Free The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie

seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation.
    Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld.
    Léonie shook her head.
    â€œShe is terribly upset, the poor lady! She will eat nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman!”
    Poirot nodded sympathetically.
    â€œWhat you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows. Still undoubtedly there must have been many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?”
    Again Léonie shook her head.
    â€œNever, monsieur. Never have I heard madame utter a word of protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to monsieur.”
    â€œMonsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”
    â€œFar from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with Monsieur Jack— ma foi! they might have been heard in the marketplace, they shouted so loud!”
    â€œIndeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?”
    â€œOh, it was just before Monsieur Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!”
    Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.
    â€œAnd the dispute, what was it about?”
    â€œAh, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!”
    The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.
    â€œAnd Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”
    â€œOne moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”
    â€œThey have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage.Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder.”
    â€œ Quelle idée, ” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.
    â€œYou will go out and join them?”
    â€œNo, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool there on this hot morning.”
    This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.
    â€œIf you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.
    â€œNot in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?”
    â€œWell, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”
    â€œThe human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au revoir.”
    I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so farther to the right. The shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.
    She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!
    The surprise was mutual.
    â€œYou!” we both exclaimed simultaneously.
    The