The Murder on the Links Read Online Free PDF Page B

moment taking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.
    â€œNo dust?” I asked, with a smile.
    He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.
    â€œNot a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.”
    His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.
    â€œAh!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. “The hearthrug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it.
    Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small fragment of pink paper.
    â€œIn France, as in England,” he remarked, “the domestics omit to sweep under the mats?”
    Bex took the fragment from him, and I came close to examine it.
    â€œYou recognize it—eh, Hastings?”
    I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was very familiar.
    The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine.
    â€œA fragment of a cheque,” he exclaimed.
    The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was written in ink the word “Duveen.”
    â€œ Bien! ” said Bex. “This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, someone named Duveen.”
    â€œThe former, I fancy,” said Poirot. “For, if I am not mistaken, the handwriting is that of Monsieur Renauld.”
    That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk.
    â€œDear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”
    Poirot laughed.
    â€œThe moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As soon as I saw that the hearthrug was out of the straight, I said to myself: ‘ Tiens! The legs of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly there may be something beneath it which the good Françoise overlooked.’”
    â€œFrançoise?”
    â€œOr Denise, or Léonie. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust, the room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like this. Yesterday, possibly last night, Monsieur Renauld drew a cheque to the order of some one named Duveen. Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered on the floor. This morning—”
    But M. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell.
    Françoise answered it. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What else?
    With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face lightening, he ran to the desk. In a minute he was hunting through the dead man’s cheque book. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last counterfoil was blank.
    â€œCourage!” cried Poirot, clapping him on the back. “Without doubt, Madame Renauld will be able to tell us all about this mysterious person named Duveen.”
    The commissary’s face cleared. “That is true. Let us proceed.”
    As we turned to leave the room, Poirot remarked casually: “It was here that Monsieur Renauld received his guest last night, eh?”
    â€œIt was—but how did you know?”
    â€œBy this. I found it on the back of the leather chair.” And he held up between his finger and thumb a long black hair—a woman’s hair!
    M. Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small shed leaning against the house. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it.
    â€œThe body is here. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before you arrived, as the photographers had done with it.”
    He opened the door and we passed in. The murdered man lay on the ground, with a sheet over him. M. Bex dexterously whipped off the covering. Renauld was a