“Ah, my friend, have faith in Papa Poirot. Some day, if you permit, I will arrange you a marriage of great suitability.”
“Thank you,” I said laughing, “but the prospect leaves me cold.”
Poirot sighed and shook his head.
“Les Anglais!” he murmured. “No method—absolutely none whatever. They leave all to chance!” He frowned, and altered the position of the salt cellar. “Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d’Angleterre you told me, did you not?"
“No. Hôtel du Phare.”
“True, I forgot.”
A moment’s misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never mentioned any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him, and felt reassured. He was cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his task. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying.
We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny cigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket.
“The train to Paris leaves at two twenty-five,” he observed. “I should be starting.”
“Paris?” I cried.
“That is what I said, mon ami.”
“You are going to Paris? But why?”
He replied very seriously.
“To look for the murderer of M. Renauld.”
“You think he is in Paris?”
“I am quite certain that he is not. Nevertheless, it is there that I must look for him. You do not understand, but I will explain it all to you in good time. Believe me, this journey to Paris is necessary. I shall not be away long. In all probability I shall return tomorrow. I do not propose that you should accompany me. Remain here and keep an eye on Giraud. Also cultivate the society of M. Renauld fils. And thirdly, if you wish, endeavor to cut him out with Mademoiselle Marthe. But I fear you will not have great success.”
I did not quite relish the last remark.
“That reminds me,” I said. "I meant to ask you how you knew about those two?”
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