Famous Detectives On Christmas Duty - Ultimate Murder Mysteries for Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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СКАЧАТЬ seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Mrs. Renauld’s testimony alone, some one moved on the hands of that wrist watch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying: secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time.”

      “But what reason could there be?”

      “Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connection.”

      “And that is?”

      “The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.”

      I followed it out slowly.

      “So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, any one leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!”

      “Perfect, Hastings! You have it!”

      I sprang up.

      “But we must inquire at the station. Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!”

      “You think so, Hastings?”

      “Of course. Let us go there now.”

      Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.

      “Go by all means if you wish, mon ami—but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners.”

      I stared, and he said rather impatiently:

      “Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire-là!”

      His words took me so much aback that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on serenely:

      “You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read of a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after—” he broke off.

      I was revolving sundry matters in my mind.

      “But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago?”

      “Undoubtedly there was a secret in M. Renauld’s life—there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring, dragged continually across the track to put us off the scent. It is possible that it was used in the same way on M. Renauld, to keep him from directing his suspicions into a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured, Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at hand, in France.”

      He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be convinced. But I essayed one final objection:

      “And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them.”

      A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot’s face.

      “Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his stomach. ‘See what I have found,’ he says. And then again to me: ‘What do you see here?’ Me, I answer, with profound and deep truth, ‘Nothing.’ And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself, ‘Oh, that he is imbecile, this old one!’ But we shall see. …”

      But my mind had reverted to the main facts.

      “Then all this story of the masked men—?”

      “Is false.”

      “What really happened?”

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

      “One person could tell us—Madame Renauld. But she will not speak. Threats and entreaties would not move her. A remarkable woman that, Hastings. I recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman of unusual character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of being concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.”

      “What made you do that?”

      “Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband’s body. I could swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.”

      “Yes,” I said thoughtfully, “one cannot mistake these things.”

      “I beg your pardon, my friend—one can always be mistaken. Regard a great actress, does not her acting of grief carry you away and impress you with its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I needed other evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great criminal can be a great actor. I base my certainty in this case, not upon my own impression, but upon the undeniable fact that Mrs. Renauld actually fainted. I turned up her eyelids and felt her pulse. There was no deception—the swoon was genuine. Therefore I was satisfied that her anguish was real and not assumed. Besides, a small additional point not without interest, it was unnecessary for Mrs. Renauld to exhibit unrestrained grief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of her husband’s death, and there would be no need for her to simulate another such a violent one on beholding his body. No, Mrs. Renauld was not her husband’s murderess. But why has she lied? She lied about the wrist watch, she lied about the masked men—she lied about a third thing. Tell me, Hastings, what is your explanation of the open door?”

      “Well,” I said, rather embarrassed, “I suppose it was an oversight. They forgot to shut it.”

      Poirot shook his head, and sighed.

      “That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a meaning behind that open door which for a moment I cannot fathom.”

      “I have an idea,” I cried suddenly.

      “A la bonne heure! Let us hear it.”

      “Listen. We are agreed that Mrs. Renauld’s story is a fabrication. Is it not possible, then, that Mr. Renauld left the house to keep an appointment—possibly with the murderer—leaving the front door open for his return. But he did not return, and the next morning he is found, stabbed in the back.”

      “An admirable theory, Hastings, but for two facts which you have characteristically overlooked. In the first place, who gagged and bound Madame Renauld? And why on earth should they return to the house to do so? In the second place, no man on earth would go out to keep an appointment wearing his underclothes and an overcoat. There are circumstances in which a man might wear pajamas and an overcoat—but the other, never!”

      “True,” I said, rather crest-fallen.

      “No,” continued Poirot, “we must look elsewhere for a solution of the open door mystery. СКАЧАТЬ