A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s eyes.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question:
“Pardon, M. Bex, but without doubt M. Renauld could drive the car himself?”
The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied promptly:
“No, Monsieur did not drive himself.”
Poirot’s frown deepened.
“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said impatiently.
“See you not? In his letter M. Renauld speaks of sending the car for me to Calais.”
“Perhaps he meant a hired car,” I suggested.