The Murder on the Links Read Free Page A

joined me on disembarking at Calais. A disappointment was in store forus, as no car had been sent to meet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram having been delayed in transit.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œYou are what the Scotch people call ‘fey,’ Hastings. It presages disaster.”
    â€œNonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.”
    â€œNo, but I am afraid.”
    â€œAfraid of what?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œStraight 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 wewanted. 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œBy Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess?”
    Poirot raised his eyebrows.
    â€œÃ‡a commence!” he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!”
    â€œBut, hang it all, wasn’t she?”
    â€œPossibly, I did not remark the fact.”
    â€œSurely you noticed her?”
    â€œ Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I—” He hesitated.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou cannot pass, messieurs.”
    â€œBut we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an appointment. This is his villa, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, monsieur, but—”
    Poirot leaned forward.
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œMonsieur Renauld was murdered this morning.”

Three
A T THE V ILLA G ENEVIÈVE
    I n a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement.
    â€œWhat is that you say? Murdered? When? How?”
    The sergent de ville drew himself up.
    â€œI cannot answer any questions, monsieur.”
    â€œTrue. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?”
    â€œYes, monsieur.”
    Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.
    â€œ Voilà! Will