Free Destination Unknown by Agatha Christie Page A

disguised, meant: “Is there anything doing here, I wonder?” and then went down the steps to the terrace below. As he did so he half sang, half hummed a snatch of French opera,
    "Le long des lauriers roses,
    Revant de douces choses."
    The words formed a little pattern on Hilary's brain. Le long des lauriers roses. Laurier. Laurier? That was the name of the Frenchman in the train. Was there a connection here or was it coincidence? She opened her bag and hunted in it for the card he had given her. Mons. Henri Laurier, 3 Rue des Croissants, Casablanca. She turned the card over and there seemed to be faint pencil marks on the back of it. It was as though something had been written on it and then rubbed out. She tried to decipher what the marks were. “Qщ sont,” the message began, then something which she could not decipher, and finally she made out the words “D'antan.” For a moment she had thought that it might be a message, but now she shook her head and put the card back in her bag. It must have been some quotation that he had once written on it and then rubbed out.
    A shadow fell on her and she looked up, startled. Mr. Aristides was standing there between her and the sun. His eyes were not on her. He was looking across over the gardens below towards the silhouette of hills in the distance. She heard him sigh and then he turned abruptly towards the dining room and as he did so, the sleeve of his coat caught the glass on her table and sent it flying to the terrace where it broke. He wheeled round quickly and politely.
    “Ah. Mille pardons, Madame.”
    Hilary assured him smilingly in French that it did not matter in the least. With the swift flick of a finger he summoned a waiter. The waiter as usual came running. He ordered a replacement of Madame's drink and then, once more apologising, he made his way into the restaurant.
    The young Frenchman, still humming, came up the steps again. He lingered noticeably as he passed Hilary, but as she gave no sign, he went on into lunch with a slight philosophic shrug of the shoulders. A French family passed across the terrace, the parents calling to their young.
    “Mais viens, donc, Bobo. Qu'est ce que tu fais? Dépкches toi!”
    “Laisse ta balle, cherie, on va dejeuner.”
    They passed up the steps and into the restaurant, a happy contented little nucleus of family life. Hilary felt suddenly alone and frightened.
    The waiter brought her drink. She asked him if M. Aristides was all alone here?
    “Oh, Madame, naturally, anyone so rich as M. Aristides would never travel alone. He has here his valet and two secretaries and a chauffeur.”
    The waiter was quite shocked at the idea of M. Aristides travelling unaccompanied.
    Hilary noted however, when she at last went into the dining room that the old man sat at a table by himself as he had done on the previous evening. At a table nearby sat two young men whom she thought were probably the secretaries since she noticed that one or the other of them was always on the alert and looked constantly towards the table where M. Aristides, shrivelled and monkey-like, ate his lunch and did not seem to notice their existence. Evidently to M. Aristides, secretaries were not human!
    The afternoon passed in a vague dreamlike manner. Hilary strolled through the gardens, descending from terrace to terrace. The peace and the beauty seemed quite astounding. There was the splash of water, the gleam of the golden oranges, and innumerable scents and fragrances. It was the Oriental atmosphere of seclusion about it that Hilary found so satisfying. As a garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse... This was what a garden was meant to be, a place shut away from the world - full of green and gold -
    If I could stay here, thought Hilary. If I could stay here always...
    It was not the actual garden of the Palais Jamail that was in her thoughts, it was the state of mind it typified. When she no longer looked for peace, she had found it. And peace of mind had