The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his seat and asked for direction.
‘The Villa Genevieve? 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.
‘Comment?’ 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.’
CHAPTER 3
AT THE VILLA GENEVIEVE
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.
‘Voila! 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, then M. Bex turned once more to Poirot.
‘Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1919, 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.’
‘Sacre 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 of this at once. He has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin his interrogations.’
‘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 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 Monsieur Hautet now?’ inquired the latter.
‘In the [garbled], monsieur.’