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

      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 millpond, 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 ramshackle 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 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, messieurs.”

      “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?”

      “Monsieur Renauld was murdered this morning.”

      3

       At the Villa Genevieve

       Table of Contents

      In a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement.

      “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 Monsieur Poirot,” cried the newcomer, “I am delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.”

      Poirot’s face had lighted up.

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

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

      “Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. 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 that he knew an attempt was going to be made on his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.”

      “Sacré 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, Monsieur Hautet, must hear