Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [39]
“You already suspected that she loved young Renauld?” Poirot smiled.
“At any rate, I saw that she had anxious eyes. That is how I always think of Mademoiselle Daubreuil—as the girl with the anxious eyes.”
His voice was so grave that it impressed me uncomfortably.
“What do you mean by that, Poirot?”
“I fancy, my friend, that we shall see before very long. But I must start.”
“I will come and see you off,” I said, rising.
“You will do nothing of the sort. I forbid it.”
He was so peremptory that I stared at him in surprise. He nodded emphatically.
“I mean it, mon ami. Au revoir.”
I felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down to the beach and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join them. I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself among them in some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled aimlessly along the sands towards the farther end of the town. It occurred to me that, after all, it would only be decent feeling on my part to inquire after the girl. And it would save trouble in the end. The matter would then be finished with. There would be no need for me to trouble about her any further. But if I did not go at all, she might quite possibly come and look me up at the villa.
Accordingly, I left the beach, and walked inland. I soon found the Hôtel du Phare, a very unpretentious building. It was annoying in the extreme not to know the lady’s name and, to save my dignity, I decided to stroll inside and look around. Probably I should find her in the lounge. I went in, but there was no sign of her. I waited for some time, till my impatience got the better of me. I took the concierge aside and slipped five francs into his hand.
“I wish to see a lady who is staying here. A young English lady, small and dark. I am not sure of her name.”
The man shook his head and seemed to be suppressing a grin.
“There is no such lady as you describe staying here.”
“But the lady told me she was staying here.”
“Monsieur must have made a mistake—or it is more likely the lady did, since there has been another gentleman here inquiring for her.”
“What is that you say?” I cried, surprised.
“But yes, monsieur. A gentleman who described her just as you have done.”
“What was he like?”
“He was a small gentleman, well dressed, very neat, very spotless, the moustache very stiff, the head of a peculiar shape, and the eyes green.”
Poirot! So that was why he refused to let me accompany him to the station. The impertinence of it! I would thank him not to meddle in my concerns. Did he fancy I needed a nurse to look after me?
Thanking the man, I departed, somewhat at a loss, and still much incensed with my meddlesome friend.
But where was the lady? I set aside my wrath and tried to puzzle it out. Evidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then another thought struck me. Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately withheld her name and given me the wrong address?
The more I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that this last surmise of mine was right. For some reason or other she did not wish to let the acquaintance ripen into friendship. And, though half an hour earlier this had been precisely my own view, I did not enjoy having the tables turned upon me. The whole affair was profoundly unsatisfactory, and I went up to the Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct ill humour. I did not go to the house, but went up the path to the little bench by the shed, and sat there moodily enough.
I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand. In a second or two I realized that they came, not from the garden I was in, but from the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were approaching rapidly. A girl’s voice was speaking,