The Murder on the Links (British Mystery Classic). Agatha Christie

to read his correspondence placidly.

      “A suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local Boy Scouts. The Countess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another lapdog without doubt! And now for the last. Ah — ”

      I looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading attentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me.

      “This is out of the ordinary, mon ami. Read for yourself.”

      The letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic hand:

      Villa Geneviève,

      Merlinville-sur-Mer,

      France.

      Dear Sir, — I am in need of the services of a detective and, for reasons which I will give you later, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard of you from several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only a man of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be discreet. I do not wish to trust details to the post, but, on account of a secret I possess, I go in daily fear of my life. I am convinced that the danger is imminent, and therefore I beg that you will lose no time in crossing to France, I will send a car to meet you at Calais, if you will wire me when you are arriving. I shall be obliged if you will drop all cases you have on hand, and devote yourself solely to my interests. I am prepared to pay any compensation necessary. I shall probably need your services for a considerable period of time, as it may be necessary for you to go out to Santiago, where I spent several years of my life. I shall be content for you to name your own fee.

      Assuring you once more that the matter is urgent.

      Yours faithfully,

       P. T. Renauld.

      Below the signature was a hastily scrawled line, almost illegible:

      “For God’s sake, come!”

      I handed the letter back with quickened pulses.

      “At last!” I said. “Here is something distinctly out of the ordinary.”

      “Yes, indeed,” said Poirot meditatively.

      “You will go of course,” I continued.

      Poirot nodded. He was thinking deeply. Finally he seemed to make up his mind, and glanced up at the clock. His face was very grave.

      “See you, my friend, there is no time to lose. The Continental express leaves Victoria at 11 o’clock. Do not agitate yourself. There is plenty of time. We can allow ten minutes for discussion. You accompany me, n’est-ce pas?”

      “Well — ”

      “You told me yourself that your employer needed you not for the next few weeks.”

      “Oh, that’s all right. But this Mr. Renauld hints strongly that his business is private.”

      “Ta-ta-ta! I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, I seem to know the name?”

      “There’s a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His name’s Renauld. I don’t know whether it could be the same.”

      “But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is in Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah; but we progress finely! You remarked the postscript? How did it strike you?”

      I considered.

      “Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end his self-control snapped and, on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled those four desperate words.”

      But my friend shook his head energetically.

      “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. Renault wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he reread 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?”

      “Mais oui — to make sure of my coming! He reread 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 the 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.

      “I’m surprised you haven’t invested in a few bottles of some sea sick remedy, Poirot,” I observed maliciously, as I recalled our conversation at breakfast.

      My friend, who was anxiously scanning the weather, turned a reproachful face upon me.

      “Is it that you have forgotten the method most excellent of Laverguier? His system, I practise it always. One balances oneself, if you remember, turning the head from left to right, breathing in and out, counting six between each breath.”

      “H’m,” I demurred. “You’ll be rather tired of balancing yourself and counting six by the time you get to Santiago, or Buenos Aires, or wherever it is you land.”

      “Quelle idée! You do not figure to yourself that I shall go to Santiago?”

      “Mr. Renauld suggests it in his letter.”

      “He did not know the methods of Hercule Poirot. I do not run to and fro, making journeys, and agitating myself. My work is done from within — here — ” he tapped his forehead significantly.

      As usual, this remark roused my argumentative faculty.

      “It’s all very well, Poirot, but I think you are falling into the habit of despising certain things too much. A fingerprint has led sometimes to the arrest and conviction of a murderer.”

      “And has, without doubt, hanged more than one innocent man,” remarked Poirot dryly.

      “But surely the study of fingerprints and footprints, cigarette ash, different kinds of mud, and other clues that comprise the minute observation of details — all these are of vital importance?”

      “But certainly. I have never said otherwise. The trained observer, the expert, without doubt he is useful! But the others, the Hercules Poirots, they are above the experts! To them the experts bring the facts, their business is the method of the crime, its logical deduction, the proper sequence and order of the facts; above all, the true psychology of the case. You have hunted the fox, yes?”

      “I have hunted a bit, now and again,” I said, rather bewildered by this abrupt change of subject. “Why?”

      “Eh bien, this hunting of the fox, you need the dogs, no?”

      “Hounds,” I corrected gently.