Poirot's Early Cases - Agatha Christie [116]
Suddenly Poirot, who was very sensitive, felt eyes watching him. He wheeled round. A girl was standing in the entrance of the french window—a small, sallow girl, with very black hair and suspicious eyes.
She came in, and as Poirot made a little bow she burst out abruptly, ‘Why have you come?’
Poirot did not reply. He merely raised his eyebrows.
‘You are not a lawyer—no?’ Her English was good, but not for a minute would anyone have taken her to be English.
‘Why should I be a lawyer, mademoiselle?’
The girl stared at him sullenly. ‘I thought you might be. I thought you had come perhaps to say that she did not know what she was doing. I have heard of such things—the not due influence; that is what they call it, no? But that is not right. She wanted me to have the money, and I shall have it. If it is needful I shall have a lawyer of my own. The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it shall be.’ She looked ugly, her chin thrust out, her eyes gleaming.
The door opened and a tall woman entered and said, ‘Katrina.’
The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something and went out through the window.
Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering a single word. There had been authority in her voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred irony. He realized at once that this was the owner of the house, Mary Delafontaine.
‘M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have received my letter.’
‘Alas, I have been away from London.’
‘Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my husband. Miss Barrowby was my aunt.’
Mr Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner. He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He looked often towards his wife, and it was plain that he expected her to take the lead in any conversation.
‘I must regret that I intrude in the midst of your bereavement,’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘I quite realize that it is not your fault,’ said Mrs Delafontaine. ‘My aunt died on Tuesday evening. It was quite unexpected.’
‘Most unexpected,’ said Mr Delafontaine. ‘Great blow.’ His eyes watched the window where the foreign girl had disappeared.
‘I apologize,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘And I withdraw.’ He moved a step towards the door.
‘Half a sec,’ said Mr Delafontaine. ‘You—er—had an appointment with Aunt Amelia, you say?’
‘Parfaitement.’
‘Perhaps you will tell us about it,’ said his wife. ‘If there is anything we can do—’
‘It was of a private nature,’ said Poirot. ‘I am a detective,’ he added simply.
Mr Delafontaine knocked over a little china figure he was handling. His wife looked puzzled.
‘A detective? And you had an appointment with Auntie? But how extraordinary!’ She stared at him. ‘Can’t you tell us a little more, M. Poirot? It—it seems quite fantastic.’
Poirot was silent for a moment. He chose his words with care.
‘It is difficult for me, madame, to know what to do.’
‘Look here,’ said Mr Delafontaine. ‘She didn’t mention Russians, did she?’
‘Russians?’
‘Yes, you know—Bolshies, Reds, all that sort of thing.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Henry,’ said his wife.
Mr Delafontaine collapsed. ‘Sorry—sorry—I just wondered.’
Mary Delafontaine looked frankly at Poirot. Her eyes were very blue—the colour of forget-me-nots. ‘If you can tell us anything, M. Poirot, I should be glad if you would do so. I can assure you that I have a—a reason for asking.’
Mr Delafontaine looked alarmed. ‘Be careful, old girl—you know there may be nothing in it.’
Again his wife quelled him with a glance. ‘Well, M. Poirot?’
Slowly, gravely, Hercule Poirot shook his head. He shook it with visible regret, but he shook it. ‘At present, madame,’ he said, ‘I fear I must say nothing.’
He bowed, picked up his hat and moved to the door. Mary Delafontaine came with him into the hall. On the doorstep he paused and looked at