The Murder on the Links Read Free

observed maliciously, as I recalled our conversation at breakfast.
    My friend, who was anxiously scanning the weather, turned a reproachful face upon me.
    â€œIs it that you have forgotten the method most excellent of Laverguier? His system, I practise it always. One balances oneself, if you remember, turning the head from left to right, breathing in and out, counting six between each breath.”
    â€œH’m,” I demurred. “You’ll be rather tired of balancing yourself and counting six by the time you get to Santiago, or Buenos Aires, or wherever it is you land.”
    â€œ Quelle idée! You do not figure to yourself that I shall go to Santiago?”
    â€œMr. Renauld suggests it in his letter.”
    â€œHe did not know the methods of Hercule Poirot. I do not run to and fro, making journeys, and agitating myself. My work is done from within— here —” he tapped his forehead significantly.
    As usual, this remark roused my argumentative faculty.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œAnd has, without doubt, hanged more than one innocent man,” remarked Poirot dryly.
    â€œBut 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?”
    â€œBut certainly. I have never said otherwise. The trained observer, the expert, without doubt he is useful! But the others, the Hercules Poirots, they are above the experts! To them the experts bring the facts, their business is the method of the crime, its logical deduction, the proper sequence and order of the facts; above all, the true psychology of the case. You have hunted the fox, yes?”
    â€œI have hunted a bit, now and again,” I said, rather bewildered by this abrupt change of subject. “Why?”
    â€œ Eh bien, this hunting of the fox, you need the dogs, no?”
    â€œHounds,” I corrected gently. “Yes, of course.”
    â€œBut yet,” Poirot wagged his finger at me. “You did not descend from your horse and run along the ground smelling with your nose and uttering loud Ow Ows?”
    In spite of myself I laughed immoderately. Poirot nodded in a satisfied manner.
    â€œSo. You leave the work of the d—hounds to the hounds. Yet you demand that I, Hercule Poirot, should make myself ridiculous by lying down (possibly on damp grass) to study hypothetical footprints, and should scoop up cigarette ash when I do not know one kind from the other. Remember the Plymouth Express mystery. The good Japp departed to make a survey of the railway line. When he returned, I, without having moved from my apartments, was able to tell him exactly what he had found.”
    â€œSo you are of the opinion that Japp wasted his time.”
    â€œNot at all, since his evidence confirmed my theory. But I should have wasted my time if I had gone. It is the same with so called ‘experts.’ Remember the handwriting testimony in the Cavendish Case. One counsel’s questioning brings out testimony as to the resemblances, the defence brings evidence to show dissimilarity. All the language is very technical. And the result? What we all knew in the first place. The writing was very like that of John Cavendish. And the psychological mind is faced with the question ‘Why?’ Because it was actually his? Or because some one wished us to think it was his? I answered that question, mon ami, and answered it correctly.”
    And Poirot, having effectually silenced, if not convinced me, leaned back with a satisfied air.
    On the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend’s solitude. The weather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial millpond, so I was hardly surprised when a smiling Poirot