Chapter 2 Chapter 2 A Request for Help

At 9:05 the next morning, I went into the living room we shared for breakfast.My friend Poirot, as usual, was tapping his second egg with perfect precision. He greeted me with a smile when I came in. "You slept well, didn't you? The wind and waves across the channel were terrible, and you recovered. It's a good thing, you were almost on time this morning. Forgive me, but your tie is not symmetrical, and allow me to straighten it. " Poirot was a man whom I have described elsewhere: he was an unusually small man, five feet four feet high, with an egg-shaped head slightly tilted to one side, green eyes that glowed when he was excited, and a straight military mustache; It is a school of momentum.He looks neat and dressed like a playboy.He is very particular about tidiness in everything.As long as a piece of decoration is out of order, or a little bit of dust, or someone's clothes are slightly out of order, the little man feels as if he is suffering, and he has to make amends to feel at ease. "In good order" and "in order" are his creeds.He was quite contemptuous of visible evidence such as footprints, soot, etc., always thinking that these things would never enable the detective to solve any problem in terms of facts.

After expressing these opinions, he often taps his egg-shaped head, his self-satisfaction is quite ridiculous, and then he smugly makes the following comments: "The real kung fu comes from here. Tiny gray cells, mon ami, never forget these tiny gray cells." Sitting down in my seat, I replied casually to Poirot: "The wind and waves are terrible." This modifier does not seem to make the one-hour sea journey from Cal to Dover look more dignified." "Any interesting letters?" I asked. Poirot shook his head, looking strangely dissatisfied. "I haven't read my letters yet, but the ones that come in today don't look like they'll be of any interest. The big criminals, the criminals with methods, aren't to be found now."

He shook his head in disappointment, and I laughed. "Come on, Poirot, luck will turn out. Open the letter and see 'perhaps there is a serious case looming on the horizon." Poirot smiled slightly, took up his neat letter-opening knife, and cut open the envelopes which lay beside his plate. "Bill, another bill. I'm getting old and profligate. Aha! A note from Japp." "Really?" I pricked up my ears.The Scotland Yard investigator has more than once given us interesting cases. "He just thanked me (in his way) because I gave him some little pointers on the Abera Travis case and put him on the right track. I would love to be of help to him. ".Poirot continued to read the letter calmly.

"The Countess of Ffarnock suggested that I should make a report to the local Boy Scouts. She would be very obliged if I went to see her. I must have sent me another bulldog. This is the last letter. Yes. Ah..." Noticing a change in his tone of voice, I glanced up.Poirot was reading the letter carefully, when he threw it to me. ' "Mon ami, this letter is unusual. Read it yourself." The letter was written on a piece of foreign-style letterhead, with bold and distinctive handwriting. Dear Sir: I need the help of a detective.For some reason (to be told later) I do not want to resort to the local police.I have heard of you many times, and the public opinion has proved that you are not only a man of great intelligence, but also a man of prudence.

I am not going to go into details in the letter.My life is in danger every day because of a secret I hold in my hands.Convinced of the imminent danger, I beg you to cross the sea to France with haste.If the arrival time is telegraphed, I will send a car to Calais to meet you.If you can put all the cases at hand aside and serve me wholeheartedly, I will be very grateful and willing to pay the necessary compensation.I may need your assistance for some time, and if necessary, Mr. Lowe's trip to Santiago, where I have lived for many years.I will be happy to pay all the expenses mentioned by Mr.If it is urgent, please ask again. Yours sincerely, P. T. Reynolds. Beneath the signature there is a scribbled line in almost illegible writing:

"For God's sake, come on!" I handed him the letter back, my pulse racing with excitement. "Finally, something unusual has happened in the ordinary." "Yes, indeed," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Of course you're going," I went on. Poirot nodded, thinking deeply.At last he seemed to make up his mind, and looked at the clock with a serious face. "You see, my friend, hurry up. The Continental Express leaves at Victoria Station at eleven. Don't get excited, there's still plenty of time. We can talk for ten minutes, you come with me, n' est—ce pas?⑥"

"Yep......" "You told me yourself that your boss doesn't want you for the next few weeks." "Oh, that's all right. But this Monsieur Reynolds clearly hints that it's a private matter." "No, no, no, I will deal with Mr. Reynolds. Speaking of which, this surname sounds familiar to me." There is a well-known South American millionaire named Renault, but I don't know if it is the same person. " "Exactly. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is in Chile, and Chile is in South America. Ah, we're not doing badly! Did you notice that postscript? How do you feel?"

I thought about it. "Obviously, when he wrote the letter, he tried to restrain his emotions as much as possible, but at the end, his self-control broke down, and he wrote these desperate words on impulse." But my friend shook his head vigorously. "You're wrong. Didn't you see that the ink of the signature is almost black, but the color of the postscript is very light?" "Really?" I asked suspiciously. "Mon Dieu⑦, mon ami⑧, use your tiny gray cells; isn't that so obvious? Monsieur Reynaud wrote the letter, which he read carefully without blotting paper. Then, not for a moment Impulsively, but after much deliberation, added the last few words, then blotting." "Then why?"

"Parbleu, in order to have the same effect on me as it has on you." "what?" "Mais oui⑩, just to make me sure to go to France. He was dissatisfied after re-reading the letter because the tone was not strong enough." He paused, his eyes blazing green with the usual agitation, and then whispered again: "In that case, my friend, since the postscript has been added solemnly after sober consideration, and not on the spur of the moment, the situation must be urgent, and we must get to him as soon as possible." "Melanville," I murmured thoughtfully, "I think I've heard of this place."

Poirot nodded. "It's a quiet, quaint little place, half way between Brown and Calais. I suppose Renault has a mansion in England." "Yes, at Rutland Gate, if I remember rightly. There's a big house somewhere in the country in Hertfordshire. I don't know much about him, though, because he's not much in society. .I believe he has a lot of South American assets in the London business world and he spends most of his time in Chile and Argentina." "Well, we'll hear all the details from him himself. Come, let's pack up. Take a little suitcase each, and take a taxi to Victoria Station."

At eleven o'clock we left Victoria for Dover.Before departure, Poirot sent Renault a telegram telling him of our arrival in Calais. On a boat, I know it's best not to bother my friends.The weather was excellent, and the sea was, as the saying goes, "mirror level," so I was not surprised when Poirot disembarked with me at Calais, smiling.But what was waiting for us was a big disappointment, because there was no car to pick us up.Poirot determined that this was due to a delay in the delivery of the telegram. "Let's just hire a car," he said cheerfully.A few minutes later, we took a dilapidated taxi, creaking and bumping all the way to Melanville. I was in high spirits, but my little friend was watching me gravely. "Man has the power of 'foretelling,' as the Scots say, Hastings. There are signs of disaster. " "Bullshit. Anyway, your feelings are different from mine." "No, I'm afraid." "afraid of what?" "I can't say, but I have a hunch..' aje ne sais quoi⒁!" The tone of his speech was solemn, and I couldn't help being affected. "I have a feeling," he said slowly, "that this is going to be a major event—a difficult problem that will take time and is not easy to solve." I was going to press on, but at this moment we drove into the small town of Melanville.We slowed down and asked for directions to Villa Genevienne. "Cross the town, monsieur, straight ahead. The Villa Geneviève is about half a mile down the road. You can't miss that big villa facing the sea." We thanked the guide and drove away from town.We stopped again at the fork in the road.A farmer was coming towards us, and we were going to wait for him to come up before asking him the way.There is a small villa in Luhang, but it seems too small and dilapidated, not like the one we are looking for.While we were waiting, the door opened and a girl came out. The farmer was about to pass us when the driver leaned forward from his seat to ask for directions. "The Villa Geneviève? It's just a few steps to the right of the road, Monsieur. You would have seen it if it hadn't been for the bend." The driver thanked him and started the car again.The girl was still standing there with her hand on the door, watching us.My eyes were drawn to her.I always admire and appreciate all beautiful things.This girl is so beautiful, no matter who sees her, she must say a few words.She is tall and has a fairy-like figure, and her uncovered blond hair melts in the sun and shines.I said to myself, this should be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.I looked back at her as we wobbled up the rough road. "Oh, Poirot," I exclaimed, "you see that young lady?" Poirot raised his eyebrows. "Ca commence⒂!" he whispered. "You have seen a goddess!" "Anyway, isn't she just enough to be a goddess?" "Maybe, but I didn't notice." "Didn't you actually see her?" "Mon ami, it's rare for two people to see the same thing. For example, you see a goddess, but I..." he said eagerly. "What do you say?" "All I saw was a girl with anxious eyes," said Poirot solemnly. At this time we approached a green gate, and we both let out an exclamation in unison.In front of the door stood a dignified police officer.He held up his hands to block our way. "Gentlemen, you must not pass." "But we have come to see Monsieur Renault," I cried. "We have an appointment with him. Isn't this his residence?" "Yes, sir, but...,,." Poirot leaned forward. "But what?" "Mr. Renault was murdered this morning." ①French, my friend. ②The British port city is about 100 kilometers southeast of London, across the Strait of Dover, and faces the French port city of Calais. ③The location of London Metropolitan Police Service. ④French, my friend. ⑤The capital of Chile, ⑥French, isn’t it, ⑦French, my God (exclamation). ⑧French, my friend. ⑨French, of course. 10 French, to be honest. ⑾A port city in northeastern France. ⑿ In Rutlandshire, central England. ⒀ County name, in the west of England. ⒁French, can't say why. ⒂French, this is the beginning.