The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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 raised his eyebrows.

      “Ça commence!” he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!”

      “But, hang it all, wasn’t she?”

      “Possibly. I did not remark the fact.”

      “Surely you noticed her?”

      “Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I—” he hesitated.

      “Yes?”

      “I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.

      But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously, we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing sergent de ville. He held up his hand to bar our way.

      “You cannot pass, monsieurs.”

      “But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an appointment. This is his Villa, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, monsieur, but—”

      Poirot leaned forward.

      “But what?”

      “M. Renauld was murdered this morning.”

      3. At the Villa Geneviève

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      In a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement. He caught the man by the shoulder.

      “What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?”

      The sergent de ville drew himself up.

      “I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.”

      “True. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?”

      “Yes, monsieur.”

      Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.

      “Voilà! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the commissary at once?”

      The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few seconds a comrade joined him and was handed Poirot’s message. There was a wait of some minutes, and then a short stout man with a huge moustache came bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and stood aside.

      “My dear M. Poirot,” cried the new-comer, “I am delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.”

      Poirot’s face had lighted up.

      “M. Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.” He turned to me. “This is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings—M. Lucien Bex.”

      The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex turned once more to Poirot.

      “Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. I heard that you had left the Force?”

      “So I have. I run a private business in London.”

      “And you say you have information to give which may assist us?”

      “Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent for?”

      “No. By whom?”

      “The dead man. It seems he knew an attempt was going to be made on his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.”

      “Sacri tonnerre!” ejaculated the Frenchman. “So he foresaw his own murder? That upsets our theories considerably! But come inside.”

      He held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house. M. Bex continued to talk:

      “The examining magistrate, M. Hautet, must hear of this at once. He has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin his interrogations. A charming man. You will like him. Most sympathetic. Original in his methods, but an excellent judge.”

      “When was the crime committed?” asked Poirot.

      “The body was discovered this morning about nine o’clock. Madame Renauld’s evidence, and that of the doctors goes to show that the death must have occurred about 2 a.m. But enter, I pray of you.”

      We had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the Villa. In the hall another sergent de ville was sitting. He rose at sight of the commissary.

      “Where is M. Hautet now?” inquired the latter.

      “In the salon, monsieur.”

      M. Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M. Hautet and his clerk were sitting at a big round table. They looked up as we entered. The commissary introduced us, and explained our presence.

      M. Hautet, the Juge d’Instruction, was a tall, gaunt man, with piercing dark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of caressing as he talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man, with slightly stooping shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr. Durand.

      “Most extraordinary,” remarked M. Hautet, as the commissary finished speaking. “You have the letter here, monsieur?”

      Poirot handed it to him, and the magistrate