The Murder on the Links quotes

“ ‘Hell!’ said the Duchess.”

Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion. Only the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a Duchess!

It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris and was returning by the morning service to London where I was still sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.

“That’s better. Keeping up appearances is a bit of a fag, I grant, but if a girl respects herself it’s up to her not to let herself get slack.”

To this essentially moral sentiment, I had no reply. A point of view makes a great difference.

I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform. My companion held out her hand.

Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency, and remark with great satisfaction:

“The true work, it is done from within. The little grey cells⁠—remember always the little grey cells, mon ami!”

I slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirot’s greeting, that an hour’s sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be dignified by the epithet “terrible.”

“

Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot wait⁠—always remember that, Hastings.

”

“It’s all very well, Poirot, but I think you are falling into the habit of despising certain things too much. A fingerprint has led sometimes to the arrest and conviction of a murderer.”

“And has, without doubt, hanged more than one innocent man,” remarked Poirot dryly.

“But surely the study of fingerprints and footprints, cigarette ash, different kinds of mud, and other clues that comprise the minute observation of details—all these are of vital importance?”

“Possibly. I did not remark the fact.”

“Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I⁠—”

he hesitated.

“I know you by name, M. Poirot,” he said. “You cut quite a figure in the old days, didn’t you? But methods are very different now.”

“Crimes, though, are very much the same,” remarked Poirot gently.

I saw at once that Giraud was prepared to be hostile. He resented the other being associated with him, and I felt that if he came across any clue of importance he would be more than likely to keep it to himself.

“

Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one measuring two millimetres!

But it is the romantic idea that all important clues must be infinitesimal! As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so.

“Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,” remarked Poirot cheerfully. “

A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a madonna.

”

(Japp would tell you the same, Hastings.)

Man is an unoriginal animal. Unoriginal within the law in his daily respectable life, equally unoriginal outside the law.

If a man commits a crime, any other crime he commits will resemble it closely. The English murderer who disposed of his wives in succession by drowning them in their baths was a case in point.

“That when you have two crimes precisely similar in design and execution, you find the same brain behind them both. I am looking for that brain, M. Giraud—and I shall find it. Here we have a true clue—a psychological clue.

You may know all about cigarettes and match ends, M. Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man!

” And the ridiculous little fellow tapped his forehead with emphasis.

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.

“Method, you comprehend! Method!

Arrange your facts. Arrange your ideas. And if some little fact will not fit in⁠—do not reject it but consider it closely.

Though its significance escapes you, be sure that it is significant.”

“But yes, it is better so. Before, there was at all events a clear theory as to how and by whose hands he met his death. Now that is all gone. We are in darkness. A hundred conflicting points confuse and worry us.

That is well. That is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth order.

But if you find order to start with, if a crime seems simple and aboveboard, eh bien, méfiez vous! It is, how do you say it?—cooked! The great criminal is simple—but very few criminals are great.

That is well. That is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth order. But if you find order to start with, if a crime seems simple and aboveboard, eh bien, méfiez vous! It is, how do you say it?—cooked!

The great criminal is simple⁠—but very few criminals are great.

In trying to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, mon ami, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.”

It is, how do you say it?—cooked! The great criminal is simple—but very few criminals are great. In trying to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves.

Ah, mon ami, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal⁠—one who commits his crime, and then⁠—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.

”

Poirot sighed and shook his head.

“Les Anglais!” he murmured. “No method⁠—absolutely none whatever. They leave all to chance!”

He frowned, and altered the position of the salt cellar.

“Ta-ta-ta,” said Poirot impatiently. “

Again you have the sentiment, and not the logic!

If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary?

“Ta-ta-ta.” Poirot made his favourite ejaculation of impatience. “Still you do not understand.

One may have a crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential to have two bodies.

”

“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “you continue to be of a sentimentality unbelievable!

I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.

”

“Of course.

He builds a case, as a beaver builds a dam, with a fatiguing industry.

But he will not have looked for the things that I am seeking—in all probability he would not have seen their importance if they stared him in the face. Let us begin.”

“You mock yourself at me. But I will give you one last irrefutable proof. Madame Renauld’s story was false—a fabrication from beginning to end. We believe Madame Renauld to have loved her husband—yet she lied to shield his murderer.

For whom will a woman lie? Sometimes for herself, usually for the man she loves, always for her children.

That is the last—the irrefutable proof. You can not get round it.”

“Think, my friend,” said Poirot’s voice encouragingly. “

Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.

”

But, in the meantime, what was Poirot doing? I studied him attentively. He was wearing his most innocent air, and staring meditatively into the far distance. He looked altogether too placid and supine to give me reassurance.

I had learned, with Poirot, that the less dangerous he looked, the more dangerous he was.

His quiescence alarmed me. Observing a troubled quality in my glance, he smiled benignantly.

“

A famous old imbecile, that one! Of a stupidity to make pity!

”

“And what are you doing here, M. Stonor?” inquired Poirot.

“One must stand by one’s friends,” replied the other dryly. “Especially when they are unjustly accused.”

“Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?” I asked eagerly.

“

It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.

”

Madame Daubreuil accompanied us down the stairs. Since I had learned of her past history, I viewed this woman with increased interest. She stood there with her eyes cast down, the same very faint enigmatical smile that I remembered on her lips.

And suddenly I felt afraid of her, as one might feel afraid of a beautiful poisonous snake.

“I hope we have not deranged you, madame,” said Poirot politely as she opened the door for us to pass out.

Then rushing to the tree in the flowerbed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I followed him, as with a bound he sprang in through the open window. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Dulcie reaching the branch behind me.

“Take care of your grandmother!” retorted the girl. “This is child’s play to me.”

Poirot had rushed through the empty room and was pounding on the door leading into the corridor.