The Murder on the Links. Agatha Christie

      ‘And the Countess?’ I inquired with a smile.

      ‘Ah! je m’en fiche! Her case was certainly not interesting.’

      ‘Why so sure of that?’

      ‘Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot wait—always remember that, Hastings.’

      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 Hercule 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. ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘But yet,’ Poirot wagged his finger at me. ‘You did not descend from your horse and run along the ground smelling with your nose and uttering loud “Ow Ows”?’

      In spite of myself I laughed immoderately. Poirot nodded in a satisfied manner.

      ‘So. You leave the work of the d—hounds to the hounds. Yet you demand that I, Hercule Poirot, should make myself ridiculous by lying down (possibly on damp grass) to study hypothetical footprints, and should scoop up cigarette ash when I do not know one kind from the other. Remember the Plymouth Express mystery. The good Japp departed to make a survey of the railway line. When he returned, I, without having moved from my apartments, was able to tell him exactly what he had found.’

      ‘So you are of the opinion that Japp wasted his time.’

      ‘Not at all, since his evidence confirmed my theory. But I should have wasted my time if I had gone. It is the same with so called “experts”. Remember the handwriting testimony in the Cavendish Case. One counsel’s questioning brings out testimony as to the resemblances, the defence brings evidence to show dissimilarity. All the language is very technical. And the result? What we all knew in the first place. The writing was very like that of John Cavendish. And the psychological mind is faced with the question “Why?” Because it was actually his? Or because some one wished us to think it was his? I answered that question, mon ami, and answered it correctly.’

      And Poirot, having effectually silenced, if not convinced me, leaned back with a satisfied air.

      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 to hear that Laverguier’s method had once more justified itself 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.

      ‘Since it is carte blanche, 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.

      ‘What gorgeous air!’ I exclaimed. ‘This promises to be a delightful trip.’

      ‘For you, yes. For me, I have work to do, remember, at our journey’s end.’

      ‘Bah!’ I said cheerfully. ‘You will discover all, ensure this Mr. Renauld’s safety, run the would-be assassins to earth, and all will finish in a blaze of glory.’

      ‘You are sanguine, my friend.’

      ‘Yes, I feel absolutely assured of success. Are you not the one and only Hercule Poirot?’

      But my little friend did not rise to the bait. He 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 sais 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