good day.' And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure.
Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his and observed the time.
'Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,' he said. 'And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.'
We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot's voice arrested me:
'One little moment, my friend.' Dexterously he whipped out his yard measure and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall, from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr Stonor or Jack Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket and followed me out into the open air.
Murder on the Links
Chapter 12
POIROT ELUCIDATES CERTAIN POINTS
'Why did you measure that overcoat?' I asked, with some curiosity, as we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.
'Parbleu! to see how long it was,' replied my friend imperturbably.
I was vexed. Poirot's incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time, certain words Mrs Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me, fraught with a new significance. 'So you did not sail?' she had said, and then had added: 'After all, it does not matter - now.'
What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical - significant. Was it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have entrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended? Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully thought out and preconceived plan?
The more I thought about, it, the more I was convinced that I was right. Mrs Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if not the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very powerful considerations must keep her silent.
'You think profoundly, my friend,' remarked Poirot, breaking in upon my reflections. 'What is it that intrigues you so?'
I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would ridicule my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.
'You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring, at least of conniving at the crime.'
'You suspected her?' I cried.
'But certainly. She benefits enormously - in fact, by this new will, she is the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of examining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that she had gagged and bound herself. Bien, I saw at once that there was no fake, the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut into the flesh. That ruled out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed. But it was still possible for her to have connived at it, or to have been the instigator with an accomplice. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was singularly familiar to me - the masked men that she could not recognize, the mention of “the secret” - I had heard, or read, all these things before. Another little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the truth. The wristwatch, Hasting, the wristwatch!'
Again that wristwatch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.
'You see, mon ami? You comprehend?'
'No,' I replied with some ill burnout. 'I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries and it's useless asking you to
Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his and observed the time.
'Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,' he said. 'And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.'
We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot's voice arrested me:
'One little moment, my friend.' Dexterously he whipped out his yard measure and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall, from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr Stonor or Jack Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket and followed me out into the open air.
Murder on the Links
Chapter 12
POIROT ELUCIDATES CERTAIN POINTS
'Why did you measure that overcoat?' I asked, with some curiosity, as we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace.
'Parbleu! to see how long it was,' replied my friend imperturbably.
I was vexed. Poirot's incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time, certain words Mrs Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me, fraught with a new significance. 'So you did not sail?' she had said, and then had added: 'After all, it does not matter - now.'
What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical - significant. Was it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have entrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended? Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully thought out and preconceived plan?
The more I thought about, it, the more I was convinced that I was right. Mrs Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if not the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very powerful considerations must keep her silent.
'You think profoundly, my friend,' remarked Poirot, breaking in upon my reflections. 'What is it that intrigues you so?'
I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would ridicule my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.
'You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring, at least of conniving at the crime.'
'You suspected her?' I cried.
'But certainly. She benefits enormously - in fact, by this new will, she is the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of examining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that she had gagged and bound herself. Bien, I saw at once that there was no fake, the cords had actually been drawn so tight as to cut into the flesh. That ruled out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed. But it was still possible for her to have connived at it, or to have been the instigator with an accomplice. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was singularly familiar to me - the masked men that she could not recognize, the mention of “the secret” - I had heard, or read, all these things before. Another little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the truth. The wristwatch, Hasting, the wristwatch!'
Again that wristwatch! Poirot was eyeing me curiously.
'You see, mon ami? You comprehend?'
'No,' I replied with some ill burnout. 'I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries and it's useless asking you to
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