Chapter III
At the Villa
Genevieve
IN a moment Poirot had leaped from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement. He caught the man by the shoulder. “What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?”
The sergent de ville drew himself up. “I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.”
“True. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?"
“Yes, monsieur.”
Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.
“Voila! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the commissary at once?”
The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few seconds a comrade joined him and was handed Poirot's message. There was a wait of some minutes, and then a short stout man with a huge mustache came bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and stood aside.
“My dear M. Poirot,” cried the newcomer, “I am 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.”
16
