To make things worse, I had to joust with the “human blood hound” Inspector Giraud, a superstar French investigator who was always in my face with his insulting comments about my “old fashioned methods”. It seemed to be a very unplanned, incoherent crime. I was not satisfied when my friend Captain Hastings stumbled into the girl he only knew as Cinderella from a train ride together from Paris to Calais – on the golf links right beside the murder spot.Įverything was a confusing mess. I was not satisfied with his wife’s story of a kidnapping by bearded Spanish desperadoes – who didn’t even break into the house, but seemed to have walked in through an open door.Īnd at how the tale niggled at my faint memory of a twenty year-old murder case with similar undertones – one where the killers got away scot free! Or when Marthe, his divinely beautiful “girl with the anxious eyes” neighbor, rushed over to ask me if there were any suspects yet, even before I had begun my investigation in earnest.
I was not satisfied when my client summoned me to his home in France because he was afraid of being murdered – but then sent his chauffeur away. Nobody could explain why the front door was open. The maids Leonie and Denise, however, were adamant that the lady who visited him on the fatal night wasn’t her, but another. He had amended his will just a fortnight earlier, following an argument with his son Jack, who had since left to Paris, and was going on from there to South America.Īccording to the housekeeper Francoise, my now-dead client recently had several late night meetings with a Madame Daubreuil who lived next door with her daughter, the fair beauty Marthe. There was a love letter in the pocket of late Mr.Renauld’s overcoat. The police investigators were involved right away, and I joined the commissary M.Bex, the magistrate M.Hautet and a super-detective from the Surete, M.Giraud. On arriving in the village, I learned my client was found dead in a ditch on the golf links near his mansion just that morning, a dagger buried in his back. So I immediately boarded a train along with my friend Captain Hastings. His letter ended, “For God’s sake, come!” It all started when I got a letter from a reclusive South American millionaire Paul Renauld, urging me to come to Merlinville in France because he was afraid for his life. I, Hercule Poirot, was nearly led astray by complexity. In Agatha Christie’s ‘ The Murder on the Links‘, a Hercule Poirot mystery, a man lies dead in a shallow open grave, stabbed in the back with a letter opener… and too many people are suspected of killing him.Ī book review of The Murder on the Links… as if narrated by Hercule Poirot himself:
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