The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œThere is one inference I think we might draw,” remarked the commissary suddenly. “Since the men insisted on Monsieur 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.
    â€œYes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.”
    â€œWhat time does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?” asked Poirot.
    â€œ11:50 one way, and 12:17 the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.”
    â€œOf course,” agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.
    â€œIndeed, 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, Monsieur Bex.”
    He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld:
    â€œThere is another question. Do you know anyone of the name of ‘Duveen?’”
    â€œDuveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.”
    â€œYou have never heard your husband mention anyone of that name.”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œDo you know anyone 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.
    â€œAre you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?”
    Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly:
    â€œNo, who was that?”
    â€œA lady.”
    â€œIndeed?”
    But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connexion with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary.
    He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this he took the dagger.
    â€œMadame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”
    She gave a little cry.
    â€œYes, that is my little dagger.” Then she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is that—blood?”
    â€œYes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about its being the one that was on your dressing table last night?”
    â€œOh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.” There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. “This was made from a streamline aeroplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.”
    â€œI see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.”
    â€œJack? He is on his way to Buenos Aires.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it wouldbe necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Aires last night, and he wired him to catch it.”
    â€œHave you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Aires was?”
    â€œNo, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Aires is not my son’s final destination. He was going overland from there to Santiago.”
    And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed:
    â€œSantiago! Again Santiago!”
    It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that