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    The Murder on the Links
    The Murder on the Links
    The Murder on the Links
    Ebook275 pages4 hours

    The Murder on the Links

    By Agatha Christie

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Hercule Poirot’s second appearance is “a remarkably good detective story” as the Belgian sleuth must determine who left a corpse on a golf course (The New York Times Book Review).
     
    After introducing Hercule Poirot in The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Christie brought him back three years later in 1923 for this “ingenious” murder mystery set in France (The New York Times Book Review).
     
    Instead of a hole in one, Poirot finds one in a hole—a body in a shallow grave next to a golf course. The man who summoned him from London to Merlinville-sur-Mer is the man who now lies in the ground, and the great Belgian detective, along with his companion, Capt. Arthur Hastings, intends to find out who put him there.
     
    Fatally stabbed in the back with a letter opener, millionaire Paul Renauld leaves behind a widow who claims two masked men tied her up and abducted her husband. Monsieur Giraud of the Sûreté believes he has the investigation well in hand and doesn’t need assistance from Poirot. But as the clues gets progressively more complex, it will be a link to a similar cold case that helps Poirot catch the backstabber.
     
    This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateApr 9, 2019
    ISBN9781504058438
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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    Reviews for The Murder on the Links

    3.5/5

    1,013 ratings45 reviews

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    • 2/5
      I picked this book up with a few other Agatha Christie novels after reading The Science of Murder: The Forensics of Agatha Christie by Carla Valentine. I read through most of Christie's catalog when I was in junior high, but didn't remember a lot of what Valentine was mentioning, so I decided to revisit a few. This is one of Christie's earlier works and it shows. Poirot vacillates between searching for physical evidence and deriding it before focusing on the work of his "little gray cells." I'm still not entirely sure of how the initial murder took place, though the motive was very clear. I also find Hasting's love story to be overly melodramatic and slightly maudlin - he has had three conversations with this woman and falls in love with her, ugh.
    • 4/5
      Murder on the Links is the second Hercule Poirot book by Agatha Christie. Most of the action is set in Northern France. Dame Agatha does a great job of setting the scene and introducing the characters in this twisty mystery that will have you guessing until the end. It also delves more deep into the friendship between Poirot and Hastings. The plot is a fun one that involves Poirot getting a letter for help to come to France. When he arrives, his would be client is already dead. There is a nice little rivalry between Poirot and the French detective on the case. It’s a fun read for mystery fans.
    • 3/5
      This was just too complex, with plots within plots and complicated historical crimes. Most of the characters were morally compromised in some way, and I'm deducting an extra star for Hastings being willing to commit perjury for the 'love' of a woman he had had three short conversations with.
    • 5/5
      Well written. The actual killer is hidden until the very end.
    • 4/5
      THE MURDER ON THE LINKS is a fairly standard Christie story. There's a heinous crime. Poirot uses his keen deductive skills to puzzle out what's happened. Hastings bumbles along and occasionally has a real gem of an idea. There's action and romance and all that good stuff.It's a great little book, if a rather unoriginal one. Christie may have popularized detective fiction, but she's still working off of an older tradition here. Poirot and Hastings are clearly Christie's own take on Holmes and Watson. They fulfill their roles admirably, but that doesn't make them groundbreaking. But, that complaint aside, the story is entertaining and nicely plotted. It's interesting, too, to note how Christie's treatment of romance changes over the years. This early novel contains a couple of love-at-first-sight romances. Her later work emphasizes solid, carefully considered relationships in which neither party is particularly passionate about the other. I wonder how much this attitude owes to Christie's own romantic life.I'd definitely recommend THE MURDER ON THE LINKS to anyone who's enjoyed Dame Agatha's work in the past or is looking to give her a try, but I'd caution you not to expect spectacular, mind-blowing things from it. This is a solid, enjoyable read and a good way to while away a few hours, but it's not going to change your life.(A rather different version of this review originally appeared on my blog, Stella Matutina).
    • 4/5
      This was a good one - kept me guessing right through the end. I'm about as thick as Hastings when it comes to picking out the clues Poirot lays out. Good thing Hastings is a total idiot so that Poirot has to spell everything out for him, and thus, the reader. I love that there was a twist beyond the twist. So at the end I was like, ohhh! But then there were a few more chapters left, whereupon Poirot revealed even more and I was like OHHH! xDAlso, Hastings is a total knob. Poirot is way too cool for him.
    • 4/5
      Murder On The Links (1923) (Poirot #2) by Agatha Christie. It is hard to imagine this was only the second outing for Poirot. He seems so well formed already, but that is neither here nor there. What matters is the case, the puzzle, the obstacles, the suspects, the police involvement and finally the solution. Point has been summoned by Monsieur Renauld who is certain his life is in danger, which is proved a good hunch as, upon arrival in Merlinville, France, Poirot is greeted with the news of the gentleman’s murder. The victim was struck down at a golf course adjacent to his home. Detective Giraud is on the case, a young, smart, no nonsense “modern” thinker who pooh-poohs Poirot’s methods and stodgy manners. Captain Hastings is along and he falls for the younger investigator’s fast talk, his crawling around on the grass hunting for clues mannerism, and his brilliant, but slightly dubious solutions.There is an arresting cast of characters including a young woman and her mother, the murdered man’s son, yet other young woman that Hastings had met on a train and who mysteriously turns up here, and a few others added for fun.A very good read, plenty of twists for the more experienced reader, and more than one solution offered just for fun. Like so many of Dame Agatha’s works, a darn good read.
    • 4/5
      A fairly early Agatha Christie novel involving Hercule Poirot, narrated by his friend Hastings. They travel to France in response to an urgent letter, only to find that they are too late to prevent a tragedy. Poirot's investigations are somewhat hampered by the French police, and also by various involved folk evidently not telling the truth. Well-paced writing with a good plot, with somewhat flat characters - but that's not unusual for Christie. There's a low-key romance, too, and some mildly amusing banter here and there. A good diversion, available in Kindle form as well as various print editions.
    • 4/5
      I'm going through the Poirot mysteries in order, so this is only the second one I've read, but I prefer this one over The Mysterious Affair at Styles.I must admit, one of the characters I knew was going to come back, but not in the way I imagined it. Christie's talent for a mystery shines when Poirot reveals the truth and you can go back in your mind with the evidence and it seems to check out. Sometimes it may seem a little far-fetched, but if you read with your mind going, "ANYTHING can happen," it makes for a much more interesting read.I enjoyed this one a lot, especially with all the hidden identities here and there. Definitely one I'd recommend.
    • 4/5
      As always an excellent performance on this audiobook by Fraser. These are kind of our "go-to" audiobooks for long car rides together these days. The story is solid, but not my favorite.
    • 3/5
      Audio book performed by Hugh Fraser

      Captain Arthur Hastings narrates this second book in the mystery series featuring Hercule Poirot. It all begins when Hastings meets a young woman on a train. In short order Poirot receives a letter from a South American millionaire living in France stating that his life is in danger and pleading with Poirot to come at once. Hastings and Poirot immediately go to France, only to find that their “client” has been murdered. There is no shortage of suspects – wife, son, neighbors, vagrants, even the girl on the train shows up. The local police are not happy to have Poirot interfering but he insists on his using his superior “little grey cells” to ferret out the truth amid all the clues, red herrings, prevarications, and intrigues.

      I love Poirot, but I don’t think this is Christie’s best effort. In my opinion, the whole love-interest between Hastings and the girl stretches credulity too far, and is totally superfluous to the basic plot; did I say “basic” – it’s really far from basic, in fact it’s overly complicated. Given that this was originally published in 1923, and was only the second book in the series, I should probably cut Christie some slack, and I will. It’s still an entertaining cozy, and I was interested from beginning to end.

      Hugh Fraser does a marvelous job performing the audio version. He really brings Poirot (and the many other characters) to life.
    • 4/5
      Ercule Poirot receives a letter begging him to travel to France to help in a mysterious case. Upon his arrival it turns out that the man who wrote the letter was murdered and it is up to Poirot and his friend Captain Hastings to solve the murder and a couple of other mysteries along the way. A couple of years ago I got my hands on a volume of five of Christie's Miss Marple mysteries along with a book of short stories and for some reason while I enjoyed them I didn't love them. It all seemed very formulaic with superficial characters and without much feeling. Now that I've been reading more of her books I can't help but think that the timing wasn't right when I picked up that volume. I even remember saying in earlier Christie reviews that to me her novels are good riddles but usually don't have much depth. I officially take it back. This was Christie's second published novel and already we have a theme that will repeat in a number of her later books - heredity and its effects on a person's character. Poirot is a big believer in heredity and something tells me that Dame Agatha was as well. It was interesting to see how such considerations played a part in the characters' actions. We also have the matter of social classes and marriage outside of one's class. It seems like an archaic and snobbish subject in this day and age but in Christie's time it was very much relevant and I must admit, marriage is difficult enough without partnering up with someone who doesn't even have the benefit of a similar background. Like Poirot said, 99 times out of 100 it doesn't make for a happy union. But do not despair, my democratic friends, luckily for us Christie favors love and happiness much more than numbers and odds, and that's all I'm going to say about that. As far as the characters go this set was a lot of fun. Hastings always deems himself such a great detective and speaks of Poirot almost pityingly when the Belgian genius makes conclusions that don't coincide with his. Fortunately he remains such a good sport when he realizes that all his ideas were wrong that one can't hold it against him, which I don't think Poirot ever does. The French police are a different matter entirely and it was very amusing to watch them battle it out over the many plot twists - as the officer in charge of the investigation lamented this was not at all a simple case and you do have to get the little grey cells working to keep track of it all. Mme Renauld was definitely my favorite female character. She was a remarkable woman indeed and only at the very end of the book do we see the full extent of it. The rest weren't very straightforward either. We have devotion, self-sacrifice, strength, deceit and calculation all present and as carefully as I watched for clues I couldn't always tell who was looking out for whose interests. Hope you have better luck, both here and with the identity of the killer - I was off the mark yet again and A.C. is currently leading 15-0. That's ok, I have 51 more chances.
    • 4/5
      Another great one.Difficult to read any Poirot now without seeing David Suchet in your mind. His work might be the closest-to-the-mark portrayal of any mystery series character.
    • 5/5
      The book has a quite complicated plot, which is apparently based on a real case, and is very French in its feel. Poirot is completely at the heart of this book and you can feel his character and his 'little grey cells' developing. There is a slightly ludicrous, romantic subplot involving Captain Hastings, but this does not detract from the novel in the least and here I can really feel Christie growing into her craft.
    • 4/5
      This was an exceptionally good Poirot mystery. There were a lot of complicated plot twists at the end, and just when I thought I had everything figured out there were more surprises. A couple of romances too!
    • 4/5
      This is the second Hercule Poirot mystery and it finds both Hastings (our narrator) and M. Poirot being hired by a millionaire in France who feels his life is under threat because of a great secret that he possesses. When they arrive at his Villa, however, they discover that the millionaire has already been murdered and is a most alarming and intriguing fashion. Poirot is chagrined that an arrogant detective with the French police has taken over the investigation, and he challenges the man into a wager as to which one of them will have the culprit first. The clues are quite disjointed and don't seem to go together at all, but Poirot has more than one trick up his sleeve, and a very long memory that serves him well.There is no shortage of suspects in this story, and each one of them fits all the clues but one, with each one leaving out something different. It's full of twists and turns and revelations that kept me interested till the very end. And, no, I didn't guess correctly! I give this a 4 because while it was very cleverly plotted, there was just a tad too much going on that turned out to be completely superfluous at the end. The trick, though, was deciding what was vital and what wasn't.
    • 4/5
      Originally published in 1923, I read an Agatha Christie Signature Edition published in 2001. ISBN 0-00-711928-3. 319 pages.Having recently transacted some business in Paris, Arthur Hastings is returning to London, to the rooms he is now sharing with Belgian ex-detective Hercule Poirot, by the morning Calais express. He shares a compartment with a young woman who introduces herself as Cinderella.On the following morning in London Poirot receives a letter from France, from someone who says he is desperate need of the services of a detective. The letter is written in a "bold characteristic hand", with a hastily scrawled line at the bottom, "For God's sake, come!" Poirot and Hastings set out straight away for Dover and then Calais. When they arrive at their destination they discover that the writer of the letter has already been murdered. His brutally stabbed body is discovered face down in a bunker on a nearby golf course, clad in its underwear and an extremely long overcoat.This is Agatha Christie's third novel, her second to feature Hercule Poirot and Arthur Hastings. Although this is only the second time we have seen Poirot in action, Hastings implies they have worked other cases together since THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES. In a reference to Inspector Japp from Scotland Yard in the opening pages, Hastings says that he had "more than once introduced us to an interesting case."The police have already been called to the murder scene by the time Poirot arrives and he is delighted to discover the police commissary is an old acquaintance whom he last saw in Ostend over a decade before. The commissary is able to introduce Poirot to the examining magistrate and the victim's doctor. After Poirot has inspected the scene and between them they have interviewed some of the household, a stranger turns up. He proves to be Monseiur Giraud from the Paris Surete, a much younger man, a "modern" detective, arrogant, self-assured, and only about thirty years old.From this point on the action becomes a competition between Poirot and Giraud to solve the case. Poirot and Giraud constantly refute each other's theories, and Hastings typically is ready to see Poirot as a quibbler, and indeed at one stage goes out of his way to deceive Poirot and thus lets him down. Giraud disparages Poirot's deductive methods, preferring to use more scientific evidence such as the new art of fingerprinting. Poirot makes no secret of the fact that he believes Giraud is not nearly observant enough.In addition Hastings loses his impartiality by falling head over heels in love with one of the suspects. It will be interesting to see if she appears in a future book.The plot is quite a complex one, and indeed I feel that the complexity actually became a little difficult for Christie to sustain. The reader is required to accept a considerable degree of coincidence, straining the credibility of the plot just a bit.There's quite a lot of description of Poirot and we have a really good idea of what he looks like. Hastings, through whose eyes we see the action of the novel, says "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." There is a scene however at the end of the novel which is a bit at odds with that description. Look out for it and see what you think."Dashing forward, he [Poirot] battered wildly on the front door. Then rushing to the tree in the flower-bed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I followed him, as with a bound he sprang in through the open window". Sedate, dapper, neat little Poirot climbs a tree? Never!Just as in the earlier two books, there are quite large sections of denouement, when Christie makes sure that the reader understands the complexity of the plot and the cleverness of her carefully woven webs. Almost 80 pages before the end Poirot begins his exposition designed to make things clear for the thick Hastings. Hastings thinks all is resolved and Poirot reminds him there is yet one more murder to be solved.My verdict. THE MURDER ON THE LINKS has stood the test of time quite well. Red herrings abound. Hercule Poirot changes his mind several times, and so did I. My rating: 4.2Interestingly MURDER ON THE LINKS contains a dedication "To My Husband a fellow enthusiast for detective stories and to whom I am indebted for much helpful advice and criticism."Agatha has been married to Colonel Archibald Christie since 1914, and her marriage, although apparently an unhappy one, will survive until their divorce in 1928.
    • 4/5
      An early Poirot, told Captain Hastings, about the death of a millionaire on a golf course. Compare Rex Stout's Fer-de-lace and E. C. Bailey's "The Sweet Shot."
    • 3/5
      The story of a fugitive who decides to fake his own murder, but who really gets murdered by the daughter of the woman who is blackmailing him for the murder of her husband 20 years ago.

      And, Hastings is an idiot.
    • 4/5
      Not one of the best-known Poirots, but it has a lot in its favour. The crime has a more credible feel than some Christies, and Poirot's "psychology of the individual", though as usual it's really a simple concept of criminals sticking to a standard modus operandi, works well here to get him partway to the solution. Despite a contrived denouement, and a typical example of Hastings' thick-wittedness earlier on, the ending is effective, although (unusually for this writer) every time I've reread it I've forgotten the murderer!
    • 4/5
      It is SO hard for me to read these books and not picture David Suchet as Poirot. While the man is perfect in the role, I hear his voice in my head while I'm reading. But...okay, moving right along...In this episode, we find the friendly little Belgian detective spending his time rescuing cats and he's fed up. Along comes a letter from one M. Renaud in France, asking for Poirot's help because his life is in danger. Off rush Poirot and his friend and erstwhile sidekick, Captain Hastings. But it's too late...when they arrive at Renaud's villa, Renaud is already dead. While Poirot has no official standing there, he is allowed to help the police, and they'll need it: there are a number of suspects from which to choose. With his usual energy, Poirot has to work fast to prevent the wrong person from going to the guillotine. This is installment #2 in the Poirot series, and it's easy to see that neither Poirot nor Hastings are in their fully developed selves yet. It's not one of her best but on the other hand, it's still early in the series. Originally written in 1923, the language is a bit stilted at times, and Poirot is a bit more long-winded than he will turn out to be later. A lot of this novel is based on coincidence, but you can sort of overlook it because it's interesting to see how Poirot uses zee little grey cells. However, a couple of plot twists will keep you guessing right up until the end so it's a good enough mystery and will keep readers turning pages. Recommended definitely for Christie (and Poirot) fans; readers of golden-age mysteries will enjoy this and readers of British mysteries in general will probably have fun with it. Overall...an average story from a great writer.
    • 3/5
      Hercules Poirot and Hastings are off to France at the bequest of a South American millionaire who is in fear of his life. It takes some getting used to the English overstuffiness, but the storyline is okay. The ending actually had too many twists which got tedious after a while. I'll will probably still read more Christie novels, though.
    • 4/5
      Hastings and Poirot are united in another crime solving escapade, this time involving a dead body found on the edge of a golf course. It's not surprising that they would work together, as they are currently sharing a flat in London. One morning, while at breakfast, Poirot receives an urgent summons from Paul Renauld. The two men travel to his home, but arrive too late - Renauld is dead. Earlier that morning, men entered Renauld's house, tied up his wife and abducted him. The police later found his body in an open grave next to a golf course near his home. He was stabbed in the back. Renauld's son is supposed to be in the Americas, his secretary was in London, and only three women servants were in the house with them.
    • 4/5
      A letter containing a desperate plea for help brings Hercule Poirot to France, but unfortunately not before the author of the letter is murdered, his body found in a bunker on a golf course. As the story unfolds, so do the infamous twists and red herrings that are such a signature of Ms Christie's works
    • 4/5
      Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings together, though sometimes at odds. It's a more complicated plot than in The Mysterious Affair At Styles, and it's possible to figure out some of it while missing quite a bit. There's also a part parody/part critique of the Holmes canon, with a French inspector who very much uses those methods.
    • 3/5
      A nice, solid detective. The story keeps you guessing, it's complicated enough to not be too straightforward.
    • 4/5
      I'm not much for cozies in general, but I do like Agatha Christie and, the earlier Hercule Poirot novels are very nicely crafted. In this story, an Englishman living in France summons Poirot to Merlinville-sur-Mer in France. The Englishman, Paul Renaud, believes his life to life to be endangered. Poirot arrives in all due haste; but it is too late. Renaud's body is discovered on a golf course.... Silly me, I was half afraid that the book was going to contain arcane golfing terminology and I was going to have to ask DH about mashies and niblicks and such, but rest assured, there was nothing about golf in the story :-)

      Redacted from the original blog review at dog eared copy, Hercule Poirot Mysteries (1-4): Mini Op-Ed Reviews, 10/10/2011
    • 4/5
      The Murder on the Links is the second of Christie's Poirot series and from it a better picture of what this Belgian detective is like. The thing that struck me was that he might be a precursor to the man known in the current day as Mr. Adrian Monk. Hercule Poirot comes into a room and immediately looks around and if he can he will begin to straighten up the pictures on the wall, align edges of things out of place and generally look for what is out of order. This is basically the method to his madness as the saying goes.

      Poirot's second characteristic is that he leaves forensic details to others because he can't waste time on clues like cigarette butts or blades of grass because frankly he knows nothing about them and he refuses to make himself look ridiculous moving his nose across the ground like a hound dog. Leave that for the dogs he says.

      Poirot gets a frantic letter from France where a Mr. Renauld is in fear for his life. Despite leaving immediately with his friend Captain Hastings, he arrives too late. Renauld has been found in an open grave on a golf course wearing an overcoat which is too large for him over his underwear.

      There are many entangled threads involving several mysterious characters that Poirot teases out in a delicate fashion all the while poor Captain Hasting is totally lost at sea. He is a lot more that a day late and a dollar short. It made me wonder just why Poirot puts up with him.
      I like the early Poirot books the best because as yet you don't get tired of the little grey cells comments.
    • 4/5
      The plot isn't the best by any means but that was quite charming. The tone is light - Hasting's romance (not with Poirot though ;)) and his being constantly wrong about everything was fun though completely clownish at times. The Cinderella subplot especially was completely unexpected to me. You can tell Christie's trying to find the right tone for her stories and hasn't quite found it yet. Nothing wrong with that - wouldn't reread but it was nice enough while it lasted.
    • 3/5
      Don't be fooled by the title. This novel has nothing to do with golf, and very little to do with the mentioned golf course. The second mystery in the Poirot series finds Poirot and Hastings off to France, called by a man who fears for his life. When they arrive they discover that their client has already died. The mystery builds as Poirot uncovers family connections and false identities. I didn't enjoy this book as much as other Poirot mysteries. I wasn't as taken with the setting- I prefer the ones set in England. I was never fully able to embrace the French environment.

    Book preview

    The Murder on the Links - Agatha Christie

    1

    A Fellow Traveller

    I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors, penned the following sentence:

    ‘Hell!’ said the Duchess.

    Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion. Only the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a Duchess!

    It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris and was returning by the morning service to London where I was still sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.

    The Calais express was singularly empty—in fact, my own compartment held only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure from the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all my traps when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my companion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her existence. Jumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck her head out, with-drawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible ejaculation Hell!

    Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a Billingsgate fishwoman blush!

    I looked up now, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face, surmounted by a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls hid each ear. I judged that she was little more than seventeen, but her face was covered with powder, and her lips were quite impossibly scarlet.

    Nothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive grimace.

    Dear me, we’ve shocked the kind gentleman! she observed to an imaginary audience. I apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and all that, but Oh, Lord, there’s reason enough for it! Do you know I’ve lost my only sister?

    Really? I said politely. How unfortunate.

    He disapproves! remarked the lady. He disapproves utterly—of me, and my sister—which last is unfair, because he hasn’t seen her!

    I opened my mouth, but she forestalled me.

    Say no more! Nobody loves me! I shall go into the garden and eat worms! Boohoo! I am crushed!

    She buried herself behind a large comic French paper. In a minute or two I saw her eyes stealthily peeping at me over the top. In spite of myself I could not help smiling, and in a minute she had tossed the paper aside, and had burst into a merry peal of laughter.

    I knew you weren’t such a mutt as you looked, she cried.

    Her laughter was so infectious that I could not help joining in, though I hardly cared for the word mutt. The girl was certainly all that I most disliked, but that was no reason why I should make myself ridiculous by my attitude. I prepared to unbend. After all, she was decidedly pretty. …

    There! Now we’re friends! declared the minx. Say you’re sorry about my sister—

    I am desolated!

    That’s a good boy!

    Let me finish. I was going to add that, although I am desolated, I can manage to put up with her absence very well. I made a little bow.

    But this most unaccountable of damsels frowned and shook her head.

    Cut it out. I prefer the ‘dignified disapproval’ stunt. Oh, your face! ‘Not one of us,’ it said. And you were right there—though, mind you, it’s pretty hard to tell nowadays. It’s not every one who can distinguish between a demi and a duchess. There now, I believe I’ve shocked you again! You’ve been dug out of the backwoods, you have. Not that I mind that. We could do with a few more of your sort. I just hate a fellow who gets fresh. It makes me mad.

    She shook her head vigorously.

    What are you like when you’re mad? I inquired with a smile.

    A regular little devil! Don’t care what I say, or what I do, either! I nearly did a chap in once. Yes, really. He’d have deserved it too. Italian blood I’ve got. I shall get into trouble one of these days.

    Well, I begged, don’t get mad with me.

    I shan’t. I like you—did the first moment I set eyes on you. But you looked so disapproving that I never thought we should make friends.

    Well, we have. Tell me something about yourself.

    I’m an actress. No—not the kind you’re thinking of, lunching at the Savoy covered with jewellery, and with their photograph in every paper saying how much they love Madame So and So’s face cream. I’ve been on the boards since I was a kid of six—tumbling.

    I beg your pardon, I said puzzled.

    Haven’t you seen child acrobats?

    Oh, I understand.

    I’m American born, but I’ve spent most of my life in England. We got a new show now—

    We?

    My sister and I. Sort of song and dance, and a bit of patter, and a dash of the old business thrown in. It’s quite a new idea, and it hits them every time. There’s to be money in it—

    My new acquaintance leaned forward, and discoursed volubly, a great many of her terms being quite unintelligible to me. Yet I found myself evincing an increasing interest in her. She seemed such a curious mixture of child and woman. Though perfectly worldly-wise, and able, as she expressed it, to take care of herself, there was yet something curiously ingenuous in her single-minded attitude towards life, and her whole-hearted determination to make good. This glimpse of a world unknown to me was not without its charm, and I enjoyed seeing her vivid little face light up as she talked.

    We passed through Amiens. The name awakened many memories. My companion seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of what was in my mind.

    Thinking of the War?

    I nodded.

    You were through it, I suppose?

    Pretty well. I was wounded once, and after the Somme they invalided me out altogether. I had a half fledged Army job for a bit. I’m a sort of private secretary now to an M. P.

    My! That’s brainy!

    No, it isn’t. There’s really awfully little to do. Usually a couple of hours every day sees me through. It’s dull work too. In fact, I don’t know what I should do if I hadn’t got something to fall back upon.

    Don’t say you collect bugs!

    No. I share rooms with a very interesting man. He’s a Belgian—an ex-detective. He’s set up as a private detective in London, and he’s doing extraordinarily well. He’s really a very marvellous little man. Time and again he has proved to be right where the official police have failed.

    My companion listened with widening eyes.

    Isn’t that interesting, now? I just adore crime. I go to all the mysteries on the movies. And when there’s a murder on I just devour the papers.

    Do you remember the Styles Case? I asked.

    Let me see, was that the old lady who was poisoned? Somewhere down in Essex?

    I nodded.

    That was Poirot’s first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him, the murderer would have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of detective work.

    Warming to my subject, I ran over the heads of the affair, working up to the triumphant and unexpected dénouement. The girl listened spellbound. In fact, we were so absorbed that the train drew into Calais station before we realized it.

    My goodness gracious me! cried my companion. Where’s my powder-puff?

    She proceeded to bedaub her face liberally, and then applied a stick of lip salve to her lips, observing the effect in a small pocket glass, and betraying not the faintest sign of self-consciousness.

    I say, I hesitated. I dare say it’s cheek on my part, but why do all that sort of thing?

    The girl paused in her operations, and stared at me with undisguised surprise.

    It isn’t as though you weren’t so pretty that you can afford to do without it, I said stammeringly.

    My dear boy! I’ve got to do it. All the girls do. Think I want to look like a little frump up from the country? She took one last look in the mirror, smiled approval, and put it and her vanity-box away in her bag. That’s better. Keeping up appearances is a bit of a fag, I grant, but if a girl respects herself it’s up to her not to let herself get slack.

    To this essentially moral sentiment, I had no reply. A point of view makes a great difference.

    I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform. My companion held out her hand.

    Good-bye, and I’ll mind my language better in future.

    Oh, but surely you’ll let me look after you on the boat?

    Mayn’t be on the boat. I’ve got to see whether that sister of mine got aboard after all anywhere. But thanks all the same.

    Oh, but we’re going to meet again, surely? I— I hesitated. I want to meet your sister.

    We both laughed.

    "That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings trouble—I know that well enough. …"

    Her face changed. For the moment all the lighthearted gaiety died out of it. It looked angry—revengeful. …

    So good-bye, she finished, in a lighter tone.

    Aren’t you even going to tell me your name? I cried, as she turned away.

    She looked over her shoulder. A dimple appeared in each cheek. She was like a lovely picture by Greuze.

    Cinderella, she said, and laughed.

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

    2

    An Appeal for Help

    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 crooked, 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.

    Poirot waved his egg-spoon in vigorous refutation of my remark.

    "Du tout! If for an hour one experiences sensations and emotions of the most terrible, one has lived many hours! Does not one of your English poets say that time is counted, not by hours, but by heart-beats?"

    I fancy Browning was referring to something more romantic than sea sickness, though.

    "Because he was an Englishman, an Islander to whom la Manche was nothing. Oh, you English! With nous autres it is different. Figure to yourself that a lady of my acquaintance at the beginning of the war fled to Ostend. There she had a terrible crisis of the nerves. Impossible to escape further except by crossing the sea! And she had a horror—mais une horreur!—of the sea! What was she to do? Daily les Boches were drawing nearer. Imagine to yourself the terrible situation!"

    What did she do? I inquired curiously.

    "Fortunately her husband was homme pratique. He was also very calm, the crises of the nerves, they affected him not. Il l’a emportée simplement! Naturally when she reached England she was prostrate, but she still breathed."

    Poirot shook his head seriously. I composed my face as best I could.

    Suddenly he stiffened and pointed a dramatic finger at the toast rack.

    Ah, par exemple, c’est trop fort! he cried.

    What is it?

    This piece of toast. You remark him not? He whipped the offender out of the rack, and held it up for me to examine.

    Is it square? No. Is it a triangle? Again no. Is it even round? No. Is it of any shape remotely pleasing to the eye? What symmetry have we here? None.

    It’s cut from a cottage loaf, I explained soothingly.

    Poirot threw me a withering glance.

    What an intelligence has my friend Hastings! he exclaimed sarcastically. Comprehend you not that I have forbidden such a loaf—a loaf haphazard and shapeless, that no baker should permit himself to bake!

    I endeavoured to distract his mind.

    Anything interesting come by the post?

    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. The cases I have been employed upon lately were banal to the last degree. In verity I am reduced to recovering lost lap-dogs for fashionable ladies! The last problem that presented any interest was that intricate little affair of the Yardly diamond, and that was—how many months ago, my friend?"

    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.

    How does he thank you? I asked curiously, for I knew my Japp.

    He is kind enough to say that I am a wonderful sport for my age, and that he was glad to have had the chance of letting me in on the case.

    This was so typical of Japp, that I could not forbear a chuckle. 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.

    Dear me, Poirot, I said, my excitement rising, I smell some goodly shekels in this. If we succeed, we shall make our fortunes!

    Do not be too sure of that, my friend. A rich man and his money are not so easily parted. Me, I have seen a well-known millionaire turn out a tramful of people to seek for a dropped halfpenny.

    I acknowledged the wisdom of this.

    In any case, continued Poirot, "it is not the money which attracts me here. Certainly it will be pleasant to have carte blanche in our investigations; one can be sure that way of wasting no time, but it is something a little bizarre in this problem which arouses my interest. 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

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