Murder on the Links

'In that right-hand bed yonder. Monsieur Bex says that they are the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if this is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow.'

Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us.

'You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the footmarks?' I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important presumably they were.

'Exactly,' said Poirot.

'But won't he think it very odd?'

'He will not think about it at all.'

We could say no more, for the old man had joined us.

'You want me for something, monsieur?'

'Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven't you?'

'Twenty-four years, monsieur.'

'And your name is Auguste, monsieur? I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb. They have been planted long?'

'Some time monsieur. But of course to keep the beds looking smart, one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.'

'You put in some new plants yesterday, didn't you? Those in the middle there and in the other bed also.'

'Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to "pick up". Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot.' Auguste was charmed with Poirot's interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous.

'That is a splendid specimen there,' said Poirot, pointing. 'Might I perhaps have a cutting of it?'

'But certainly, monsieur.' The old fellow stepped into the bed, and carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.

Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.

'You see?' said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine the indentation of the gardener's hobnailed boot. 'It is quite simple.'

'I did not realize-'

'That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?'

I examined the bed carefully.

'All the signs of marks in the bed were made by the same boot.' I said at length after a careful study.

'You think so? Eh bien. I agree with you,' said Poirot.

He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of something else.

'At any rate,' I remarked, 'you will have one bee less in your bonnet now.'

'Mon Dieu. But what an idiom! What does it mean?'

'What I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these footmarks.'

But to my surprise Poirot shook his head. 'No, no, mon ami. At last I am on the right track. I am still in the dark, but, as I hinted just now to Monsieur Bex, these footmarks are the most important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud-I should not be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever.'

At that moment the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the commissary came down the steps.

'Ah, Monsieur Poirot, we were coming to look for you,' said the magistrate. 'It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil. Without doubt she will be very much upset by Monsieur Renauld's death, and we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that he did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the woman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are weak, don't we?'

We said no more, but fell into line. Poirot walked with the examining magistrate, and the commissary and I followed a few paces behind.

'There is no doubt that Francoise's story is substantially correct,' he remarked to me in a confidential tone. 'I have been telephoning headquarters. It seems that three times in the last six weeks-that is to say since the arrival of Monsieur Renauld at Merlinville-Madame Daubreuil has paid a large sum in notes into her banking account. Altogether the sum totals two hundred thousand francs.'

'Dear me; I said, considering, 'that must be something like four thousand pounds?'

'Precisely. Yes, there can be no doubt that he was absolutely infatuated. But it remains to be seen whether he confided his secret to her. The examining magistrate is hopeful, but I hardly share his views.'

During this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the fork in the road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in another moment I realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the mysterious Madame Daubreuil, was the small house from which the beautiful girl had emerged.

'She has lived here for many years,' said the commissary nodding his head towards the house. 'Very quietly, very unobtrusively. She seems to have no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she had made in Merlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not even know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you comprehend.'

I nodded, my interest growing.

'And-the daughter?' I ventured.