“The train to Paris leaves at 2:25,” he observed. “I should be starting.”
“Paris?” I cried.
“That is what I said, mon ami.”
“You are going to Paris? But why?”
He replied very seriously.
“To look for the murderer of M. Renauld.”
“You think he is in Paris?”
“I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must look for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good time. Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long. In all probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should accompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the society of M. Renauld fils. And thirdly, if you wish, endeavour to cut him out with Mademoiselle Marthe. But I fear you will not have great success.”
I did not quite relish the last remark.
“That reminds me,” I said. “I meant to ask you how you knew about those two?”
“Mon ami—I know human nature. Throw together a boy young Renauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe, and the result is almost inevitable. Then, the quarrel! It was money or a woman and, remembering Léonie’s description of the lad’s anger, I decided on the latter. So I made my guess—and I was right.”
“And that was why you warned me against setting my heart on the lady? You already suspected that she loved young Renauld?”
Poirot smiled.
“At any rate—I saw that she had anxious eyes. That is how 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.”
“You’ve oceans of time.”
“Perhaps—perhaps. But I like plenty of leisure at the station. I do not wish to rush, to hurry, to excite myself.”
“At all events,” I said, rising, “I will come and see you off.”
“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! You permit that I embrace you? Ah, no, I forget that it is not the English custom. Une poignee de main, alors.”
I felt rather at a loose end after Poirot had left me. I strolled down the beach, and watched the bathers, without feeling energetic enough to join them. I rather fancied that Cinderella might be disporting herself amongst them in some wonderful costume, but I saw no signs of her. I strolled aimlessly along the sands towards the further 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. And that would be annoying in every way. Decidedly it would be better to pay a short call, in the course of which I could make it quite clear that I could do nothing further for her in my capacity of showman.
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. Merlinville was a small place, you left your hotel to go to the beach, and you left the beach to return to the hotel. There were no other attractions. There was a casino being built, but it was not yet completed.
I had walked the length of the beach without seeing her, therefore she must be in the hotel. I went in. Several people were sitting in the tiny lounge, but my quarry was not amongst them. I looked into some other rooms, 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.”
“She is American possibly,” I suggested. These fellows are so stupid.
But the man continued to shake his head.
“No, monsieur. There are only six or seven English and American ladies altogether, and they are all much older than the lady you are seeking. It is not here that you will find her, monsieur.”
He was so positive that I felt doubts.
“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. I regretted that he was, for the moment, out of reach. I should have enjoyed telling him what I thought of his unwarranted interference. Had I not distinctly told him that I had no intention of seeing the
