The Murder on the Links
by Agatha Christie
14
The Second Body
Waiting for no more, I turned and ran up the path to the shed. The two
men on guard there stood aside to let me pass and, filled with
excitement, I entered.
The light was dim, the place was a mere rough wooden erection to keep
old pots and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold
I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me.
Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with
which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a
frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of
good-humoured contempt.
“Ah, _c’est l’Anglais!___ Enter then. Let us see what you can make of
this affair.”
Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in.
“There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.
I stepped across.
The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height,
swarthy of complexion, and possibly about fifty years of age. He was
neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, well cut and probably made by an
expensive tailor, but not new. His face was terribly convulsed, and on
his left side, just over the heart, the hilt of a dagger stood up,
black and shining. I recognized it. It was the same dagger I had seen
reposing in the glass jar the preceding morning!
“I’m expecting the doctor any minute,” explained Giraud. “Although we
hardly need him. There’s no doubt what the man died of. He was stabbed
to the heart, and death must have been pretty well instantaneous.”
“When was it done? Last night?”
Giraud shook his head.
“Hardly. I don’t lay down the law on medical evidence, but the man’s
been dead well over twelve hours. When do you say you last saw that
dagger?”
“About ten o’clock yesterday morning.”
“Then I should be inclined to fix the crime as being done not long
after that.”
“But people were passing and repassing this shed continually.”
Giraud laughed disagreeably.
“You progress to a marvel! Who told you he was killed in this shed?”
“Well—” I felt flustered. “I—I assumed it.”
“Oh, what a fine detective! Look at him, _mon petit___—does a man
stabbed to the heart fall like that—neatly with his feet together, and
his arms to his side? No. Again does a man lie down on his back and
permit himself to be stabbed without raising a hand to defend himself?
It is absurd, is it not? But see here—and here—” He flashed the torch
along the ground. I saw curious irregular marks in the soft dirt. “He
was dragged here after he was dead. Half dragged, half carried by two
people. Their tracks do not show on the hard ground outside, and here
they have been careful to obliterate them—but one of the two was a
woman, my young friend.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“But if the tracks are obliterated, how do you know?”
“Because, blurred as they are, the prints of the woman’s shoe are
unmistakable. Also, by _this___—” And, leaning forward, he drew
something from the handle of the dagger and held it up for me to see.
It was a woman’s long black hair—similar to the one Poirot had taken
from the arm-chair in the library.
With a slightly ironic smile he wound it round the dagger again.
“We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he explained.
“It pleases the examining magistrate. _Eh bien___, do you notice
anything else?”
I was forced to shake my head.
“Look at his hands.”
I did. The nails were broken and discoloured, and the skin was hard. It
hardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I
looked up at Giraud.
“They are not the hands of a gentleman,” he said, answering my look.
“On the contrary his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is
curious, is it not?”
“Very curious,” I agreed.
“And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This
man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was
masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by
disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know—he
was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.”
He looked down at the body again.
“As before there are no finger-prints on the handle of the dagger. The
murderer again wore gloves.”
“You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I
asked eagerly.
Giraud became inscrutable.
“Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!”
The _sergent de ville___ appeared at the doorway.
“Monsieur?”
“Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour
ago?”
“She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.”
“Good. I only want one at a time, though.”
Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared
with Mrs. Renauld.
“Here is Madame.”
Giraud came forward with a curt bow.
“This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly
aside. “Here is the man. Do you know him?”
And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to
read her mind, noting every indication of her manner.
But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked
down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign
of agitation or recognition.
“No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a
stranger to me.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?”
“No,” she seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. “No, I do
not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the examining
magistrate thought, but still—no.” Now she seemed to make her mind up
definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this man.”
“Very well, madame. That is all, then.”
She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads
in her hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify
the man, in a completely natural manner.
Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could not
tell. He merely called to Marchaud:
“You have got the other there?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Bring her in then.”
“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting with
vehemence.
“I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all
this?”
“Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one murder, but
two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.”
“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild
accusation! It is infamous.”
“Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the
hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced towards
her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”
With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.
“It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime.
Any one who says I do lies! Ah! _mon Dieu___, what shall I do?”
“Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has accused you as
yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.”
“Anything you wish, monsieur.”
“Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?”
Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face,
Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of
interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head.
“I do not know him.”
It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud
dismissed her with a nod of the head. “You are letting her go?” I asked
in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her
head.”
“I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud dryly. “She is under
surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.”
Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.
“Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?” he asked suddenly.
I considered the face carefully.
“No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman most
decidedly.”
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Same here.”
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved
me aside, and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of
the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by
inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He
pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat
and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old
gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them
aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over
one by one. In the end, he rose to his feet, and shook his head
thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten
my presence.
But, at that moment, a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old
friend, the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex,
with the doctor behind him, came bustling in.
“But this is extraordinary, Mr. Giraud,” cried M. Hautet. “Another
crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some
deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?”
“That is just what nobody can tell us, M. le juge. He has not been
identified.”
“Where is the body?” asked the doctor.
Giraud moved aside a little.
“There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And
with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the
murder followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can
handle the dagger freely—there are no finger-prints on it.”
The doctor knelt down by the dead man, and Giraud turned to the
examining magistrate.
“A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.”
“And so no one can identify him,” mused the magistrate. “Could it
possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among
themselves.”
Giraud shook his head.
“The man is a Frenchman—I would take my oath of that—”
But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor who was sitting
back on his heels with a perplexed expression.
“You say he was killed yesterday morning?”
“I fix it by the theft of the dagger,” explained Giraud. “He may, of
course, have been killed later in the day.”
“Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least
forty-eight hours, and probably longer.”
We stared at each other in blank amazement.
*****
