delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.”
Poirot’s face had lighted up.
“M. Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.” He turned to me. “This is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings—M. 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 1909, that time in Ostend. I heard that you had left the Force?”
“So I have. I run a private business in London.”
“And you say 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 he knew an attempt was going to be made on his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.”
“Sacri 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, M. Hautet, must hear of this at once. He has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin his interrogations. A charming man. You will like him. Most sympathetic. Original in his methods, but an excellent judge.”
“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 the 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 M. Hautet now?” inquired the latter.
“In the salon, monsieur.”
