Murder on the Links

'Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that it was Georges Conneau who died [missing] lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is no [missing] it follows that the third case is out of court.'

'[Missing]. Equally so. So we are forced to the second-that Mrs. Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved-or to [missing] words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree?'

'Yes,' I admitted. 'It seems logical enough.'

'Then Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who,

[Missing.]

we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld

[Missing.]

well then. Do not cling to theories where facts do not support them. Ask yourself instead whom Madame Renauld did love.'

I shook my head perplexed.

'Me oui, you know perfectly. Whom did Madame Renauld love so dearly, that when she saw his dead body she collapsed in a swoon?'

'Her husband?' I gasped dumbfounded. 'Her husband-or Georges Conneau whichever you like [missing.]

'But it's impossible.'

'How "impossible"? Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?'

'Yes but-'

'And did she not very effectively blackmail Monsieur Renauld?'

'That may he true enough, but-'

'And is it not a fact that we know nothing of Monsieur Renauld's youth and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French-Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?'

'All that is so,' I said more firmly 'but you seem to me to be overlooking one salient point.'

'What is that my friend?'

'Why, we have admitted that Georges planned the crime. That brings us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!'

'Et bien, mon ami,' said Poirot placidly 'that is just what he did do!'

Chapter 21. Hercule Poirot on the Case

IN a measured voice Poirot began his exposition.

'It seems strange to you, mon ami, that a man should plan his own death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, Monsieur Renauld planned his own death but there is one detail that perhaps escapes you-he did not intend to die.'

I shook my head bewildered.

'But no, it is all most simple really,' said Poirot kindly. 'For the crime that Monsieur Renauld proposed a murderer was not necessary, as I told you, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a different angle.'

'Georges Conneau flees from justice-to Canada. There, under an assumed name, he marries, and finally acquires a vast fortune in South America. But there is a nostalgia upon him for his own country. Twenty years have elapsed, he is considerably changed in appearance, besides being a man of such eminence that no one is likely to connect him with a fugitive from justice many years ago. He deems it quite safe to return. He takes up his headquarters in England, but tends to spend the summers in France. And ill fortune, or that obscure justice which shapes men's ends and will not allow them to evade the consequences of their acts, takes him to Merlinville. There, in the whole of France, is the one person who is capable of recognizing him. It is, of course, a gold mine to Madame Daubreuil, and a gold mine of which she is not slow to take advantage. He is helpless, absolutely in her power. And she bleeds him heavily.'

'And then the inevitable happens. Jack Renauld falls in love with the beautiful girl he sees almost daily and wishes to marry her. That rouses his father. At all costs, he will prevent his son marrying the daughter of this evil woman.'

'Jack Renauld knows nothing of his father's past, but Madame Renauld knows everything. She is a woman of great force of character and passionately devoted to her husband. They take counsel together. Renauld sees only one way of escape-death. He must appear to die, in reality escaping to another country where he will start again under an assumed name and where Madame Renauld, having played the widow's part for a while, can join him. It is essential that she should have control of the money, so he alters his will. How they meant to manage the body business originally, I do not know-possibly an art student's skeleton and a fire-or something of the kind, but long before their plans have matured an event occurs which plays into their hands. A rough tramp, violent and abusive, finds his way into the garden.'

There is a struggle, Renauld seeks to eject him, and suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead. Renauld calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed-as we know the event had occurred just outside-and they realize the marvellous opportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no resemblance to Renauld but he is middle-aged, of a usual French type. That is sufficient.'