Murder on the Links

'The French police system is very marvellous,' said Poirot, looking after them. 'The information they possess about everyone's life, down to the most commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with Monsieur Renauld's tastes and pursuits, and at a moment's notice they can produce information as to Madame Daubreuil's banking account, and the sums that have lately been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is that?' He turned sharply.

A figure was running hatless down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.

'I beg your pardon,' she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. 'I-I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that Monsieur Renauld called in a detective before he died, and-and that you are he?'

'Yes, mademoiselle,' said Poirot gently. 'It is quite true. But how did you learn it?'

'Francoise told our Amelie,' Explained Marthe with a blush.

Poirot made a grimace. 'The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?'

The gift hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked: 'Is-anyone suspected?'

Poiret eyed her keenly. Then he replied evasively: 'Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.'

'Yes, I know-but-anyone in particular?'

'Why do you want to know?'

The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot's words about her earlier in the day occurred to me. The 'girl with the anxious eyes'.

'Monsieur Renauld was always very kind to me,' she replied at last. 'It is natural that I should be interested.'

'I see,' said Poirot. 'Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering round two persons.'

'Two?'

I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.

'Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chileans from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!'

The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.

'I must go back now. Mama will miss me.'

And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I stared after her.

'Mon ami,' said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, 'is it that we are to remain planted here all night-just because you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl.'

I laughed and apologized.

'But she is beautiful, Poirot. Anyone might be excused for being bowled over by her.'

But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly. 'Ah, mon ami, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!'

'Why,' I cried, 'the commissary assured me that she was as good as she is beautiful! A perfect angel!'

'Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,' remarked Poirot cheerfully. 'A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a Madonna.'

'Poirot,' I cried, horrified, 'you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent child like this!'

'Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her. But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat unusual.'

'For once I see farther than you do,' I said. 'Her anxiety is not for herself-but for her mother.'

'My friend,' said Poirot, 'as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. Saerg! if only I could remember where I had seen that face?'

'What face?' I asked, surprised. 'The daughter's?'

'No. The mother's.'

Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically. 'But yes-it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture-and in connexion with some case. I rather fancy-"

'Yes?'

'I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!'

Chapter 8. An Unexpected Meeting

We were up at the villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house.

The maid Leonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.

Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.

Leonie shook her head. 'She is terribly upset, the poor lady! She will eat nothing-but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman!'