Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie [64]
She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she said:
“You’re right … you’re right … I can see it all as you tell it.” Then she turned on me almost savagely. “And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can you love me?”
“I don’t know,” I said a little wearily. “I think love is like that—a thing one cannot help. I have tried, I know—ever since the first day I met you. And love has been too strong for me.”
And then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again, casting herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.
“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know which way to turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, someone, and tell me what to do!”
Again I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Bella. For God’s sake don’t be afraid of me. I love you, that’s true—but I don’t want anything in return. Only let me help you. Love him still if you have to, but let me help you, as he can’t.”
It was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised her head from her hands and stared at me.
“You think that?” she whispered. “You think that I love Jack Renauld?”
Then, half laughing, half crying, she flung her arms passionately round my neck, and pressed her sweet wet face to mine.
“Not as I love you,” she whispered. “Never as I love you!”
Her lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me again and again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it—and the wonder, I shall not forget—no, not as long as I live!
It was a sound in the doorway that made us look up. Poirot was standing there looking at us.
I did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to his sides.
“Quick,” I said to the girl. “Get out of here. As fast as you can. I’ll hold him.”
With one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a grip of iron.
“Mon ami,” observed the latter mildly, “you do this sort of thing very well. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless as a child. But all this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit down and be calm.”
“You won’t pursue her?”
“Mon Dieu! no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.”
Keeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of knowing that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and he sank into an armchair, feeling his arms tenderly.
“It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings! Eh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show you the girl’s photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.”
“There was no need if you knew that I recognized it,” I said rather bitterly. So Poirot had known all along! I had not deceived him for an instant.
“Ta-ta! You did not know that I knew that. And tonight you help the girl to escape when we have found her with so much trouble. Eh bien! it comes to this—are you going to work with me or against me, Hastings?”
For a moment or two I did not answer. To break with my old friend gave me great pain. Yet I must definitely range myself against him. Would he ever forgive me, I wondered? He had been strangely calm so far, but I knew him to possess marvellous self-command.
“Poirot,” I said, “I’m sorry. I admit I’ve behaved badly to you over this. But sometimes one has no choice. And in future I must take my own line.”
Poirot nodded his head several times.
“I understand,” he said. The mocking light had quite died out of his eyes, and he spoke with a sincerity and kindness that surprised me. “It is that, my friend, is it not? It is love that has come—not as you imagined it, all cock-a-hoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding