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Murder on the Links
“A getaway,” said Poirot. “By the window, while we were battering at the door. Where is—the other?”
The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the floor lay a figure wrapped in some dark material, a fold of which hid the face.
“Dead?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“Head must have struck the marble tender.”
“But who is it?” I cried.
“The murderer of M. Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of Madame Renauld.”
Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down and, lifting the fold of cloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!
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