The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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 girl? Decidedly, one’s friends can be too zealous!

      But where was the lady? I set aside my wrath, and tried to puzzle it out. Evidently, through inadvertence, she had named the wrong hotel. Then another thought struck me. Was it inadvertence? Or had she deliberately withheld her name and given me the wrong address? The more I thought about it, the more I felt convinced that this last surmise of mine was right. For some reason or other she did not wish to let the acquaintance ripen into friendship. And though half an hour earlier this had been precisely my own view, I did not enjoy having the tables turned upon me. The whole affair was profoundly unsatisfactory, and I went up to the Villa Geneviève in a condition of distinct ill humour. I did not go to the house, but went up the path to the little bench by the shed, and sat there moodily enough.

      I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of voices close at hand. In a second or two I realized that they came, not from the garden I was in, but from the adjoining garden of the Villa Marguerite, and that they were approaching rapidly. A girl’s voice was speaking, a voice that I recognized as that of the beautiful Marthe.

      “Chéri,” she was saying, “is it really true? Are all our troubles over.”

      “You know it, Marthe,” Jack Renauld replied. “Nothing can part us now, beloved. The last obstacle to our union is removed. Nothing can take you from me.”

      “Nothing?” the girl murmured. “Oh, Jack, Jack—I am afraid.”

      I had moved to depart, realizing that I was quite unintentionally eavesdropping. As I rose to my feet, I caught sight of them through a gap in the hedge. They stood together facing me, the man’s arm round the girl, his eyes looking into hers. They were a splendid looking couple, the dark, well-knit boy, and the fair young goddess. They seemed made for each other as they stood there, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that overshadowed their young lives.

      But the girl’s face was troubled, and Jack Renauld seemed to recognize it, as he held her closer to him and asked:

      “But what are you afraid of, darling? What is there to fear—now?”

      And then I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had spoken of, as she murmured, so that I almost guessed at the words.

      “I am afraid—for you. …”

      I did not hear young Renauld’s answer, for my attention was distracted by an unusual appearance a little further down the hedge. There appeared to be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was Giraud.

      Enjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of ear-shot.

      “What were you doing there?” I asked.

      “Exactly what you were doing—listening.”

      “But I was not there on purpose!”

      “Ah!” said Giraud. “I was.”

      As always, I admired the man whilst disliking him. He looked me up and down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.

      “You didn’t help matters by butting in. I might have heard something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?”

      “M. Poirot has gone to Paris,” I replied coldly.

      “And I can tell you, M. Giraud, that he is anything but an old fossil. He has solved many cases that have completely baffled the English police.”

      “Bah! The English police!” Giraud snapped his fingers disdainfully. “They must be on a level with our examining magistrates. So he has gone to Paris, has he? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there, the better. But what does he think he will find there?”

      I thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.

      “That I am not at liberty to say,” I said quietly.

      Giraud subjected me to a piercing stare.

      “He has probably enough sense not to tell you,” he remarked rudely. “Good afternoon. I’m busy.”

      And with that, he turned on his heel, and left me without ceremony. Matters seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève. Giraud evidently did not desire my company and, from what I had seen, it seemed fairly certain that Jack Renauld did not either.

      I went back to the town, had an enjoyable bath and returned to the hotel. I turned in early, wondering whether the following day would bring forth anything of interest.

      I was wholly unprepared for what it did bring forth. I was eating my petit déjeuner in the dining-room, when the waiter, who had been talking to some one outside, came back in obvious excitement. He hesitated for a minute, fidgeting with his napkin, and then burst out.

      “Monsieur will pardon me, but he is connected, is he not, with the affair at the Villa Geneviève?’

      “Yes,” I said eagerly. “Why?”

      “Monsieur has not heard the news, though?”

      “What news?”

      “That there has been another murder there last night!”

      “What?”

      Leaving my breakfast, I caught up my hat and ran as fast as I could. Another murder—and Poirot away! What fatality. But who had been murdered?

      I dashed in at the gate. A group of the servants was in the drive, talking and gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.

      “What has happened?”

      “Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse upon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for M. le curé to bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that roof. It might be my turn, who knows?”

      She crossed herself.

      “Yes,” I cried, “but who has been killed?”

      “Do I know—me? A man—a stranger. They found him up there—in the shed—not a hundred yards from where they found poor Monsieur. And that is not all. He is stabbed—stabbed to the heart with the same dagger!”

      14. The Second Body

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      Waiting for no more, I