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 burnout. 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, a voice that I recognized as that of the beautiful Marthe.
'Chéri,' she was saying, 'is it really true? Are all our troubles over?'
'You know it, Marthe,' Jack Renauld replied. 'Nothing can part us now, beloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can take you from me.'
'Nothing?' the girl murmured. 'Oh, Jack, Jack. I am afraid.'
I had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally eavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in the hedge. They stood together facing me, the man's arm round the girl, his eyes looking into hers. They were a splendid-looking couple, the dark, well-knit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as they stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed their young lives.
But the girl's face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize it, as he held her closer to him and asked: 'But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to fear?'
And then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as she murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words: 'I am afraid-for you.'
I did not hear young Renauld's answer, for my attention was distracted by an unusual appearance a lithe farther down the hedge. There appeared to be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was Giraud.
Enjoining caution he led the way round the shed until we were out of earshot.
'What were you doing there?' I asked.
'Exactly what you were doing-listening.'
'But I was not there on purpose!'
'Ah!' said Giraud. 'I was.'
As always, I admired the man while disliking him. He looked me up and down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.
'You didn't help matters by butting in. I might have heard something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?'
'Monsieur Poirot has gone to Paris,' I replied coldly.
Giraud snapped his fingers disdainfully. 'So he has gone to Paris, has he? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there the better. But what does he think he will find there?'
I thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.
'That I am not at liberty to say,' I said quietly.
Giraud subjected me to a piercing stare. 'He has probably enough sense not to tell you,' he remarked rudely. 'Good afternoon. I'm busy.' And with that he turned on his heel, and left me without ceremony.
Matters seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève.
Giraud evidently did not desire my company and, from what I had seen, it seemed fairly certain that Jack Renauld did not either.
I went back to the town, had an enjoyable bath, and returned to the hotel. I walked in early, wondering whether the following day would bring forth anything of interest.
I was wholly unprepared for what it did bring forth. I was eating my petit déjeuner in the dining room, when the waiter, who had been talking to someone outside, came back in obvious excitement. He hesitated for a minute, fidgeting with his napkin, and then burst out: 'Monsieur will pardon me, but he is connected, is he not, with the affair at the Villa Geneviève?'
'Yes,' I said eagerly. 'Why?'
'Monsieur has not heard the news, though?'
'What news?'
'That there has been another murder there last night!'
'What?'
Leaving my breakfast, I caught up my hat and ran as fast as I could. Another murder-and Poirot away! What fatality. But who had been murdered?
I dashed in at the gate. A group of servants were in the drive, talking and gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.
'What has happened?'
'Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse upon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for Monsieur le Curé to bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that roof. It might be my turn who knows?'
She crossed herself.
'Yes,' I cried, 'but who has been killed?'
'Do I know-me? A man-a stranger. They found him up there-in the shed-not a hundred yards from where they found poor Monsieur. And that is not all. He is stabbed-stabbed in the heart with that dagger!'
Chapter 14. The Second Body.
Not waiting for anything else, I turned and ran along the trail that led to the shed. The two men who were guarding the door stepped aside to let me through. I entered the shed very excited.
It was quite dark inside. It was a rustic wooden building to keep old pottery and gardening tools. I had stormed in, but slowed down and stopped on the treshold, fascinated by what I saw.
Giraud was on his fours, a lantern in his hand, searching meticulously every inch of the ground. He raised his head with a frown when he heard me coming in. Then he relaxed, and said with an amused expression:
'Ah, c'est l'Anglais! Do come in! Let's see what you can find out!'
Annoyed by his tone of voice, I lowered my head and entered the shed.
'There it is,' said Giraud, pointing his lantern at a corner of the shed.
I went over there.
The dead man was on his back. He was of medium height, dark skin, possibly in his fifties. He was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue well-cut suit. The face was terribly convulsed. On the left side, a little over the heart, there was the black shiny handle of a paper-knife. I recognised it immediately. It was the same knife I had seen in the jar the morning before!
'The doctor is expected at any moment,' Giraud
explained. 'But we practically don't need him. There is no doubt about what killed the man. He was stabbed through the heart and the death must have been instantaneous.'
'When did it happen? Last night?'
Giraud shook his head.
'Hardly. I like to wait always for the medical pronouncement, but I bet that this man is dead for at least twelve hours. When did you see the knife for the last time?'
'At ten in the morning.'
'In this case I think that the crime was commited not much later.'
