Classic Tales of Mystery

by Editors of Canterbury Classics

  “I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.”

  The commissary rose.

  “Come with me, monsieurs.”

  He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him. Poirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary.

  “Monsieur.”

  “Monsieur.”

  At last they got out into the hall.

  “That room there, it is the study, hein?” asked Poirot suddenly, nodding towards the door opposite.

  “Yes. You would like to see it?” He threw the door open as he spoke, and we entered.

  The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was small, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A businesslike writing desk, with many pigeon holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-covered armchairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books and magazines. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the window there was a handsome oak sideboard with a tantalus on top. The curtains and portière were of a soft dull green, and the carpet matched them in tone.

  Poirot stood a moment talking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.

  “No dust?” I asked, with a smile.

  He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.

  “Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.”

  His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.

  “Ah!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. “The hearth-rug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it.

  Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small fragment of paper.

  “In France, as in England,” he remarked, “the domestics omit to sweep under the mats!”

  Bex took the fragment from him, and I came closer to examine it.

  “You recognize it—eh, Hastings?”

  I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was very familiar.

  The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine.

  “A fragment of a cheque,” he exclaimed.

  The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was written in ink the word “Duveen.”

  “Bien,” said Bex. “This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, one named Duveen.”

  “The former, I fancy,” said Poirot, “for, if I am not mistaken, the handwriting is that of M. Renauld.”

  That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk.

  “Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”

  Poirot laughed.

  “The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As soon as I saw that the hearth-rug was out of the straight, I said to myself: ‘Tiens ! The leg of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly there may be something beneath it which the good Françoise overlooked.’”

  “Françoise?”

  “Or Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust, the room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like this. Yesterday, possibly last night, M. Renauld drew a cheque to the order of some one named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered on the floor. This morning—” But M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell.

  Françoise answered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What else?

  With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face lightening, he ran to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead man’s cheque book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last counterfoil was blank.

  “Courage!” cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. “Without doubt, Madame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person named Duveen.”

  The commissary’s face cleared. “That is true. Let us proceed.”

  As we turned to leave the room, Poirot remarked casually: “It was here that M. Renauld received his guest last night, eh?”

  “It was—but how did you know?”

  “By this. I found it on the back of the leather chair.”

  And he held up between his finger and thumb a long black hair—a woman’s hair!

  M. Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small shed leaning against the house. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it.

  “The body is here. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before you arrived, as the photographers had done with it.”

  He opened the door and we passed in. The murdered man lay on the ground, with a sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the covering. Renauld was a man of medium height, slender and lithe in figure. He looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey. He was clean shaven with a long thin nose, and eyes set rather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who had spent most of his life beneath tropical skies. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was stamped on the livid features.

  “One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the back,” remarked Poirot.

  Very gently, he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder-blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the middle of it there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.

  “Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?”

  “It was left in the wound.” The commissary reached down a large glass jar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper-knife than anything else. It had a black handle, and a narrow shining blade. The whole thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured point gingerly with his finger tip.

  “Ma foi ! but it is sharp! A nice easy little tool for murder!”

  “Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,” remarked Bex regretfully. “The murderer must have worn gloves.”

  “Of course he did,” said Poirot contemptuously. “Even in Santiago they know enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English Mees knows it—thanks to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no finger-prints. It is so amazingly simple to leave the finger-prints of some one else! And then the police are happy.” He shook his head. “I very much fear our criminal is not a man of method—either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.”

  He let the body fall back into its original position.

  “He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,” he remarked.

  “Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious point.”

  At this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after him. He strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She endeavoured to peep in with ghoulish curiosity.

  “Well, what is it?” demanded Bex impatiently.

  “Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered, and is quite ready to receive the examining magistrate.”

  “Good,” said M. Bex briskly. “Tell M. Hautet and say that we will come at once.”

  Poirot lingered a moment, looking back towards the body. I thought for a moment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his determination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But when he spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.

  “He wore his overcoat very long,” he said constrainedly.

  5. Mrs. Renauld’s Story

  We found M. Hautet awaiting us in the hall, and we all proc
eeded upstairs together, Françoise marching ahead to show us the way. Poirot went up in a zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a grimace:

  “No wonder the servants heard M. Renauld mounting the stairs; not a board of them but creaks fit to wake the dead!”

  At the head of the staircase, a small passage branched off.

  “The servants’ quarters,” explained Bex.

  We continued along a corridor, and Françoise tapped on the last door to the right of it.

  A faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large sunny apartment looking out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a quarter of a mile distant.

  On a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr. Durand, lay a tall, striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark hair was now almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality and strength of her personality would have made itself felt anywhere. You knew at once that you were in the presence of what the French call “une maitresse femme.”

  She greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head.

  “Pray be seated, messieurs.”

  We took chairs, and the magistrate’s clerk established himself at a round table.

  “I hope, madame,” began M. Hautet, “that it will not distress you unduly to relate to us what occurred last night?”

  “Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if these scoundrelly assassins are to be caught and punished.”

  “Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did you go to bed last night?”

  “At half-past nine, monsieur. I was tired.”

  “And your husband?”

  “About an hour later, I fancy.”

  “Did he seem disturbed—upset in any way?”

  “No, not more than usual.”

  “What happened then?”

  “We slept. I was awakened by a hand being pressed over my mouth. I tried to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the room. They were both masked.”

  “Can you describe them at all, madame?”

  “One was very tall, and had a long black beard, the other was short and stout. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their eyes.”

  “H’m,” said the magistrate thoughtfully, “too much beard, I fear.”

  “You mean they were false?”

  “Yes, madame. But continue your story.”

  “It was the short man who was holding me. He forced a gag into my mouth, and then bound me with rope hand and foot. The other man was standing over my husband. He had caught up my little dagger paper-knife from the dressing-table and was holding it with the point just over his heart. When the short man had finished with me, he joined the other, and they forced my husband to get up and accompany them into the dressing-room next door. I was nearly fainting with terror, nevertheless I listened desperately.

  “They were speaking in too low a tone for me to hear what they said. But I recognized the language, a bastard Spanish such as is spoken in some parts of South America. They seemed to be demanding something from my husband, and presently they grew angry, and their voices rose a little. I think the tall man was speaking. ‘You know what we want!’ he said. ‘The secret ! Where is it?’ I do not know what my husband answered, but the other replied fiercely: ‘You lie! We know you have it. Where are your keys?’

  “Then I heard sounds of drawers being pulled out. There is a safe on the wall of my husband’s dressing-room in which he always keeps a fairly large amount of ready money. Léonie tells me this has been rifled and the money taken, but evidently what they were looking for was not there, for presently I heard the tall man, with an oath, command my husband to dress himself. Soon after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them, for they hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed.”

  “Pardon,” interrupted Poirot, “but is there then no other egress from the dressing-room?”

  “No, monsieur, there is only the communicating door into my room. They hurried my husband through, the short man in front, and the tall man behind him with the dagger still in his hand. Paul tried to break away to come to me. I saw his agonized eyes. He turned to his captors. ‘I must speak to her,’ he said. Then, coming to the side of the bed, ‘It is all right, Eloise,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid. I shall return before morning.’ But, although he tried to make his voice confident, I could see the terror in his eyes. Then they hustled him out of the door, the tall man saying: ‘One sound—and you are a dead man, remember.’

  “After that,” continued Mrs. Renauld, “I must have fainted. The next thing I recollect is Léonie rubbing my wrists, and giving me brandy.”

  “Madame Renauld,” said the magistrate, “had you any idea what it was for which the assassins were searching?”

  “None whatever, monsieur.”

  “Had you any knowledge that your husband feared something?”

  “Yes. I had seen the change in him.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Mrs. Renauld reflected.

  “Ten days perhaps.”

  “Not longer?”

  “Possibly. I only noticed it then.”

  “Did you question your husband at all as to the cause?”

  “Once. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he was suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to conceal the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing.”

  “Were you aware that he had called in the services of a detective?”

  “A detective?” exclaimed Mrs. Renauld, very much surprised.

  “Yes, this gentleman—M. Hercule Poirot.” Poirot bowed. “He arrived today in response to a summons from your husband.” And taking the letter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady.

  She read it with apparently genuine astonishment.

  “I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the danger.”

  “Now, madame, I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any incident in your husband’s past life in South America which might throw light on his murder?”

  Mrs. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head.

  “I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people he had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one distinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident—only that I am not aware of it.”

  The examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately.

  “And you can fix the time of this outrage?”

  “Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike two.” She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case which stood in the centre of the chimney-piece.

  Poirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded, satisfied.

  “And here too,” exclaimed M. Bex, “is a wrist watch, knocked off the dressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms. Little did they know it would testify against them.”

  Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction.

  “Mon Dieu !” he ejaculated.

  “What is it?”

  “The hands of the watch point to seven o’clock!”

  “What?” cried the examining magistrate, astonished.

  But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled.

  “The glass is broken, yes, but the watch itself is still going.”

  The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the magistrate bethought him of another point.

  “But surely it is not seven o’clock now?”

  “No,” said Poirot gently, “it is a few minutes after five. Possibly the watch gains, is that so, madame?”

  Mrs. Renauld was frowning perplexedly. />
  “It does gain,” she admitted, “but I’ve never known it to gain quite so much as that.”

  With a gesture of impatience, the magistrate left the matter of the watch and proceeded with his interrogatory.

  “Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you suggest any explanation?”

  “Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to latch it when he came in.”

  “Is that a likely thing to happen?”

  “Very. My husband was the most absent-minded of men.”

  There was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke, as though this trait in the dead man’s character had at times vexed her.

  “There is one inference I think we might draw,” remarked the commissary suddenly. “Since the men insisted on M. Renauld dressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the place where ‘the secret’ was concealed, lay some distance away.”

  The magistrate nodded.

  “Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.”

  “What time does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?” asked Poirot.

  “Eleven-fifty one way, and 12:17 the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.”

  “Of course,” agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.

  “Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,” continued the magistrate, brightening. “A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, M. Bex.”

  He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld:

  “There is another question. Do you know any one of the name of ‘Duveen’?”

  “Duveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.”

  “You have never heard your husband mention any one of that name?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you know any one whose Christian name is Bella?”

  He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions.