Murder on the Links

Poirot bestowed but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose to Giraud's lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down again.

'Old clothes of the gardener's?' he queried.

'Exactly,' said Giraud.

Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical. He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and broken fingernails. While examining the latter he threw a quick question at Giraud.

'You saw them?'

'Yes, I saw them,' replied the other. His face remained inscrutable.

Suddenly Poirot stiffened.

'Dr. Durand!'

'Yes?' The doctor came forward.

'There is foam on the lips. You observed it?'

'I didn't notice it, I must admit.'

'But you observe it now?'

'Oh, certainly.'

Poirot again shot a question at Giraud. 'You noticed it without doubt?'

The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been withdrawn from the wound. It was in a glass jar by the side of the body. Poirot examined its then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up his eyes were shining.

'It is a strange wound this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all. What do you think monsieur?'

'I can only say that it is most abnormal.'

'It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed after he was already dead.' And stilling the clamour of voices that arose with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added: 'M. Giraud agrees with me do you not, monsieur?'

Whatever Giraud's real belief, he accepted the position without moving a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he said: 'Certainly I agree.'

The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again.

'But what an idea!' cried M. Hautet. 'To stab a man after he is dead! Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate perhaps.'

'No,' said Polrot. 'I should fancy it was done quite cold-bloodedly-to create an impression.'

'What impression?'

'The impression it nearly did create,' returned Poirot oracularly.

M. Bex had been thinking. 'How, then, was the man killed?'

'He was not killed. He died. He died, if I am not much mistaken of an epileptic fit!'

This statement of Poiot's again aroused considerable excitement. Dr. Durand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he came to his feet.

'Monsieur Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your assertion. The incontrovertible fact that the man had been stabbed distracted my attention from any other indications.'

Poirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse in compliments. Poirot responded fully, and then excused himself on the pretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched and that he wished to repair the ravages of the journey. As we were about to leave the shed, Giraud approached us.

'One other thing Monsieur Poirot,' he said in his suave mocking voice. 'We found this coiled round the handle of the dagger-a woman's hair.'

'Ah!' said Poirot. 'A woman's hair? What woman's, I wonder?'

'I wonder also,' said Giraud. Then with a bow he left us.

'He was insistent the good Giraud,' said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked towards the hotel. 'I wonder in what direction he hopes to mislead me? A woman's hair-hm!'

We lunched heartily, but I found Poirot somewhat distracted and inattentive. Afterwards we went up to our sitting room and there I begged him to tell me something of his mysterious journey to Paris.

'Willingly, my friend. I went to Paris to find this,' and he took from his pocket a small faded newspaper cutting.

It was the reproduction of a woman's photograph, He handed it to me. I uttered an exclamation.

'You recognize it my friend?'

I nodded. Although the photo obviously dated from very many years hack, and the hair was dressed in a different style, the likeness was unmistakable.

'Madame Daubreuil!' I exclaimed.

Poirot shook his head with a smile. 'Not quite correct my friend. She did not call herself by that name in those days. That is a picture of the notorious Madame Beroldy!'

Madame Beroldy! In a flash the whole thing came back to me. The murder trial that had evoked such worldwide interest.

The Beroldy Case.

Chapter 16. The Beroldy Case