Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen The Girl With Anxious Eyes

We had a hearty lunch.For a while, we ate in silence.Then Poirot said in an ill-natured way: "Ehbien! Your indiscretion! Aren't you going to tell?" I felt myself blushing. "Well, you mean this morning?" I tried to look completely nonchalant. But I am no match for Poirot.In a few minutes, he had gotten the whole story out of my mouth.He blinked his eyes as usual while catching my words, "Tiens②, an excellent romance. That charming young lady ①French: Yes. What is your name?" I have to admit I don't know. "It's even more romantic: the first time, on the rencontre train from Paris; the second time, right here. 'The journey is over and the lovers meet.' Isn't there a saying?"

"Don't be crazy and stupid, Poirot." "Yesterday it was Miss Dobler, and today it's Cinderella—Miss! Evidently you're as erotic as the Turk, Hastings! You ought to have a harem!" "Jokes don't matter to me. Miss Dobler is a very pretty girl, and I admit I do admire her very much; the other one is nothing at all. I don't think I shall ever see her again." "You're not going to see her any more?" His last few words were almost a question, and I was alert to the piercing gaze he was casting on me.In front of my eyes, I seemed to see a few big words, shining brightly: Lighthouse Hotel.I heard her voice again saying, "Come and see me." And I heard myself answering graciously, "I will come."

I answered Poirot quite easily: "She invited me to see her, but of course I wouldn't go." "Why 'of course'?" "Uh, I don't want to go." "Cinderella is staying at the English Hotel, you told me, didn't you?" "No. At the Lighthouse Inn." ① French: Encounter. ——Annotation, "Yes, I forgot." A moment of doubt flitted through my mind.I certainly never mentioned the name of the hotel to Poirot.I looked at him across the table and felt relieved again.He was preoccupied with cutting the bread into neat cubes.It must be where he thought I told him about the girl.

We drank coffee outside, facing the sea.Poirot smoked one of his little cigars, and then drew his watch from his pocket. "The train for Paris leaves at twenty-five past two," he said. "I must be going." "Paris?" I called. "That's what I said, monamiL①." "You're going to Paris? For what?" He replied very seriously: "To find the murderer of Mr. Renault." "You think he's in Paris?" "I'm sure he's not in Paris. Even so, I'll have to look for him there. You don't understand, but I'll explain to you in due course. Believe me, this trip to Paris is indispensable. I'll be back soon , likely to be back tomorrow.

I'm not going to invite you to come with me.Stay here, keep an eye on Giro, and keep company with little Reynolds. " "That reminds me," I said, "that I was going to ask you, how did you know about these two?" "Mon ami②, I understand human nature. Take a guy like Renault①② French: my friend.—Annotation. Putting it together with a beautiful girl like Miss Marta, the result is almost predictable.Followed by a quarrel.The question is whether it is for money or for women.I judged it was the latter, because I remembered Leoni's description of the kid getting mad.So I guessed -- and guessed right. "

"You already guessed that she loves little Reno?" Poirot smiled. "Anyhow, I saw her with anxious eyes. I couldn't help thinking of Miss Dobler—a girl with anxious eyes." His voice was so solemn it disturbed me deeply. "What do you mean, Poirot?" "I think, my friend, that we shall soon find out. But I must go." "I'll see you off." I said standing up. "You must not do that. I won't allow it." His commanding tone made me stare at him involuntary surprise.He nodded solemnly: "I mean what I say, monami 1. Goodbye."

After Poirot left, I felt overwhelmed.I strolled towards the seashore and watched the people bathing in the sea, but I couldn't muster up the interest to go swimming.I kind of fancied that Cinderella might be having fun with these people in her fancy attire, but I couldn't find her.I wandered aimlessly along the beach to the other end of Melanville.It occurred to me that, after all, going to the girl was a gesture of goodwill on my part, so as to avoid trouble in the future; that was the end of the matter, and I would also ①French: my friend. ——Annotation. Don't worry about her anymore.But if I didn't go, she was likely to come to the villa, so I left the beach and walked to the town.I soon found the Lighthouse Inn, a house without ostentation.The most annoying thing is that I don't know the girl's name.In order to maintain my dignity, I decided to walk around the hotel, look around, and maybe find her in the lounge.I went in, but saw no sign of her.I waited some time, until I grew impatient, took the porter aside, and slipped five francs into his hand.

"I want to see a lady who lives here. A young English lady, small and dark, I can't name her." The man shook his head, as if forcing himself not to smile. "There is no lady here like you describe." "But the lady told me she lives here." "Mr. must be mistaken, and perhaps the young lady is probably mistaken, because another gentleman has come here to ask about her." "What did you say?" I exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, sir. The gentleman's description of the lady is just like yours." "What does he look like?"

"This gentleman is a small man, well-dressed and neatly dressed, almost spotless, with a straight beard, a strangely shaped head, and flaming green eyes." Poirot! That's why he didn't let me accompany him to the station.How unreasonable! If he doesn't meddle in my affairs, I'd really like to thank him.Does he really think I need a nanny to take care of me? I thanked the man and left, somewhat recklessly, but still very annoyed at my nosy friend. Where did the girl go? I put my annoyance aside and tried to figure it out.Apparently, by inadvertence, she had mispronounced the name of the hotel.Then I thought again: Was it carelessness, or did she deliberately not tell me her name and give me an address?

The more I think about it, the more I feel that the latter guess is correct.For some reason, she didn't want us to go from being acquaintances to becoming friends, and even though that was exactly what I thought half an hour ago, it would be uncomfortable to reverse it now. The whole affair was so exasperating that I walked up to the Villa Geneviève obviously in a bad mood.Instead of going into the house, I walked down the path to a small bench beside the shed, and sat down sullenly. My train of thought was interrupted by a nearby voice.For a moment, I realized that the voice was not coming from the garden where I was, but from the garden of the neighboring Villa Margaret, very close to my ears.A girl's voice spoke, and I recognized the voice of beautiful Marta.

"Cheri 1," she said, "is it true? Are all our troubles over?" "You know, Marta," replied Jack Raynor, "that nothing can separate us, dearest. The last barrier to our union is now removed. Nothing can take you from me .” "Nothing?" Marta murmured. "Well, Jack, Jack... I'm sick of it." I moved to move away, realizing that I was inadvertently eavesdropping on someone's conversation.When I stood up, I read from a voice in the fence ①French: my dear. ——Annotation. I caught a glimpse of them standing together, facing me, the man with his arms around the woman's waist, and looking directly into her eyes.What an outstanding couple, the man is dark and well-proportioned, and the woman is fair-skinned, like a young goddess.They stood there as a natural pair, happy in spite of the terrible tragedy that had cast its shadow over their young lives. But the girl's face was perplexed and disturbed.Jack seemed to notice it too, he held her tighter and asked: "But what are you afraid of, my dear? Now... what else is there to be afraid of?" So as she murmured, I saw the look in her eyes, the look Poirot had mentioned, and so I almost guessed what she was going to say, "I'm afraid . . . for you." I did not catch little Raynor's answer, for my attention was distracted by a curious object a little way off the fence.There appeared to be a clump of brown bushes.Among other things, the presence of such dwarf trees seemed strange so early in the summer.I walked along the fence to check it out, but as I got closer the tan bush suddenly drew back and turned to face me with a finger on its lips.Ah, it turned out to be Giro. He motioned to me to be silent, and walked around the shed until we heard no more talking. "What were you doing there just now?" I asked. "Just like you—listen." "But I didn't mean to be there." "Ah!" said Giraud, "I did it on purpose." As usual, I have a lot of admiration for this guy despite my dislike.He looked me up and down with a certain disdain. "It's spoiled by your sudden intrusion. I could have heard something useful in a moment. What have you been doing with your old prick?" "M. Poirot has gone to Paris," I replied dryly. Giro pinched his fingers contemptuously and made a crackling sound. "So he's gone to Paris, hasn't he? Well, that's not so bad. The longer he stays there the better. But what's he looking for there?" I felt an uneasy tone in the question, and I straightened myself up. "I have no right to say anything about this." I said calmly. Jiro gave me a hard look. "Maybe he's learned his lesson by not telling you," he said roughly, "Goodbye. I'm busy. ’ He turned and left me rudely. There was no progress at the Villa Genevienne.Giro evidently did not want my company; and, from what I observed, neither did Jack Raynor. I walked back to town, took a nice sea bath, and headed back to the hotel.I went to bed early, wondering if something interesting would happen the next day. I had absolutely no idea what happened the next day.I was eating petit de je Luner in the dining room when suddenly the waiter who was chatting outside came back excitedly.He hesitated for a moment, fingering his napkin uneasily, and then blurted out: ①French: Breakfast. ——Annotation. "Excuse me, monsieur. You have something to do with the Villa Genevieve, don't you?" "Yes, what's the matter?" I asked eagerly. "Haven't you heard the news, sir?" "what news?" "There was another murder last night:" "what?" I left my breakfast, grabbed my hat, and ran out the door as fast as I could.Another murder, and Poirot was away! What a pity, who was murdered again? I went straight for the door.A group of servants were in the driveway, gesticulating and talking.I caught Francois. "What's the matter?" "Ah, sir: sir: another man has died! Terrible! This house is unlucky. Yes, I say, unlucky: they should have the priest come and sprinkle some holy water. I shall never sleep in this house again! Maybe It's my turn, who knows?" She crossed herself. "You say so," I cried, "but who was murdered?" "Me? How do I know? A man—a stranger. They found him there...in the shed...not a hundred yards from where they found poor sir. That's not counting." , he was also stabbed to death... with the same dagger pierced into the heart."