Murder on the Links

I nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I looked down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the floor, and pushed them across to him.

'Read that,' I said. 'I'd like you to.'

He read it through in silence, then he looked up at me.

'What is it that worries you, Hastings?'

This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid quite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.

'She doesn't say-she doesn't say-well, not whether she cares for me or not?'

Poirot turned back the pages.

'I think you are mistaken, Hastings.'

'Where?' I cried, leaning forward eagerly.

Poirot smiled. 'She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.'

'But where am I to find her? There's no address on the letter. There's a French stamp, that's all.'

'Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as soon as I have five little minutes?'

Chapter 27. Jack Renauld's Story

'Congratulations, Monsieur Jack,' said Poirot, wringing the lad warmly by the hand.

Young Renauld had come to us as soon as he was liberated-before starting for Merlinville to rejoin Marthe and his mother. Stonor accompanied him. His heartiness was in strong contrast to the lad's wan looks. It was plain that the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He smiled mournfully at Poirot, and said in a low voice: 'I went through it to protect her, and now it's all no use.'

'You could hardly expect the girl to accept the price of your life,' remarked Stonor dryly. 'She was bound to come forward when she saw you heading straight for the guillotine.'

'Eh to jail and you were heading for it too?' added Poirot, with a slight twinkle. 'You would have had Maitre Grosier's death from rage on your conscience if you had gone on.'

'He was a well meaning ass, I suppose,' said Jack. 'But he worried me horribly. You see, I couldn't very well take him into my confidence. But, my God! what's going to happen about Bella?'

'If I were you,' said Poirot frankly, 'I should not distress myself unduly. The French Courts are very lenient to youth and beauty, and the crime passionnel. A clever lawyer will make out a great case of extenuating circumstances. It will not be pleasant for you-'

'I don't care about that. You see, Monsieur Poirot, in a way I do feel guilty of my father's murder. But for me, and my entanglement with this girl, he would be alive and well today. And then my cursed carelessness in taking away the wrong overcoat. I can't help feeling responsible for his death. It will haunt me for ever!'

'No, no; I said soothingly.'

'Of course it's horrible of me to think that Bella killed my father,' resumed Jack. 'But I'd treated her shamefully. After I met Marthe and realised I'd made a mistake I ought to have written and told her honestly. But I was so scared of a row and of its coming to Marthe's ear and her thinking there was more in it than there ever had been, that-well I was a coward, and went on hoping the thing would die down of itself. I just in fact-not realizing that I was driving the poor kid desperate. If she'd really knifed me, as she meant to I should have got no more than my deserts. And the way she's come forward now is downright plucky. I'd have stood the [garbled] you know-up to the [missing].'

He was silent for a moment or two and then burst out on [missing]: 'What gets me is why the [garbled] should be wandering about in underclothes and my overcoat at that time of night. I suppose he'd just given the foreign [unclear] the slip, and my mother must have made a mistake about its being two o'clock when they came, Or-or, it wasn't all a frame-up, was it? I mean, my mother didn't think-couldn't think that-that it was me?'

Poirot reassured him quickly. 'No, no, Monsieur Jack. Have no fears on that score. As for the rest, I will explain it to you one of these days. It is rather curious. But will you recount to us exactly what did occur on that terrible evening?'

'There's very little to tell. I came from Cherbourg, as I told you in order to see Marthe before going to the other end of the world. The train was late and I decided to take the shortcut across the golf links. I could easily get into the grounds of the Villa Marguerite from there. I had nearly reached the place when-'

He paused and swallowed.

'I heard a terrible cry. It wasn't loud-a sort of choke and gasp-but it frightened me. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot. Then I came round the corner of a bush. There was moonlight. I saw the grave, and a figure lying face downwards with a dagger sticking in the back. And then-and then-I looked up and saw her. She was looking at me as though she saw a ghost-it's what she must have thought me at first-all expression seemed frozen out of her face by horror. And then she gave a cry and turned and ran.'

He stopped, trying to master his emotion.

'And afterwards?' asked Poirot gently.