Chapter 4 Chapter 4 A Letter Signed "Bella"

Francois had left the living room.The prosecutor tapped on the table thoughtfully. "Mr. Bex," he said at last, "the testimony we have heard here is utterly contradictory. Which do we believe, François or Denis?" "Denis," said the Commissioner decisively, "is the one who opens the door for guests. François is old and stubborn, and clearly dislikes Mrs. Dobler. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that Reynolds Involved with another woman." "Tiens!" cried Ayut, "we forgot to tell M. Poirot." He flipped through some papers on the table, and finally gave the one he was looking for to my friend. "Mr. Poirot, we found this letter in the pocket of the deceased's coat.

of. " Poirot took it and unfolded it.The paper is old and crumpled.The letter is written in English, and the style of writing seems to have not yet been finalized. Dearest and dearest: Why haven't you written to me for so long? You do still love me, don't you? But the strangeness, the coldness, the alienation of your recent letters, combined with the long silence, frightens me.You don't love me anymore! But it's impossible... What a little fool I am... Always so suspicious: If you really don't love me, then I don't know what to do... Maybe suicide! Without you, I can't live.Sometimes I think there's another woman who broke us up.

Tell her to be careful and nothing else... You have to be careful yourself: I might as well kill you if she wants you! I mean what I say. Look at this exaggerated nonsense I write! You love me, I love you...yes, love you, love you, love you! Bella's letter of infatuated love for you has no address and no date.Poirot returned the letter solemnly. "What assumptions?" The prosecutor shrugged. "Apparently M. Reynolds was originally involved with this Englishwoman named Bella. He came here, met Mrs. Dobler, and fell in love with her again. He became indifferent to the first, and she was immediately suspicious." This letter is clearly a threat. M. Poirot, at first glance, the case seems to be very simple. Jealousy 2 M. Renault was stabbed in the back, which is obviously a woman's trick."

Poirot nodded. "A stab in the back, yes . . . but that's not the case with the grave! It's hard work—a woman couldn't dig that grave, sir. It was a man's." The chief exclaimed excitedly: "Yes, yes, you're right. We didn't think of that." "As I said," continued M. Ayut, "the case seemed simple at first glance, but it was complicated by the masked fellow and the letter from M. Renaud. It seems that we met It is a completely different situation, with no connection between the two. As for the letter addressed to yourself, do you see any possibility of referring to 'Bella' and her threats?"

Poirot shook his head. "Improbable. A man like Monsieur Renault, who has lived a life of adventure in many remote places, would not ask for protection against a woman." The prosecutor nodded vigorously. "That's my opinion. Then we'll have to find out what the letter is about..." "Look in San Diego," the chief finished for him. "I will immediately send a telegram to the police station there, asking for details of the deceased's life there, such as the ambiguous relationship between men and women, business contacts, friends he made, and enemies he may have provoked, etc. If you make inquiries, It would be strange if we still had no clue as to his mysterious murder."

The director glanced around, hoping to win everyone's approval. "Excellent!" exclaimed Poirot. "Have you found any other letters from this Bella among Mr. Renault's things?" asked Poirot. "No. Of course we first searched carefully among the private letters in his study, but found nothing of interest. Everything seems to be in good order, except for his will. That's it." Poirot read the document through. "I see. A thousand pounds for Stoner. Well, who is this Stoner?" "Mr. Renault's secretary. He stays in England, and comes here once or twice at weekends."

"Everything else is unconditionally left to his beloved wife Héloise. The will is simple but complete. Two servants, Denis and Francois, testify. There is nothing unreasonable about it. ’ He handed the will back to the Commissioner. "Perhaps," said Bex, "you haven't noticed..." "Date you mean?" Poirot blinked. "But yes, I noticed it a fortnight ago. It probably marked the first time he hinted at danger. Lots of rich people die without a will because they don't even have the slightest idea of ​​their own death. None of that. It's dangerous to jump to conclusions, though. But it's enough to prove that, despite his flirtations with other women, he has real feelings for his wife."

"Yes," Mr. Ayut said doubtfully, "but it would be a bit unfair to his son, because then he would have to rely entirely on his mother. If she remarried, and her second If a husband can control her, this child may not even get a dime of my money." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Men are vain creatures. M. Reynolds imagines to himself that his widow will never remarry. As for sons, it is a good precaution to leave money with his mother. As the saying goes, the son of a rich man , often bohemian." "Perhaps it is as you say. Now, M. Poirot, you must want to see the scene. Sorry, the body has been removed, but of course photographs have been taken from all angles. The prints are ready for use." You studied it."

"Sir, thank you for your kindness." The chief stood up. "Everyone, come with me." He opened the door, bowed very politely, and let Poirot go first.Poirot took a polite step back and bowed towards the Director. "Sir, please." "you please." At last they entered the porch. "That room over there is the study, hein L?" asked Poirot suddenly, nodding towards the opposite door. "Yes. Do you want to see it?" said the chief, opening the door.We just walked in. ①French: Well (expressing doubts).Annotation. The room which M. Reynolds had chosen for his own use was not large, but tastefully furnished and comfortable.There is a desk by the window with lots of compartments.Facing the fireplace were two large leather-covered easy chairs, and between them was a small round table filled with the latest books and magazines.

Poirot paused for a while, looking around the room, then took a few steps forward, touched the backs of the two leather chairs with his hands, picked up a magazine from the small round table, and carefully placed a finger on the oak wood. She glanced at the surface of the cupboard.His face expressed great approval. "No dust?" I asked with a smile. He looked at me beaming, as if appreciating my understanding of his idiosyncrasies. "Not a speck of dust, mon ami! Maybe that's a pity." His keen bird-like eyes looked around. "Ah!" he said suddenly, in a tone of relief. "The rug in front of the fire is not right." He bent down and straightened it.

Suddenly, with a cry of surprise, he stood up, holding a small pink piece of paper in his hand. "In France, as in England, the servants are always so negligent that they don't sweep under the rugs," said Poirot. Becks took the slip of paper from Poirot, and I leaned over to examine it. "You recognize it, Nuan, Hastings?" I shook my head, puzzled, but the particular hue of the pink paper was familiar. ①French: my friend. ——Annotation. The director's reaction is much quicker than mine. "Shards of a check," he exclaimed. The piece of paper was about two inches square and had "Duveen" written on it in fountain pen. "Bien!" said Bakers, "this check is payable to, or was written by, a man named Duveen." "It was paid to this man, I think," said Poirot. "If I am not mistaken, it is M. Renault's handwriting." A comparison of the handwriting on the scrap of paper with the memorandum on the desk confirmed Poirot's statement. "Ouch," murmured the Chief, looking disheartened, "I can't imagine I should have overlooked that." Poirot laughed. "The lesson is, don't miss what's under the rug: my friend Hastings will tell you that I can't stand anything that's even a little out of order. Say to yourself: Tiens②! You must have gotten caught in the legs of the chair while moving it.Maybe there's something down here that the able François missed:"'"François?" "Or it's Dennis, or Leonie. Either way, it's the guy who cleans the room. Since there's no dust, the room must have been cleaned this morning. Let me reorganize what happened like this: Yesterday, maybe yesterday ①French: Hurrah. — Annotation. ②French: ah. ——An annotation. That night M. Reynolds wrote a check made payable to a man named Duveen.The check was later torn up and scattered on the ground.this morning……" But Mr Bex couldn't help pulling at the bell-rope. Francois was called to come.Yes, there are lots of papers on the floor.What did she do with the papers? In the oven, of course: what else? Bex dismissed her with a disappointed gesture.Immediately, with a happy expression on his face, he ran to the desk.For a moment, he rummaged through the dead man's checkbook. Then made a disappointed gesture because the last check stub was blank. "Take courage," cried Poirot, patting him on the back. "No doubt Madame Renaud will tell us about this mysterious figure named Duveen." The haze on the director's face dissipated. "That's the truth. Let's get started." As we turned to leave the room, Poirot said casually: "Mr. Reynolds was here to meet guests last night?" "Yes...but how did you know?" "According to this. I found it on the back of the leather chair." Between his thumb and forefinger he held a long piece of black hair—a woman's hair. Mr Bex led us out through the back door of the Kew House to a small shed close to the mansion.He took the key from his pocket and opened the door. "The body is here. We just removed it from the scene before you arrived. ① Name of recipient or payee on the slip.—Annotation. Come here because the photographer has taken the picture. " He opened the door and we walked in.The victim was lying on the ground, covered with a cloth.Mr Bex quickly removed the veil.Renault is of medium build, thin and about fifty years old, with black hair interspersed with a lot of gray and white hair.He was clean-shaven, with a long thin nose, close-set eyes, and the copper color of a man who had spent most of his life in the tropical sun.The lips were drawn tightly to the sides, revealing the teeth, and an expression of extreme astonishment and fear was imprinted on the dead gray face. "You could tell from his face that he had been stabbed in the back," said Poirot. He gently turned the dead man over.On the back, a round, dark patch stained the part between the swollen shoulders of the beige overcoat.There was a tear in the dark center of the clothes.Poirot examined it carefully. "What do you think of the murder weapon used?" "The murder weapon was left in the wound." The chief reached into a large glass jar. Inside was a small thing that looked to me very much like a paper knife, with a black handle and a narrow, shiny edge.The knife was less than ten inches long.Poirot tried the discolored point cautiously with his fingertips. "Ma foi is sharp! It's so clever and convenient for killing people!" "Unfortunately there are no fingerprints on it," said Bex apologetically. "The murderer must have been wearing gloves." "Of course," said Poirot with contempt, "even people in Santiago know this trick well. Even a most amateurish English lady. understand this too.Thanks to the hype in the newspapers about Bertillon's Law.Anyway, the absence of fingerprints aroused my great interest.Otherwise, it would be the easiest thing to leave someone else's fingerprints.In this way, the police will be happy. He shook his head. "I'm very concerned that our criminal isn't a repeat offender, or that he doesn't have the time to do it."But we'll see later. ’ Poirot restored the body to its original state. "It turns out he was only wearing underwear under his coat," he said. "Yes, the Public Prosecutor's Office finds this inconceivable." At this moment, there was a light knock on the closed door behind Becks.He took a step forward and opened the door.François stood there, peering into the shed with ghoul-like curiosity. "Hey, what's the matter?" Bex asked impatiently. "Madame sent me a message. She is much better and ready to see the prosecutor." "Okay," Mr. Bex said quickly, "tell Mr. Ayut we'll be right there." Poirot paused for a moment, looking back at the corpse.Then I thought he was going to shout at it, to declare loudly that he would not rest until the murderer was found out.But when he spoke, his tone was dull and awkward.His words were so incompatible with the solemn scene at that time, it was ridiculous. "He's wearing a long coat," he said unnaturally. ①Betty Wing (1853-1914).A French criminal investigator proposed the so-called "personal measurement method", that is, based on age, comparing bones, combining photography and fingerprints.Identify criminals.In the field of criminal investigation, it is called "Bettillon's Law." - Annotation.