Classic Tales of Mystery

by Editors of Canterbury Classics

  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 Poirot’s eyes as he rose to his feet.

  “Then why bury it?” he asked 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 any one 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 a 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 Françoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head bent down, frowning thoughtfully at the ground. 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. From farther along the sand, the cries of the bathers reached us faintly. The sea was of the palest blue, and the halcyon calm reminded me of the day we had arrived at Merlinville, my own good spirits, and Poirot’s suggestion that I was “fey.” What a long time seemed to have elapsed since then. And in reality it was only three days!

  “Think, 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 reluctantly it seemed to me that the only clear and possible solution was that of Giraud—which Poirot despised. I reflected anew. If there was daylight anywhere it was in the direction of Madame Daubreuil. Giraud was ignorant of her connection with the Beroldy Case. Poirot had declared the Beroldy Case to be all important. It was there I must seek. I was on the right track now. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot into my brain. Trembling I built up my hypothesis.

  “You have a little idea, I see, mon ami ! Capital. We progress.”

  I sat up, and lit a pipe.

  “Poirot,” I said, “it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say we—although I dare say I would be nearer the mark. But you must pay the penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been strangely remiss. There is some one we have forgotten.”

  “And who is that?” inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.

  “Georges Conneau!”

  20. An Amazing Statement

  The next moment Poirot embraced me warmly. “Enfin ! You have arrived. And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue your reasoning. You are right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget Georges Conneau.”

  I was so flattered by the little man’s approval that I could hardly continue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on.

  “Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason to believe that he is dead.”

  “Aucunement,” agreed Poirot. “Proceed.”

  “Therefore we will assume that he is alive.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Or that he was alive until recently.”

  “De mieux en mieux !”

  “We will presume,” I continued, my enthusiasm rising, “that he has fallen on evil days. He has become a criminal, an apache, a tramp—a what you will. He chances to come to Merlinville. There he finds the woman he has never ceased to love.”

  “Eh eh! The sentimentality,” warned Poirot.

  “Where one hates one also loves,” I quoted or misquoted. “At any rate he finds her there, living under an assumed name. But she has a new lover, the Englishman, Renauld. Georges Conneau, the memory of old wrongs rising in him, quarrels with this Renauld. He lies in wait for him as he comes to visit his mistress, and stabs him in the back. Then, terrified at what he has done, he starts to dig a grave. I imagine it likely that Madame Daubreuil comes out to look for her lover. She and Conneau have a terrible scene. He drags her into the shed, and there suddenly falls down in an epileptic fit. Now supposing Jack Renauld to appear. Madame Daubreuil tells him all, points out to him the dreadful consequences to her daughter if this scandal of the past is revived. His father’s murderer is dead—let them do their best to hush it up. Jack Renauld consents—goes to the house and has an interview with his mother, winning her over to his point of view. Primed with the story that Madame Daubreuil has suggested to him, she permits herself to be gagged and bound. There, Poirot, what do you think of that?” I leaned back, flushed with the pride of successful reconstruction.

  Poirot looked at me thoughtfully.

  “I think that you should write for the Kinema, mon ami,” he remarked at last.

  “You mean—?”

  “It would make a good film, the story that you have recounted to me there—but it bears no sort of resemblance to everyday life.”

  “I admit that I haven’t gone into all the details, but—”

  “You have gone further—you have ignored them magnificently. What about the way the two men were dressed? Do you suggest that after stabbing his victim, Conneau removed his suit of clothes, donned it himself, and replaced the dagger?”

  “I don’t see that that matters,” I objected rather huffily. “He may have obtained clothes and money from Madame Daubreuil by threats earlier in the day.”

  “By threats—eh? You seriously advance that supposition?”

  “Certainly. He could have threatened t
o reveal her identity to the Renaulds, which would probably have put an end to all hopes of her daughter’s marriage.”

  “You are wrong, Hastings. He could not blackmail her, for she had the whip hand. Georges Conneau, remember, is still wanted for murder. A word from her and he is in danger of the guillotine.”

  I was forced, rather reluctantly, to admit the truth of this.

  “Your theory,” I remarked acidly, “is doubtless correct as to all the details?”

  “My theory is the truth,” said Poirot quietly. “And the truth is necessarily correct. In your theory you made a fundamental error.

  You permitted your imagination to lead you astray with midnight assignations and passionate love scenes. But in investigating crime we must take our stand upon the commonplace. Shall I demonstrate my methods to you?”

  “Oh, by all means let us have a demonstration!”

  Poirot sat very upright and began, wagging his forefinger emphatically to emphasize his points.

  “I will start as you started from the basic fact of Georges Conneau. Now the story told by Madame Beroldy in court as to the ‘Russians’ was admittedly a fabrication. If she was innocent of connivance in the crime, it was concocted by her, and by her only as she stated. If, on the other hand, she was not innocent, it might have been invented by either her or Georges Conneau.

  “Now is this case we are investigating, we meet the same tale. As I pointed out to you, the facts render it very unlikely that Madame Daubreuil inspired it. So we turn to the hypothesis that the story had its origin in the brain of Georges Conneau. Very good. Georges Conneau, therefore, planned the crime with Madame Renauld as his accomplice. She is in the limelight, and behind her is a shadowy figure whose alias is unknown to us.

  “Now let us go carefully over the Renauld Case from the beginning, setting down each significant point in its chronological order. You have a notebook and pencil? Good. Now what is the earliest point to note down?”

  “The letter to you?”

  “That was the first we knew of it, but it is not the proper beginning of the case. The first point of any significance, I should say, is the change that came over M. Renauld shortly after arriving in Merlinville, and which is attested to by several witnesses. We have also to consider his friendship with Madame Daubreuil, and the large sums of money paid over to her. From thence we can come directly to the 23rd May.”

  Poirot paused, cleared his throat, and signed to me to write.

  “23rd May. M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter’s wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris.

  “24th May. M. Renauld alters his will, leaving entire control of his fortune in his wife’s hands.

  “7th June. Quarrel with tramp in garden, witnessed by Marthe Daubreuil.

  “Letter written to M. Hercule Poirot, imploring assistance.

  “Telegram sent to Jack Renauld, bidding him proceed by the Anzora to Buenos Aires.

  “Chauffeur, Masters, sent off on a holiday.

  “Visit of a lady, that evening. As he is seeing her out, his words are ‘Yes, yes—but for God’s sake go now …’”

  Poirot paused.

  “There, Hastings, take each of those facts one by one, consider them carefully by themselves and in relation to the whole, and see if you do not get new light on the matter.”

  I endeavoured conscientiously to do as he had said. After a moment or two, I said rather doubtfully:

  “As to the first points, the question seems to be whether we adopt the theory of blackmail, or of an infatuation for this woman.”

  “Blackmail, decidedly. You heard what Stonor said as to his character and habits.”

  “Mrs. Renauld did not confirm his view,” I argued.

  “We have already seen that Madame Renauld’s testimony cannot be relied upon in any way. We must trust to Stonor on that point.”

  “Still, if Renauld had an affair with a woman called Bella, there seems no inherent improbability in his having another with Madame Daubreuil.”

  “None whatever, I grant you, Hastings. But did he?”

  “The letter, Poirot. You forget the letter.”

  “No, I do not forget. But what makes you think that letter was written to M. Renauld?”

  “Why it was found in his pocket and—and—”

  “And that is all!” cut in Poirot. “There was no mention of any name to show to whom the letter was addressed. We assumed it was to the dead man because it was in the pocket of his overcoat. Now, mon ami, something about that overcoat struck me as unusual. I measured it, and made the remark that he wore his overcoat very long. That remark should have given you to think.”

  “I thought you were just saying it for the sake of saying something,” I confessed.

  “Ah, quelle idée! Later you observed me measuring the overcoat of M. Jack Renauld. Eh bien, M. Jack Renauld wears his overcoat very short. Put those two facts together with a third, namely that M. Jack Renauld flung out of the house in a hurry on his departure for Paris, and tell me what you make of it!”

  “I see,” I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot’s remarks bore in upon me. “That letter was written to Jack Renauld—not to his father. He caught up the wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Précisement ! We can return to this point later. For the moment let us content ourselves with accepting the letter as having nothing to do with M. Renauld père, and pass to the next chronological event.”

  “May 23rd,” I read, “M. Renauld quarrels with his son over latter’s wish to marry Marthe Daubreuil. Son leaves for Paris. I don’t see anything much to remark upon there, and the altering of the will the following day seems straightforward enough. It was the direct result of the quarrel.”

  “We agree, mon ami—at least as to the cause. But what exact motive underlay this procedure of M. Renauld’s?”

  I opened my eyes in surprise.

  “Anger against his son of course.”

  “Yet he wrote him affectionate letters to Paris?”

  “So Jack Renauld says, but he cannot produce them.”

  “Well, let us pass from that.”

  “Now we come to the day of the tragedy. You have placed the events of the morning in a certain order. Have you any justification for that?”

  “I have ascertained that the letter to me was posted at the same time as the telegram was despatched. Masters was informed he could take a holiday shortly afterwards. In my opinion the quarrel with the tramp took place anterior to these happenings.”

  “I do not see that you can fix that definitely—unless you question Mademoiselle Dabreuil again.”

  “There is no need. I am sure of it. And if you do not see that, you see nothing, Hastings!”

  I looked at him for a moment.

  “Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was after the stormy interview with him that Mr. Renauld apprehended danger. He sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the other’s pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.”

  A faint smile crossed Poirot’s lips.

  “You do not think it strange that he should use exactly the same expressions in his letter as Madame Renauld used later in her story? If the mention of Santiago was a blind, why should Renauld speak of it, and—what is more—send his son there?”

  “It is puzzling, I admit, but perhaps we shall find some explanation later. We come now to the evening, and the visit of the mysterious lady. I confess that that fairly baffles me, unless it was Madame Daubreuil, as Françoise all along maintained.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “My friend, my friend, where are your wits wandering? Remember the fragment of cheque, and the fact that the name Bella Duveen was faintly familiar to Stonor, and I think we may take it for granted that Bella Duveen is the full name of Jack’s unknown correspondent, and that it was she who came to the Villa Geneviève that night. Whether she intended to see Jack, or whether she meant all
along to appeal to his father we cannot be certain, but I think we may assume that this is what occurred. She produced her claim upon Jack, probably showed letters that he had written her, and the older man tried to buy her off by writing a cheque. This she indignantly tore up. The terms of her letter are those of a woman genuinely in love, and she would probably deeply resent being offered money. In the end he got rid of her, and here the words that he used are significant.”

  “‘Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now,’” I repeated. “They seem to me a little vehement, perhaps, that is all.”

  “That is enough. He was desperately anxious for the girl to go. Why? Not only because the interview was unpleasant. No, it was the time that was slipping by, and for some reason time was precious.”

  “Why should it be?” I asked, bewildered.

  “That is what we ask ourselves. Why should it be? But later we have the incident of the wrist watch—which again shows us that time plays a very important part in the crime. We are now fast approaching the actual drama. It is half-past ten when Bella Duveen leaves, and by the evidence of the wrist watch we know that the crime was committed, or at any rate that it was staged, before twelve o’clock. We have reviewed all the events anterior to the murder, there remains only one unplaced. By the doctor’s evidence, the tramp, when found, had been dead at least forty-eight hours—with a possible margin of twenty-four hours more. Now, with no other facts to help me than those we have discussed, I place the death as having occurred on the morning of June 7th.”

  I stared at him, stupefied.

  “But how? Why? How can you possibly know?”

  “Because only in that way can the sequence of events be logically explained. Mon ami, I have taken you step by step along the way. Do you not now see what is so glaringly plain?”

  “My dear Poirot, I can’t see anything glaring about it. I did think I was beginning to see my way before, but I’m now hopelessly fogged.”

  Poirot looked at me sadly, and shook his head. “Mon Dieu ! But it is triste! A good intelligence—and so deplorably lacking in method. There is an exercise most excellent for the development of the little grey cells. I will impart it to you—”