“She asked me to look her up, but of course I shan’t.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Well—I don’t want to.”
“I see.” He studied me attentively for some minutes. “Yes. I see very
well. And you are wise. Stick to what you have said.”
“That seems to be your invariable advice,” I remarked, rather piqued.
“Ah, my friend, have faith in Papa Poirot. Some day, if you permit, I
will arrange you a marriage of great suitability.”
“Thank you,” I said laughing, “but the prospect leaves me cold.”
Poirot sighed and shook his head.
“_Les Anglais!___” he murmured. “No method—absolutely none whatever.
They leave all to chance!” He frowned, and altered the position of the
salt cellar.
“Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d’Angleterre you told
me, did you not?”
“No. Hôtel du Phare.”
“True, I forgot.”
A moment’s misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never mentioned
any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him, and felt reassured. He was
cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his
task. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.
We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny
cigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket.
“The train to Paris leaves at 2:25,” he observed. “I should be
starting.”
“Paris?” I cried.
“That is what I said, _mon ami___.”
“You are going to Paris? But why?”
He replied very seriously.
“To look for the murderer of M. Renauld.”
“You think he is in Paris?”
“I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I
must look for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to
you in good time. Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I
shall not be away long. In all probability I shall return tomorrow. I
do not propose that you should accompany me. Remain here and keep an
eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the society of M. Renauld _fils___. And
thirdly, if you wish, endeavour to cut him out with Mademoiselle
Marthe. But I fear you will not have great success.”