Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [38]
“Perhaps, mon ami.”
I mused, thinking over the new field of conjecture that Poirot’s deductions had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic allusion to the flower bed and the wristwatch. His remarks had seemed so meaningless at the moment, and now, for the first time, I realized how remarkably, from a few slight incidents, he had unravelled much of the mystery that surrounded the case. I paid a belated homage to my friend.
“In the meantime,” I said, considering, “although we know a great deal more than we did, we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who killed Mr. Renauld.”
“No,” said Poirot cheerfully. “In fact we are a great deal farther off.”
The fact seemed to afford him such peculiar satisfaction that I gazed at him in wonder. He met my eye and smiled.
Suddenly a light burst upon me.
“Poirot! Mrs. Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.”
From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could see that the idea had already occurred to him.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Shielding someone—or screening someone. One of the two.”
Then, as we entered our hotel, he enjoined silence on me with a gesture.
Thirteen
THE GIRL WITH THE ANXIOUS EYES
We lunched with an excellent appetite. For a while we ate in silence, and then Poirot observed maliciously: “Eh bien! And your indiscretions! You recount them not?”
I felt myself blushing.
“Oh, you mean this morning?” I endeavoured to adopt a tone of absolute nonchalance.
But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.
“Tiens! A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming young lady?”
I had to confess that I did not know.
“Still more romantic! The first rencontre in the train from Paris, the second here. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, is not that the saying?”
“Don’t be an ass, Poirot.”
“Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle—Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should establish a harem!”
“It’s all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely—I don’t mind admitting it. The other’s nothing—I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again.”
“You do not propose to see the lady again?”
His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness with which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, writ large in letters of fire, I saw the words “Hôtel du Phare,” and I heard again her voice saying, “Come and look me up,” and my own answering with empressement “I will.”
I answered Poirot lightly enough:
“She asked me to look her up, but, of course, I shan’t.”
“Why ‘of course?’”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
“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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur Renauld fils.”
“That reminds me,” I said. “I meant to ask you how you knew about those two?”
“Mon ami—I know human nature.