The Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie

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little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again.

      It was five minutes past nine when I entered our joint sitting-room for breakfast on the following morning. My friend Poirot, exact to the minute as usual, was just tapping the shell of his second egg.

      He beamed upon me as I entered.

      ‘You have slept well, yes? You have recovered from the crossing so terrible? It is a marvel, almost you are exact this morning. Pardon, but your tie is not symmetrical. Permit that I rearrange him.’

      Elsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little man! Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one side, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache, air of dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For neatness of any kind he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set crookedly, or a speck of dust, or a slight disarray in one’s attire, was torture to the little man until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter. ‘Order’ and ‘Method’ were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible evidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency, and remark with great satisfaction: ‘The true work, it is done from within. The little grey cells—remember always the little grey cells, mon ami.’

      I slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirot’s greeting, that an hour’s sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be dignified by the epithet ‘terrible’.

      ‘Anything interesting come by the post?’ I asked.

      Poirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air.

      ‘I have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives nowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist.’

      He shook his head despondently, and I roared with laughter.

      ‘Cheer up, Poirot, the luck will change. Open your letters. For all you know, there may be a great case looming on the horizon.’

      Poirot smiled, and taking up the neat little letter opener with which he opened his correspondence he slit the tops of the several envelopes that lay by his plate.

      ‘A bill. Another bill. It is that I grow extravagant in my old age. Aha! a note from Japp.’

      ‘Yes?’ I pricked up my ears. The Scotland Yard Inspector had more than once introduced us to an interesting case.

      ‘He merely thanks me (in his fashion) for a little point in the Aberystwyth Case on which I was able to set him right. I am delighted to have been of service to him.’

      Poirot continued to read his correspondence placidly.

      ‘A suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local Boy Scouts. The Countess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another lap-dog without doubt! And now for the last. Ah—’

      I looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading attentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me.

      ‘This is out of the ordinary, mon ami. Read for yourself.’

      The letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic hand:

      Villa Geneviève,

      Merlinville-sur-Mer,

      France.

       Dear Sir,—I am in need of the services of a detective and, for reasons which I will give you later, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard of you from several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only a man of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be discreet. I do not wish to trust details to the post, but, on account of a secret I possess, I go in daily fear of my life. I am convinced that the danger is imminent, and therefore I beg that you will lose no time in crossing to France, I will send a car to meet you at Calais, if you will wire me when you are arriving. I shall be obliged if you will drop all cases you have on hand, and devote yourself solely to my interests. I am prepared to pay any compensation necessary. I shall probably need your services for a considerable period of time, as it may be necessary for you to go out to Santiago, where I spent several years of my life. I shall be content for you to name your own fee.

      Assuring you once more that the matter is urgent.

      Yours faithfully,

       P. T. Renauld.

      Below the signature was a hastily scrawled line, almost illegible:

      ‘For God’s sake, come!’

      I handed the letter back with quickened pulses.

      ‘At last!’ I said. ‘Here is something distinctly out of the ordinary.’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Poirot meditatively.

      ‘You will go of course,’ I continued.

      Poirot nodded. He was thinking deeply. Finally he seemed to make up his mind, and glanced up at the clock. His face was very grave.

      ‘See you, my friend, there is no time to lose. The Continental express leaves Victoria at 11 o’clock. Do not agitate yourself. There is plenty of time. We can allow ten minutes for discussion. You accompany me, n’est-ce pas?’

      ‘Well—’

      ‘You told me yourself that your employer needed you not for the next few weeks.’

      ‘Oh, that’s all right. But this Mr Renauld hints strongly that his business is private.’

      ‘Ta-ta-ta! I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, I seem to know the name?’

      ‘There’s a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His name’s Renauld. I don’t know whether it could be the same.’

      ‘But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is in Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah; but we progress finely! You remarked the postscript? How did it strike you?’

      I considered.

      ‘Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end his self-control snapped and, on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled those four desperate words.’

      But my friend shook his head energetically.

      ‘You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is nearly black, that of the postscript is quite pale?’

      ‘Well?’ I said, puzzled.

      ‘Mon Dieu, mon ami, but use your little grey cells. Is it not obvious? Mr Renault wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he re-read it carefully. Then, not on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last words, and blotted the sheet.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘Parbleu! so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has upon you.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Mais oui—to make sure of my coming! He re-read the letter and was dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!’

      He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light that always betokened inward excitement:

      ‘And so, mon ami, since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but soberly, in cold blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as soon as possible.’

      ‘Merlinville,’ I murmured thoughtfully. ‘I’ve heard of it, I think.’

      Poirot

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