The Murder on the Links. Agatha Christie

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 here, 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, you 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? M. 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?”

      “Mais oui—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 suit-case 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 mill-pond 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 ram-shackle 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, over-looking 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