot’s observation, I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know, and why was he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld commit the crime? Or did he suspect—But that was impossible! The girl had no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible motive for wishing his death. What had brought her back to the scene of the murder? I went over the facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais where I parted from her that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on the boat. If she had dined in Calais, and then taken a train out to Merlinville, she would have arrived at the Villa