‘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. Renauld 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?’
‘But 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 nodded.
‘It is a quiet little place—but chic! It lies about midway between Boulogne and Calais. Mr. Renauld has a house in England, I suppose?’
‘Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about him, he doesn’t do much in a social way. I believe he has large South American interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile and the Argentine.’
‘Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack. A small suitcase each, and then a taxi to Victoria.’
Eleven o’clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover. Before starting Poirot had dispatched a telegram to Mr. Renauld giving the time of our arrival at Calais.
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 [unreadable].’
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 Genevieve.
‘Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Genevieve 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.