The Best Detectives Murder Mysteries for Christmas Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

my surprise, he nodded emphatically.

      “But yes—it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. I rather fancy—”

      “Yes?”

      “I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!”

      8. An Unexpected Meeting

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      We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.

      Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.

      Léonie shook her head.

      “She is terribly upset, la pauvre dame! She will eat nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, par exemple, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman!”

      Poirot nodded sympathetically.

      “What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?”

      Again Léonie shook her head.

      “Never, monsieur. Never have I heard Madame utter a word of protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to Monsieur.”

      “Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”

      “Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—ma foi! they might have been heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!”

      “Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?”

      “Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!”

      Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.

      “And the dispute, what was it about?”

      “Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!”

      The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.

      “And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”

      “One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”

      “They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder.”

      “Quelle idée,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.

      “You will go out and join them?”

      “No, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool there on this hot morning.”

      This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.

      “If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.

      “Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?”

      “Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”

      “The human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au revoir.”

      I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so further to the right. If Giraud were still on the spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he knew of my presence. But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.

      She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!

      The surprise was mutual.

      “You,” we both exclaimed simultaneously.

      The young lady recovered herself first.

      “My only Aunt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

      “For the matter of that, what are you?” I retorted.

      “When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home to England like a good little boy. Have they given you a season ticket to and fro, on the strength of your M.P.?”

      I ignored the end of the speech.

      “When last I saw you,” I said, “you were trotting home with your sister, like a good little girl. By the way, how is your sister?”

      A flash of white teeth rewarded me.

      “How kind of you to ask! My sister is well, I thank you.”

      “She is here with you?”

      “She remained in town,” said the minx with dignity.

      “I don’t believe you’ve got a sister,” I laughed. “If you have, her name is Harris!”

      “Do you remember mine?” she asked, with a smile.

      “Cinderella. But you’re going to tell me the real one now, aren’t you?”

      She shook her head with a wicked look.

      “Not even why you’re here?”

      “Oh, that! I suppose you’ve heard of members of my profession ‘resting.’ ”

      “At expensive French watering-places?”

      “Dirt cheap if you know where to go.”

      I eyed her keenly.

      “Still, you’d no intention of coming here when I met you two days ago?”

      “We all have our disappointments,” said Miss Cinderella sententiously. “There now, I’ve told you quite as much as is good for you. Little boys should not be inquisitive. You’ve not yet told me what you’re doing here? Got the M.P. in tow, I suppose, doing the gay boy on the beach.”

      I shook my head. “Guess again. You remember my telling you that my great friend was a detective?”

      “Yes?”

      “And perhaps you’ve heard about this crime—at the Villa Geneviève—?”

      She stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.

      “You don’t mean—that you’re in on that?”

      I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as she regarded