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.

“Doubtless that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your own? Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday—suddenly, at a moment’s notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him out of the way before we arrived?”