The Murder on the Links

‘I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘The same time as usual, half past ten, monsieur.’

‘What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?’

‘Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me. Monsieur was still in his study.’

‘Then, if anyone unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been Monsieur Renauld himself?’

Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders.

‘What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had had to let the lady out—’

The magistrate interrupted sharply:

‘The lady? What lady do you mean?’

‘Why, the lady who came to see him.’

‘Had a lady been to see him that evening?’

‘But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.’

‘Who was she? Did you know her?’

A rather cunning look spread over the woman’s face.

‘How should I know who it was?’ she grumbled. ‘I did not let her in last night.’

‘Aha!’ roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table. ‘You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit Monsieur Renauld in the evenings.’

‘The police—the police,’ grumbled Françoise. ‘Never did I think that I should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.’

The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter astonishment.

‘Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?’

‘That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one.’

The old woman tossed her head scornfully.

‘Madame Daubreuil,’ murmured the commissary. ‘Impossible.’

‘Voilà,’ grumbled Françoise. ‘That is all you get for telling the truth.’

‘Not at all,’ said the examining magistrate soothingly. ‘We were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were—?’ He paused delicately. ‘Eh? It was that without doubt?’

‘How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was milord anglais—très riche—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one—and très chic, for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer young, but ma foi! I who speak to you have seen the men’s heads turn after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she had had more money to spend—all the town knows it. The little economies, they are at an end.’ And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable certainty.

M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.

‘And Madame Renauld?’ he asked at length. ‘How did she take this—friendship?’

Françoise shrugged her shoulders.

‘She was always most amiable—most polite. One would say that she suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur? Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair conducted in such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. Style anglais, without doubt!’

I bounded indignantly in my seat, but the examining magistrate was continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.

‘You say that Monsieur Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she left, then?’

‘Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door. Monsieur said goodnight, and shut the door after her.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About twenty-five minutes after ten, monsieur.’

‘Do you know when Monsieur Renauld went to bed?’

‘I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so that one hears everyone who goes up and down.’

‘And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?’

‘Nothing whatever, monsieur.’

‘Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?’

‘I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.’

‘What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?’

‘Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place anywhere.’

‘Good. Françoise, you can go.’

The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked back.

‘I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember that.’ And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.

‘Léonie Oulard,’ called the magistrate.

Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M. Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the night.

Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had changed greatly of late.

‘Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always depressed.’ But Denise had her own theory. ‘Without doubt it was the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A terrible society that!’