The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie Page B

on:
    â€œWhy did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an accomplice, and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? I wonder if—”
    He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly he turned to me.
    â€œMy friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn that right-hand bed yonder. Monsieur Bex says that theyare the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if this is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow.”
    Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us.
    â€œYou are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the footmarks?” I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they were.
    â€œExactly,” said Poirot.
    â€œBut won’t he think it very odd?”
    â€œHe will not think about it at all.”
    We could say no more, for the old man had joined us.
    â€œYou want me for something, monsieur?”
    â€œYes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven’t you?”
    â€œTwenty-four years, monsieur.”
    â€œAnd your name is—?”
    â€œAuguste, monsieur.”
    â€œI was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb. They have been planted long?”
    â€œSome time, monsieur. But of course, to keep the beds looking smart, one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.”
    â€œYou put in some new plants yesterday, didn’t you? Those in the middle there, and in the other bed also.”
    â€œMonsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to ‘pick up.’ Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when thesun is hot.” Auguste was charmed with Poirot’s interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous.
    â€œThat is a splendid specimen there,” said Poirot, pointing. “Might I perhaps have a cutting of it?”
    â€œBut certainly, monsieur.” The old fellow stepped into the bed, and carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired.
    Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow.
    â€œYou see?” said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine the indentation of the gardener’s hobnailed boot. “It is quite simple.”
    â€œI did not realize—”
    â€œThat the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?”
    I examined the bed carefully.
    â€œAll the footmarks in the bed were made by the same boot,” I said at length after a careful study.
    â€œYou think so? Eh bien! I agree with you,” said Poirot.
    He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of something else.
    â€œAt any rate,” I remarked, “you will have one bee less in your bonnet now.”
    â€œ Mon Dieu! But what an idiom! What does it mean?”
    â€œWhat I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these footmarks.”
    But to my surprise Poirot shook his head.
    â€œNo, no, mon ami. At last I am on the right track. I am still inthe dark, but, as I hinted just now to Monsieur Bex, these footmarks are the most important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud—I should not be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever.”
    At that moment the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the commissary came down the steps.
    â€œAh, Monsieur Poirot, we were coming to look for you,” said the magistrate. “It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil.