Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [67]
So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still remained a cold fear.
Twenty-four
“SAVE HIM!”
We crossed from England by the evening boat, and the following morning saw us in St. Omer, whither Jack Renauld had been taken. Poirot lost no time in visiting M. Hautet. As he did not seem disposed to make any objections to my accompanying him, I bore him company.
After various formalities and preliminaries, we were conducted to the examining magistrate’s room. He greeted us cordially.
“I was told that you had returned to England, Monsieur Poirot. I am glad to find that such is not the case.”
“It is true I went there, monsieur, but it was only for a flying visit. A side issue, but one that I fancied might repay investigation.”
“And it did—eh?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. M. Hautet nodded, sighing.
“We must resign ourselves, I fear. That animal Giraud, his manners are abominable, but he is undoubtedly clever! Not much chance of that one making a mistake.”
“You think not?”
It was the examining magistrate’s turn to shrug his shoulders.
“Oh, well, speaking frankly—in confidence, of course—can you come to any other conclusion?”
“Frankly, there seem to me to be many points that are obscure.”
“Such as—?”
But Poirot was not to be drawn.
“I have not yet tabulated them,” he remarked. “It was a general reflection that I was making. I liked the young man, and should be sorry to believe him guilty of such a hideous crime. By the way, what has he to say for himself on the matter?”
The magistrate frowned.
“I cannot understand him. He seems incapable of putting up any sort of defence. It has been most difficult to get him to answer questions. He contents himself with a general denial, and beyond that takes refuge in a most obstinate silence. I am interrogating him again tomorrow, perhaps you would like to be present?”
We accepted the invitation with empressement.
“A distressing case,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “My sympathy for Madame Renauld is profound.”
“How is Madame Renauld?”
“She has not yet recovered consciousness. It is merciful in a way, poor woman, she is being spared much. The doctors say that there is no danger, but that when she comes to herself she must be kept as quiet as possible. It was, I understand, quite as much the shock as the fall which caused her present state. It would be terrible if her brain became unhinged; but I should not wonder at all—no, really, not at all.”
M. Hautet leaned back, shaking his head, with a sort of mournful enjoyment, as he envisaged the gloomy prospect.
He roused himself at length, and observed with a start:
“That reminds me. I have here a letter for you, Monsieur Poirot. Let me see, where did I put it?”
He proceeded to rummage among his papers. At last he found the missive, and handed it to Poirot.
“It was sent under cover to me in order that I might forward it to you,” he explained. “But as you left no address I could not do so.”
Poirot studied the letter curiously. It was addressed in a long, sloping, foreign hand, and the writing was decidedly a woman’s. Poirot did not open it. Instead he put it in his pocket and rose to his feet.
“Till tomorrow then. Many thanks for your courtesy and amiability.”
“But not at all. I am always at your service.”
We were just leaving the building when we came face to face with Giraud, looking more dandified than ever, and thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Aha! Monsieur Poirot,” he cried airily. “You have returned from England then?”
“As you see,” said Poirot.
“The end of the case is not far off now, I fancy.”
“I agree with you, Monsieur Giraud.”
Poirot spoke in a subdued tone. His crestfallen manner seemed to delight the other.
“Of all the milk-and-water criminals! Not an idea of defending himself. It is extraordinary!”
“So extraordinary that it gives one to think, does it not?” suggested Poirot mildly.
But Giraud was not even listening. He twirled his cane