Murder on the Links

'You are wrong. There is one other person who could have taken the dagger.'

'You refer to Monsieur Stonor? He arrived at the front door, in an automobile which had brought him straight from Calais. Ah! believe me, I have looked into everything. Monsieur Jack Renauld arrived by train. An hour elapsed between his arrival and the moment when he presented himself at the house. Without doubt, he saw Captain Hastings and his companion leave the shed, slipped in himself and took the dagger, stabbed his accomplice in the shed-'

'Who was already dead!'

Giraud shrugged his shoulders. 'Possibly he did not observe that. He may have judged him to be sleeping. Without doubt they had a rendezvous. In any case he knew this apparent second murder would greatly complicate the case. It did.'

'But it could not deceive Monsieur Giraud,' murmured Poirot.

'You mock at me! But I will give you one last irrefutable proof. Madame Renauld's story was false-a fabrication from beginning to end. We believe Madame Renauld to have loved her husband-yet she lied to shield his murderer. For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself, usually for the man she loves, always for her children. That is the last-the irrefutable proof. You cannot get round it.'

Giraud paused flushed and triumphant. Poirot regarded him steadily.

'That is my case,' said Giraud. 'What have you to say to it?'

'Only that there is one thing you have failed to take into account.'

'What is that?'

'Jack Renauld was presumably acquainted with the planning out of the golf course. He knew that the body would be discovered almost at once when they started to dig the bunker.'

Giraud laughed out loud. 'But it is idiotic what you say there! He wanted the body to be found! Until it was found, he could not presume death and would have been unable to enter into his inheritance.'

I saw a quick flash of green in Poiroes eyes as he rose to his feet.

'Then why bury it?' he asked very softly. 'Reflect, Giraud. Since it was to Jack Renauld's advantage that the body should be found without delay, why dig a grave at all?'

Giraud did not reply. The question found him unprepared. He shrugged his shoulders as though to intimate that it was of no importance.

Poirot moved towards the door. I followed him.

'There is one more thing that you have failed to take into account,' he said over his shoulder.

'What is that?'

'The piece of lead piping,' said Poirot, and left the room.

Jack Renauld still stood in the hall, with a white dumb face, but as we came out of the salon he looked up sharply.

At the same moment there was the sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs. Renauld was descending it. At the sight of her son, standing between the two myrmidons of the law, she stopped as though petrified.

'Jack,' she faltered. 'Jack, what is this?'

He looked up at her, his face set. 'They have arrested me, mother.'

'What?'

She uttered a piercing cry, and before anyone could get to her, swayed, and fell heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute Poirot stood up again.

'She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there is slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he will have to wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a week.'

Denise and Francoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head down, frowning thoughtfully. For some time I did not speak, but at last I ventured to put a question to him: 'Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that Jack Renauld may not be guilty?'

Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely: 'I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud is all wrong-wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it is in spite of Giraud's arguments, not because of them. And the gravest indictment against him is known only to me.'

'What is that?' I asked, impressed.

'If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I do, you too would perceive it, my friend.'

This was what I called one of Poirot's irritating answers.

He went on, without waiting for me to speak: 'Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there, overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know, but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts-not by my leading you by the hand.'

We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested, looking out to sea.

'That is all, my friend,' said Poirot's voice encouragingly. 'Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.'

I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of the case. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot into my brain. Tremblingly I built up my hypothesis.

'You have a little idea, I see, mon ami. Capital. We proceed.'