The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

front garden. She was, as Poirot had noted, a very pretty little maid, with round blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Poirot raised his hat with courtesy and addressed her: "Pardon, but does a.Miss Amelia Barrowby live here?" The little maid gasped and her eyes grew rounder. "Oh, sir, didn't you know? She's dead. Ever so sudden it was. Tuesday night." She hesitated, divided between two strong instincts: the first, distrust of a foreigner; the sec 60 Agatha Christie

and, the pleasurable enjoyment of her class in dwelling on the subject of illness and death. "You amaze me," said Hercule Poirot, not very truthfully. "I had an appointment with the lady for today. However, I can perhaps see the other lady who lives here." The little maid seemed slightly doubtful. "The mistress? Well, you could see her, perhaps, but I don't know whether she'll be seeing anyone or not."

"She will see me," said Poirot, and handed her

a card.

The authority of his tone had its effect. The rosy-cheeked maid fell back and ushered PoirOt into a sitting room on the right of the hall. Then, card in hand, she departed to summon her mistress. Hercule Poirot looked round him. The room was a perfectly conventional drawing room--oatmeal-colored paper with a frieze round the top, indeterminate cretonnes, rose-colored cushions and curtains, a good many china knick-knacks and ornaments. There was nothing in the room that stood out, that announced a definite personality. Suddenly Poirot, who was very sensitive, felt eyes watching him. He wheeled round. A girl was standing in the entrance of the French window--a small, sallow girl, with very black hair and suspicious eyes. She came in, and as Poirot made a little bow she burst out abruptly, "Why have you come?" Poirot did not reply. He merely raised his eyebrows. "You are not a lawyer--no?" Her English was

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 61

good, but not for a minute would anyone have taken her to be English.

"Why should I be a lawyer, mademoiselle?" The girl stared at him sullenly. "I thought you might be. I thought you had come perhaps to say that she did not know what she was doing. I have heard of such things--the not due influence; that is what they call it, no? But that is not right. She wanted me to have the money, and I shall have it. If it is needful I shall have a lawyer of my own. The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it shall be." She looked ugly, her chin thrust out, her eyes gleaming.

The door opened and a tall woman entered and said, "Katrina."

The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something and went out through the window.

Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had

so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering

a single word. There had been authority in her voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred irony. He realized at once that this was the owner of the house, Mary Delafontaine.

"M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have received my letter."

"Alas, I have been away from London."

"Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my hus-band. Miss Barrowby was my aunt."

Mr. Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner. He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He looked often toward his wife, and it was plain that

62 Agatha Christie

he expected her to take the lead in any conversa-tion.

"I much regret that I intrude in the midst of your bereavement," said Hercule Poirot.

"I quite realize that it is not your fault," said Mrs. Delafontaine. "My aunt died on Tuesday evening. It was quite unexpected."

"Most unexpected," said Mr. Delafontaine. "Great blow." His eyes watched the window where the foreign girl had disappeared.

"I apologize," said Hercule Poirot. "And I withdraw." He moved a step toward the door.

"Half a sec," said Mr. Delafontaine. "You--er--had an appointment with Aunt Amelia, you say?'"

· 'Parfaiternent." .

"Perhaps you will tell us about it," said his wife. "If there is anything we can do--" "It was of a private nature," said Poirot. "I am a detective," he added simply.

Mr. Delafontaine knocked over a little china figure he was handling. His wife looked puzzled.

"A detective? And you had an appointment with auntie? But how extraordinary!" She stared at him. "Can't you tell us a little more, M. Poirot? It--it seems quite fantastic."

Poirot was silent for a moment. He chose his words with care.

"It is difficult for me, madame, to know what to do."

"Look here," said Mr. Delafontaine. "She didn't mention Russians, did she?"

"Russians?"

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