“Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the
end his self-control snapped and, on the impulse of the moment, he
scrawled those four desperate words.”
But my friend shook his head energetically.
“You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is
nearly black, that of the postscript is quite pale?”
“Well?” I said puzzled.
“_Mon Dieu, mon ami___, but use your little grey cells! Is it not
obvious? M. Renauld wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he reread it
carefully. Then, not on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last
words, and blotted the sheet.”
“But why?”
“_Parbleu!___ so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has
upon you.”
“What?”
“_Mais, oui___—to make sure of my coming! He reread the letter and was
dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!”
He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green
light that always betokened inward excitement: “And so, _mon ami___,
since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but soberly, in cold
blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as soon as
possible.”
“Merlinville,” I murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of it, I think.”
Poirot nodded.
“It is a quiet little place—but chic! It lies about midway between
Bolougne and Calais. It is rapidly becoming the fashion. Rich English
people who wish to be quiet are taking it up. M. Renauld has a house in
England, I suppose?”
“Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the
country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little
about him, he doesn’t do much in a social way. I believe he has large
South American interests in the City, and has spent most of his life
out in Chile and the Argentino.”
“Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us
pack. A small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.”
“And the Countess?” I inquired with a smile.
“Ah! _je m’en fiche!___ Her case was certainly not interesting.”
“Why so sure of that?”
“Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot
wait—always remember that, Hastings.”
Eleven o’clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover.
Before starting Poirot had despatched a telegram to Mr. Renauld giving
the time of our arrival at Calais. “I’m surprised you haven’t invested
in a few bottles of some sea sick remedy, Poirot,” I observed
maliciously, as I recalled our conversation at breakfast.
My friend, who was anxiously scanning the weather, turned a reproachful
face upon me.
“Is 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.”
“H’m,” I demurred. “You’ll be rather tired of balancing yourself and
counting six by the time you get to Santiago, or Buenos Ayres, or
wherever it is you land.”
“_Quelle idée!___ You do not figure to yourself that I shall go to
Santiago?”
“Mr. Renauld suggests it in his letter.”
“He 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.
“It’s all very well, Poirot, but I think you are falling into the habit
of despising certain things too much. A finger-print has led sometimes
to the arrest and conviction of a murderer.”
“And has, without doubt, hanged more than one innocent man,” remarked
Poirot dryly.
“But surely the study of finger-prints and footprints, cigarette ash,
different kinds of mud, and other clues that comprise the minute
observation of details—all these are of vital importance?”
“But 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?”
“I have hunted a bit, now and again,” I said, rather bewildered by this
abrupt change of subject. “Why?”
“_Eh bien___, this hunting of the fox, you need the dogs, no?”
“Hounds,” I corrected gently. “Yes, of course.”
“But 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.
“So. 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.”
“So you are of the opinion that Japp wasted his time.”
“Not 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
mill-pond, so I was hardly surprised to hear that Laverguier’s method
had once more justified itself when a smiling Poirot joined me on
disembarking at Calais. A disappointment was in store for us, as no car
had been sent to meet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram
having been delayed in transit.
“Since it is _carte blanche___, we will hire a car,” he said
cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us creaking and jolting along,
in the most ramshackle of automobiles that ever plied for hire, in the
direction of Merlinville.
My spirits were at their highest.
“What gorgeous air!” I exclaimed. “This promises to be a delightful
trip.”
“For you, yes. For me, I have work to do, remember, at our journey’s
end.”
“Bah!” I said cheerfully. “You will discover all, ensure this Mr.
Renauld’s safety, run the would-be assassins to earth, and all will
finish in a blaze of glory.”
“You are sanguine, my friend.”
“Yes, I feel absolutely assured of success. Are you not the one and
only Hercule Poirot?”
But my little friend did not rise to the bait. He was observing me
gravely.
“You are what the Scotch people call ‘fey,’ Hastings. It presages
disaster.”
“Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.”
“No, but I am afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I do not know. But I have a premonition—a _je ne sais quoi!___”
He spoke so gravely, that I was impressed in spite of myself.
“I have a feeling,” he said slowly, “that this is going to be a big
affair—a long, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work out.”
I would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the
little town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the
Villa Geneviève.
“Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève is about
half a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big Villa,
overlooking the sea.”
We thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A fork
in the road brought us to a second halt. A peasant was trudging towards
us, and we waited for him to come up to us in order to ask the way
again. There was a tiny Villa standing right by the road, but it was
too small and dilapidated to be the one we wanted. As we waited, the
gate of it swung open and a girl came out.
The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his
seat and asked for direction.
“The Villa Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right,
monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.”
The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were
fascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate,
watching us. I am an admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody
could have passed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a
young goddess, her uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I
swore to myself that she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever
seen. As we swung up the rough road, I turned my head to look after
her.
“By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“_Ça commence!___” he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!”
“But, hang it all, wasn’t she?”
“Possibly. I did not remark the fact.”
“Surely you noticed her?”
“_Mon ami___, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance,
saw a goddess. I—” he hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.
But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously,
we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing _sergent de
ville___. He held up his hand to bar our way.
“You cannot pass, monsieurs.”
“But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an appointment.
This is his Villa, isn’t it?”
“Yes, monsieur, but—”
Poirot leaned forward.
“But what?”
“M. Renauld was murdered this morning.”