'You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is nearly black, that of the postscript is quite pale?'
'Well?' I said, puzzled.
'Mon Dieu, mon ami, but use your little grey cells? Is it not obvious? Mr. Renauld wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he re-read it carefully. Then, not on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last words, and blotted the sheet.'
'But why?'
'Parbleu! so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has upon you.'
'What?'
'But to make sure of my coming! He re-read the letter and was dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!'
He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light that always betokened inward excitement:
'And so, mon ami, since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but soberly, in cold blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as soon as possible.'
'Merlinville,' I murmured thoughtfully. 'I've heard of it, I think.'
Poirot nodded.
'It is a quiet little place-but chic! It lies about midway between Boulogne and Calais. Mr. Renauld has a house in England, I suppose?'
'Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about him, he doesn't do much in a social way. I believe he has large South American interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile and the Argentine.'
'Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack. A small suitcase each, and then a taxi to Victoria.'
Eleven o'clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover. Before starting Poirot had dispatched a telegram to Mr. Renauld giving the time of our arrival at Calais.
On the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend's solitude. The weather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial millpond so I was hardly surprised when a smiling Poirot joined me on disembarking at Calais. A disappointment was in store for us, as no car had been sent to meet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram having been delayed in transit.
'We will hire a car,' he said cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us creaking and jolting along, in the most ramshackle of automobiles that ever plied for hire, in the direction of Merlinville.
My spirits were at their highest, but my little friend was observing me gravely.
'You are what the Scotch people call 'fey', Hastings. It presages disaster.'
'Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.'
'No, but I am afraid.'
'Afraid of what?'
'I do not know. But I have a premonition-a je ne sai quoi!'
He spoke so gravely that I was impressed in spite of myself.
'I have a feeling,' he said slowly, 'that this is going to be a big affair-a long, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work out.'
I would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the little town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the Villa Geneviève.
'Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève is about half a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big villa, overlooking the sea.'
We thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A fork in the road brought us to a second halt.
A peasant was trudging towards us, and we waited for him to come up to us in order to ask the way again. There was a tiny villa standing right by the road, but it was too small and dilapidated to be the one we wanted. As we waited, the gate of it swung open and a girl came out.
The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his seat and asked for direction.
'The Villa Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right, monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.'
The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were fascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate, watching us. I am an admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody could have passed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a young goddess, her uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I swore to myself that she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. As we swung up the rough road, I turned my head to look after her.
'By Jove Poirot,' I exclaimed, 'did you see that young goddess?'
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
'Comment?' he murmured. 'Already you have seen a goddess!'
'But, hang it all, wasn't she?'
'Possibly, I did not remark the fact.'
'Surely you noticed her?'
'Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I-' He hesitated.
'Yes?'
'I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,' said Poirot gravely.
But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously, we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing sergent de ville. He held up his hand to bar our way.
'You cannot pass, messieurs.'
'But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,' I cried. 'We have an appointment. This is his villa, isn't it?'
'Yes, monsieur, but-'
Poirot leaned forward.
'But what?'
'Monsieur Renauld was murdered this morning.'
Chapter 3. At the Villa Geneviève
IN a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement.
'What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?'
The sergent de ville drew himself up. 'I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.'
'True. I comprehend.' Poirot reflected for a minute. 'The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.
'Voila! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the commissary at once?'
The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few seconds a comrade joined him, and was handed Poirot's message. There was a wait of some minutes, and then a short, stout man with a huge moustache came bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and stood aside.
'My dear Monsieur Poirot,' cried the newcomer, 'I am delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.'
Poirot's face had lighted up.
'Monsieur Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.' He turned to me. 'This is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings. Monsieur Lucien Bex.'
The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex turned once more to Poirot.
'Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1919, that time in Ostend. You have information to give which may assist us?'
