“Oh, that’s all right. But this Mr. Renauld hints strongly that his business is private.”
“Ta-ta-ta. I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, I seem to know the name?”
“There’s a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His name’s Renauld. I don’t know whether it could be the same.”
“But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is in Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah, but we progress finely.”
“Dear me, Poirot,” I said, my excitement rising, “I smell some goodly shekels in this. If we succeed, we shall make our fortunes!”
“Do not be too sure of that, my friend. A rich man and his money are not so easily parted. Me, I have seen a well-known millionaire turn out a tramful of people to seek for a dropped halfpenny.”
I acknowledged the wisdom of this.
“In any case,” continued Poirot, “it is not the money which attracts me here. Certainly it will be pleasant to have carte blanche in our investigations; one can be sure that way of wasting no time, but it is something a little bizarre in this problem which arouses my interest. You remarked the postscript? How did it strike you?”
I considered.
“Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end his self-control snapped and, on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled those four desperate words.”