The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie (classic book list .txt) 📕

and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally!”

Poirot lost himself in contemplation.

“One thing more, Poirot, what about the piece of lead piping?”

“You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two feet long was quite as good as a clue of two inches?”

“Well, Giraud will sing small now,” I observed hastily, to lead the conversation away from my own shortcomings.

“As I said before, will he? If he has arrived at the right person by the wrong method, he will not permit that to worry him.”

“But surely⁠—” I paused as I saw the new trend of things.

“You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed M. Renauld? Someone who was near the Villa just before twelve o’clock that night, someone who would benefit by his death⁠—the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!”

I started, I had not realized that point.

“Of course,” I said. “The second dagger we found in the tramp was Mrs. Renauld’s. There were two, then.”

“Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact I have a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological⁠—heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son⁠—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.”

His tone was grave and earnest, and I was impressed in spite of myself.

“What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?” I asked.

For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked:

“What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?”

“About five, I believe.”

“That will do very well. We shall just have time.”

“You are going to England?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“Why?”

“To find a possible⁠—witness.”

“Who?”

With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied:

“Miss Bella Duveen.”

“But how will you find her⁠—what do you know about her?”

“I know nothing about her⁠—but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen, and since that name was faintly familiar to M. Stonor, though evidently not in connection with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with M. Renauld’s attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all right⁠—especially with the help of this.”

And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld’s drawer. “With love from Bella,” was scrawled across the corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first rate⁠—but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.

It was the face of Cinderella.

XXII I Find Love

For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand. Then, summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same time, I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.

He rose briskly to his feet.

“We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all despatch. All is well⁠—the sea it will be calm!”

In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the boat, secure from Poirot’s observation (he, as usual, was “practising the method most excellent of Laverguier”) I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know? Was he aware that my acquaintance of the train and Bella Duveen were one and the same? Why had he gone to the Hôtel du Phare? On my behalf as I had believed? Or had I only fatuously thought so, and was this visit undertaken with a deeper and more sinister purpose?

But in any case, why was he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld commit the crime? Or did he suspect⁠—but that was impossible! The girl had no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible motive for wishing his death. What had brought her back to the scene of the murder? I went over the facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais where I parted from her that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on the boat. If she had dined in Calais, and then taken a train out to Merlinville, she would have arrived at the Villa Geneviève just about the time that Françoise said. What had she done when she left the house just after ten? Presumably either gone to an hotel, or returned to Calais. And then? The crime had been committed on Tuesday night. On Thursday morning, she was once more in Merlinville. Had she ever left France at all? I doubted it very much. What kept her there⁠—the hope of seeing Jack Renauld? I had told her (as at the time we believed) that he was on the high seas en route to Buenos Aires. Possibly she was aware that the Anzora had not sailed. But to know that she must have seen Jack. Was that what Poirot was after? Had Jack Renauld, returning to see Marthe Daubreuil, come face to face instead with Bella Duveen, the girl he had heartlessly thrown over?

I began to see daylight. If that were indeed the case, it might furnish Jack with the alibi he needed. Yet