"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.
"Well—from what you say the Count does not sound the kind of man who would actually kill anybody."
"Ah! Very good," cried Poirot, "you agree with me; that is just what I have said." He looked at her sharply. "But tell me, you have met Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I met him at Lady Tamplin's, and I lunched with him yesterday."
"Amauvais sujet," said Poirot, shaking his head; "butles femmes—they like that, eh?"
He twinkled at Katherine and she laughed.
"He is the kind of man one would notice anywhere," continued Poirot. "Doubtless you observed him on the Blue Train?"
"Yes, I noticed him."
"In the restaurant car?"
"No. I didn't notice him at meals at all. I only saw him once—going into his wife's compartment."
Poirot nodded. "A strange business," he murmured. "I believe you said you were awake, Mademoiselle, and looked out of your window at Lyons? You saw no tall dark man such as the Comte de la Roche leave the train?"
Katherine shook her head. "I don't think I saw any one at all," she said. "There was a youngish lad in a cap and overcoat who got out, but I don't think he was leaving the train, only walking up and down the platform. There was a fat Frenchman with a beard, in pyjamas and an overcoat, who wanted a cup of coffee. Otherwise, I think there were only the train attendants."
Poirot nodded his head several times. "It is like this, you see," he confided, "the Comte de la Roche has an alibi. An alibi, it is a very pestilential thing, and always open to the gravest suspicion. But here we are!"
They went straight up to Van Aldin's suite, where they found Knighton. Poirot introduced him to Katherine. After a few commonplaces had been exchanged, Knighton said, "I will tell Mr. Van Aldin that Miss Grey is here."
He went through a second door into an adjoining room. There was a low murmur of voices, and then Van Aldin came into the room and advanced towards Katherine with outstretched hand, giving her at the same time a shrewd and penetrating glance.
"I am pleased to meet you, Miss Grey," he said simply. "I have been wanting very badly to hear what you can tell me about Ruth."
The quiet simplicity of the millionaire's manner appealed to Katherine strongly. She felt herself in the presence of a very genuine grief, the more real for its absence of outward sign.
He drew forward a chair.
"Sit here, will you, and just tell me all about it."
Poirot and Knighton retired discreetly into the other room, and Katherine and Van Aldin were left alone together. She found no difficulty in her task. Quite simply and naturally she related her conversation with Ruth Kettering, word for word as nearly as she could. He listened in silence, leaning back in his chair, with one hand shading his eyes. When she had finished he said quietly:
"Thank you, my dear."
They both sat silent for a minute or two. Katherine felt that words of sympathy would be out of place. When the millionaire spoke, it was in a different tone:
"I am very grateful to you, Miss Grey. I think you did something to ease my poor Ruth's mind in the last hours of her life. Now I want to ask you something. You know—M. Poirot will have told you—about the scoundrel that my poor girl had got herself mixed up with. He was the man of whom she spoke to you—the man she was going to meet. In your judgment do you think she might have changed her mind after her conversation with you? Do you think she meant to go back on her word?"
"I can't honestly tell you. She had certainly come to some decision, and seemed more cheerful in consequence of it."
"She gave you no idea where she intended to meet the skunk—whether in Paris or at Hyères?"
Katherine shook her head.
"She said nothing as to that."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin thoughtfully, "and that is the important point. Well, time will show."
He got up and opened the door of the adjoining room. Poirot and Knighton came back.
Katherine declined the millionaire's invitation to lunch, and Knighton went down with her and saw her into the waiting car. He returned to find Poirot and Van Aldin deep in conversation.
"If we only knew," said the millionaire thoughtfully, "what decision Ruth came to. It might have been any of half a dozen. She might have meant to leave the train at Paris and cable to me. She may have meant to have gone on to the south of France and have an explanation with the Count there. We are in the dark—absolutely in the dark. But we have the maid's word for it that she was both startled and dismayed at the Count's appearance at the station in Paris. That was clearly not part of the preconceived plan. You agree with me, Knighton?"
The secretary started. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Van Aldin. I was not listening."
"Day-dreaming, eh?" said Van Aldin. "That's not like you. I believe that girl has bowled you over."
Knighton blushed.
"She is a remarkably nice girl," said Van Aldin thoughtfully, "very nice. Did you happen to notice her eyes?"
"Any man," said Knighton, "would be bound to notice her eyes."
Several days had elapsed. Katherine had been for a walk by herself one morning, and came back to find Lenox grinning at her expectantly.
"Your young man has been ringing you up, Katherine!"
"Who do you call my young man?"
"A new one—Rufus Van Aldin's secretary. You seem to have made rather an impression there. You are becoming a serious breaker of hearts, Katherine. First Derek Kettering, and now this young Knighton. The funny thing is, that I remember him quite well. He was in Mother's War Hospital that she ran out here. I was only a kid of about eight at the time."
"Was he badly wounded?"
"Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly—rather a nasty business. I think the doctors messed it up a bit. They said he wouldn't limp or anything, but when he left here he was still completely dot and go one."
Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.
"Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?" she asked. "Such a dear fellow! Just at first I didn't remember him—one had so many—but now it all comes back."
"He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered before," said Lenox. "Now that he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very different matter."
"Darling!" said Lady Tamplin in her vague reproachful voice.
"What did Major Knighton ring up about?" inquired Katherine.
"He asked if you would like to go to the tennis this afternoon. If so, he would call for you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you withempressement. Whilst you dally with a millionaire's secretary, you might give me a chance with the millionaire, Katherine. He is about sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet young thing like me."
"I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin," said Lady Tamplin earnestly; "one has heard so much of him. Those fine rugged figures of the Western world"—she broke off—"so fascinating," she murmured.
"Major Knighton was very particular to say it was Mr. Van Aldin's invitation," said Lenox. "He said it so often that I began to smell a rat. You and Knighton would make a very nice pair, Katherine. Bless you, my children!"
Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to change her clothes.
Knighton arrived soon after lunch and endured manfully Lady Tamplin's transports of recognition.
When they were driving together towards Cannes he remarked to Katherine: "Lady Tamplin has changed wonderfully little."
"In manner or appearance?"
"Both. She must be, I suppose, well over forty, but she is a remarkably beautiful woman still."
"She is," agreed Katherine.
"I am very glad that you could come to-day," went on Knighton. "M. Poirot is going to be there also. What an extraordinary little man he is. Do you know him well, Miss Grey?"
Katherine shook her head. "I met him on the train on the way here. I was reading a detective novel, and I happened to say something about such things not happening in real life. Of course, I had no idea of who he was."
"He is a very remarkable person," said Knighton slowly, "and has done some very remarkable things. He has a kind of genius for going to the root of the matter, and right up to the end no one has any idea of what he is really thinking. I remember I was staying at a house in Yorkshire, and Lady Clanravon's jewels were stolen. It seemed at first to be a simple robbery, but it completely baffled the local police. I wanted them to call in Hercule Poirot, and said he was the only man who could help them, but they pinned their faith to Scotland Yard."
"And what happened?" said Katherine curiously.
"The jewels were never recovered," said Knighton drily.
"You really do believe in him?"
"I do indeed. The Comte de la Roche is a pretty wily customer. He has wriggled out of most things. But I think he has met his match in Hercule Poirot."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine thoughtfully; "so you really think he did it?"
"Of course." Knighton looked at her in astonishment. "Don't you?"
"Oh yes," said Katherine hastily; "that is, I mean, if it was not just an ordinary train robbery."
"It might be, of course," agreed the other, "but it seems to me that the Comte de la Roche fits into this business particularly well."
"And yet he has an alibi."
"Oh, alibis!" Knighton laughed, his face broke into his attractive boyish smile.
"You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know that any one who has a perfect alibi is always open to grave suspicion."
"Do you think that real life is like that?" asked Katherine, smiling.
"Why not? Fiction is founded on fact."
"But is rather superior to it," suggested Katherine.
"Perhaps. Anyway, if I was a criminal I should not like to have Hercule Poirot on my track."
"No more should I," said Katherine, and laughed.
They were met on arrival by Poirot. As the day was warm he was attired in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.
"Bon jour, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I look very English, do I not?"
"You look wonderful," said Katherine tactfully.
"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot genially, "but no matter. Papa Poirot, he always laughs the last."
"Where is Mr. Van Aldin?" asked Knighton.
"He will meet us at our seats. To tell you the truth, my friend, he is not too well pleased with me. Oh, those Americans—the repose, the calm, they know it not! Mr. Van Aldin, he would that I fly myself in the pursuit of criminals through all the byways of Nice."
"I should have thought myself that it would not have been a bad plan," observed Knighton.
"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these matters one needs not energy but finesse. At the tennis one meets every one. That is so important. Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."
Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though something had arisen to upset him. He and Knighton greeted each other with some frigidity. Poirot alone seemed unconscious of any sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly in a laudable attempt to put every one at his ease. He paid little compliments.
"It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well you speak the French," he observed—"so well that you could be taken for a Frenchman if you chose. That is a very rare accomplishment among Englishmen."
"I wish I did," said Katherine. "I am only too well aware that my French is of a painfully British order."
They reached their seats and sat down, and almost immediately Knighton perceived his employer signaling to him from the other end of the court, and went off to speak to him.
"Me, I approve of that young man," said Poirot, sending a beaming smile after the departing secretary; "and you, Mademoiselle?"
"I like him very much."
"And you, M. Kettering?"
Some quick rejoinder was springing to Derek's lips, but he checked it as though something in the little Belgian's twinkling eyes had made him suddenly alert. He spoke carefully, choosing his words.
"Knighton is a very good fellow," he said.
Just for a moment Katherine fancied that Poirot looked disappointed.
"He is a great admirer of yours, M. Poirot," she said, and she related some of the things that Knighton had said. It amused her to see the little man plume himself like a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming an air of mock modesty that would have deceived no one.
"That reminds me, Mademoiselle," he said suddenly, "I have a little matter of business I have to speak to you about. When you were sitting talking to that poor lady in the train, I think you must have dropped a cigarette case."
Katherine looked rather astonished. "I don't think so," she said. Poirot drew from his pocket a cigarette case of soft blue leather, with the initial "K" on it in gold.
"No, that is not mine," Katherine said.
"Ah, a thousand apologies. It was doubtless Madame's own. 'K,' of course, stands for Kettering. We were doubtful, because she had another cigarette case in her bag, and it seemed odd that she should have two." He turned to Derek suddenly. "You do not know, I suppose, whether this was your wife's case or not?"
Derek seemed momentarily taken aback. He stammered a little in his reply: "I—I don't know. I suppose so."
"It is not yours by any chance?"
"Certainly not. If it were mine it would hardly have been in my wife's possession."
Poirot looked more ingenuous and childlike than ever.
"I thought perhaps you might have dropped it when you were in your wife's compartment," he explained guilelessly.
"I never was there. I have already told the police that a dozen times."
"A thousand pardons," said Poirot, with his most apologetic air. "It was Mademoiselle here who mentioned having seen you going in."
He stopped with an air of embarrassment.
Katherine looked at Derek. His face had gone rather white, but perhaps that was her fancy. His laugh, when it came, was natural enough.
"You made a mistake, Miss Grey," he said easily. "From what the police have told me, I gather that my own compartment was only a door or two away from that of my wife's—though I never suspected the fact at the time. You must have seen me going into my own compartment." He got up quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.
"I'm going to leave you now," he announced. "I can't stand my father-in-law at any price."
Van Aldin greeted Katherine very courteously, but was clearly in a bad humour.
"You seem fond of watching tennis, M. Poirot," he growled.
"It is a pleasure to me, yes," cried Poirot placidly.
"It is as well you are in France," said Van Aldin. "We are made of sterner stuff in the States. Business comes before pleasure there."
Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he smiled gently and confidingly at the irate millionaire.
"Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you. Every one has his own methods. Me, I have always found it a delightful and pleasing idea to combine business and pleasure together."
He glanced at the other two. They were deep in conversation, absorbed in each other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction, and then leant towards the millionaire, lowering his voice as he did so.
"It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M. Van Aldin. Observe just opposite us that tall old man—the one with the yellow face and the venerable beard."
"Well, what of him?"
"That," Poirot said, "is M. Papopolous."
"A Greek, eh?"
"As you say—a Greek. He is a dealer in antiques of world-wide reputation. He has a small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by the police of being something more."
"What?"
"A receiver of stolen goods, especially jewels. There is nothing as to the re-cutting and re-setting of gems that he does not know. He deals with the highest in Europe and with the lowest of the riff-raff of the underworld."
Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly awakened attention.
"Well?" he demanded, a new note in his voice.
"I ask myself," said Poirot, "I, Hercule Poirot"—he thumped himself dramatically on the chest—"ask myselfwhy is M. Papopolous suddenly come to Nice?"
Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment he had doubted Poirot and suspected the little man of being past his job, aposeuronly. Now, in a moment, he switched back to his original opinion. He looked straight at the little detective.
"I must apologize to you, M. Poirot."
Poirot waved the apology aside with an extravagant gesture.
"Bah!" he cried, "all that is of no importance. Now listen, M. Van Aldin; I have news for you."
The millionaire looked sharply at him, all his interest aroused.
Poirot nodded.
"It is as I say. You will be interested. As you know, M. Van Aldin, the Comte de la Roche has been under surveillance ever since his interview with the Juge d'Instruction. The day after that, during his absence, the Villa Marina was searched by the police."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "did they find anything? I bet they didn't."
Poirot made him a little bow.
"Your acumen is not at fault, M. Van Aldin. They found nothing of an incriminating nature. It was not to be expected that they would. The Comte de la Roche, as your expressive idiom has it, was not born on the preceding day. He is an astute gentleman with great experience."
"Well, go on," growled Van Aldin.
"It may be, of course, that the Comte had nothing of a compromising nature to conceal. But we must not neglect the possibility. If, then, he has something to conceal, where is it? Not in his house—the police searched thoroughly. Not on his person, for he knows that he is liable to arrest at any minute. There remains—his car. As I say, he was under surveillance. He was followed on that day to Monte Carlo. From there he went by road to Mentone, driving himself. His car is a very powerful one, it outdistanced his pursuers, and for about a quarter of an hour they completely lost sight of him."
"And during that time you think he concealed something by the roadside?" asked Van Aldin, keenly interested.
"By the roadside, no.Ça n'est pas pratique.But listen now—me, I have made a little suggestion to M. Carrège. He is graciously pleased to approve of it. In each Bureau de Poste in the neighbourhood it has been seen to that there is some one who knows the Comte de la Roche by sight. Because, you see, Monsieur, the best way of hiding a thing is by sending it away by the post."
"Well?" demanded Van Aldin; his face was keenly alight with interest and expectation.
"Well—voilà!" With a dramatic flourish Poirot drew out from his pocket a loosely wrapped brown paper package from which the string had been removed.
"During that quarter of an hour's interval, our good gentleman mailed this."
"The address?" asked the other sharply.
Poirot nodded his head.
"Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not. The package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a small commission."
"Yes, but what is inside?" demanded Van Aldin impatiently.
Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box. He looked round him.
"It is a good moment," he said quietly. "All eyes are on the tennis. Look, Monsieur!"
He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction of a second. An exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face turned as white as chalk.
"My God!" he breathed, "the rubies."
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and beamed placidly. Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand so heartily that the little man winced with pain.
"This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for all, you are the goods."
"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly. "Order, method, being prepared for eventualities beforehand—that is all there is to it."
"And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?" continued Van Aldin eagerly.
"No," said Poirot.
A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin's face.
"But why? What more do you want?"
"The Comte's alibi is still unshaken."
"But that is nonsense."
"Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately we have to prove it so."
"In the meantime he will slip through your fingers."
Poirot shook his head very energetically.
"No," he said, "he will not do that. The one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice is his social position. At all costs he must stop and brazen it out."
Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.
"But I don't see—"
Poirot raised a hand. "Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of Hercule Poirot—and they have been wrong."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead. What is this little idea?"
Poirot paused for a moment and then he said:
"I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. Until then, say nothing to any one."
M. Papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia.
There was a knock at the sitting-room door, and a chasseur entered with a card which he brought to Mr. Papopolous. The latter scrutinized it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully, "Hercule Poirot. I wonder now."
Father and daughter looked at each other.
"I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said M. Papopolous. "Zia, I hardly like this."
"He was very useful to you once," his daughter reminded him.
"That is true," acknowledged M. Papopolous; "also he has retired from active work, so I hear."
These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own language. Now M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French:
"Faites monter ce monsieur."
A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a cane with a jaunty air, entered the room.
"My dear M. Papopolous."
"My dear M. Poirot."
"And Mademoiselle Zia." Poirot swept her a low bow.
"You will excuse us going on with our breakfast," said M. Papopolous, pouring himself out another cup of coffee. "Your call is—ahem!—a little early."
"It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but see you, I am pressed."
"Ah!" murmured M. Papopolous, "you are on an affair then?"
"A very serious affair," said Poirot: "the death of Madame Kettering."
"Let me see," M. Papopolous looked innocently up at the ceiling, "that was the lady who died on the Blue Train, was it not? I saw a mention of it in the papers, but there was no suggestion of foul play."
"In the interests of justice," said Poirot, "it was thought best to suppress that fact."
There was a pause.
"And in what way can I assist you, M. Poirot?" asked the dealer politely.
"Voilà," said Poirot, "I shall come to the point." He took from his pocket the same box that he had displayed at Cannes, and opening it, he took out the rubies and pushed them across the table to Papopolous.
Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old man's face moved. He took up the jewels and examined them with a kind of detached interest, then he looked across at the detective inquiringly:
"Superb, are they not?" asked Poirot.
"Quite excellent," said M. Papopolous.
"How much should you say they are worth?"
The Greek's face quivered a little.
"Is it really necessary to tell you, M. Poirot?" he asked.
"You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it is not. They are not, for instance, worth five hundred thousand dollars."
Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined with him.
"As an imitation," said Papopolous, handing them back to Poirot, "they are, as I said, quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to ask, M. Poirot, where you came across them?"
"Not at all," said Poirot; "I have no objection to telling an old friend like yourself. They were in the possession of the Comte de la Roche."
M. Papopolous' eyebrows lifted themselves eloquently.
"In-deed," he murmured.
Poirot leant forward and assumed his most innocent and beguiling air.
"M. Papopolous," he said, "I am going to lay my cards upon the table. The original of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering on the Blue Train. Now I will say to you first this:I am not concerned with the recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of the police.I am working not for the police but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands on the man who killed Madame Kettering. I am interested in the jewels only in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?"
The last two words were uttered with great significance. M. Papopolous, his face quite unmoved, said quietly:
"Go on."
"It seems to me probable, Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands in Nice—may already have done so."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and patriarchal than usual.
"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with animation, "what good fortune! My old friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will aid me."
"And how do you think I can aid you?" inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
"I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous is in Nice on business."
"Not at all," said M. Papopolous, "I am here for my health—by the doctor's orders."
He coughed hollowly.
"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere sympathy. "But to continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family jewels—to whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it not? He who is famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges these things."
The other bowed.
"You flatter me."
"It is a great thing, discretion," mused Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting smile which passed across the Greek's face. "I, too, can be discreet."
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly, and obviously picking his words with care.
"I say to myself, this: if these jewels have changed hands in Nice, M. Papopolous would have heard of it. He has knowledge of all that passes in the jewel world."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, and helped himself to acroissant.
"The police, you understand," said M. Poirot, "do not enter into the matter. It is a personal affair."
"One hears rumours," admitted M. Papopolous cautiously.
"Such as?" prompted Poirot.
"Is there any reason why I should pass them on?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "I think there is. You may remember, M. Papopolous, that seventeen years ago there was a certain article in your hands, left there as security by a very—er—Prominent Person. It was in your keeping and it unaccountably disappeared. You were, if I may use the English expression, in the soup."
His eyes came gently round to the girl. She had pushed her cup and plate aside, and with both elbows on the table and her chin resting on her hands was listening eagerly. Still keeping an eye on her he went on:
"I am in Paris at the time. You send for me. You place yourself in my hands. If I restore to you that—article, you say I shall earn your undying gratitude.Eh bien!I did restore it to you."
A long sigh came from M. Papopolous.
"It was the most unpleasant moment of my career," he murmured.
"Seventeen years is a long time," said Poirot thoughtfully, "but I believe that I am right in saying, Monsieur, that your race does not forget."
"A Greek?" murmured Papopolous, with an ironical smile.
"It was not as a Greek I meant," said Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man drew himself up proudly.
"You are right, M. Poirot," he said quietly. "I am a Jew. And, as you say, our race does not forget."
"You will aid me then?"
"As regards the jewels, Monsieur, I can do nothing."
The old man, as Poirot had done just now, picked his words carefully.
"I know nothing. I have heard nothing. But I can perhaps do you a good turn—that is, if you are interested in racing."
"Under certain circumstances I might be," said Poirot, eyeing him steadily.
"There is a horse running at Longchamps that would, I think, repay attention. I cannot say for certain, you understand; this news passed through so many hands."
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as though to make sure that the latter was comprehending him.
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot, nodding.
"The name of the horse," said M. Papopolous, leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together, "is the Marquis. I think, but I am not sure, that it is an English horse, eh, Zia?"
"I think so too," said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.
"I thank you, Monsieur," he said. "It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir, Monsieur, and many thanks."
He turned to the girl.
"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems to me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris. One would say that two years had passed at most."
"There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three," said Zia ruefully.
"Not in your case," declared Poirot gallantly. "You and your father will perhaps dine with me one night."
"We shall be delighted," replied Zia.
"Then we will arrange it," declared Poirot, "and now—je me sauve."
Poirot walked along the street humming a little tune to himself. He twirled his stick with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to himself quietly. He turned into the first Bureau de Poste he came to and sent off a telegram. He took some time in wording it, but it was in code and he had to call upon his memory. It purported to deal with a missing scarf-pin, and was addressed to Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard.
Decoded, it was short and to the point. "Wire me everything known about man whose soubriquet is the Marquis."
It was exactly eleven o'clock when Poirot presented himself at Van Aldin's hotel. He found the millionaire alone.
"You are punctual, M. Poirot," he said, with a smile, as he rose to greet the detective.
"I am always punctual," said Poirot. "The exactitude—always do I observe it. Without order and method—"
He broke off. "Ah, but it is possible that I have said these things to you before. Let us come at once to the object of my visit."
"Your little idea?"
"Yes, my little idea." Poirot smiled.
"First of all, Monsieur. I should like to interview once more the maid, Ada Mason. She is here?"
"Yes, she's here."
"Ah!"
Van Aldin looked at him curiously. He rang the bell, and a messenger was dispatched to find Mason.
Poirot greeted her with his usual politeness, which was never without effect on that particular class.
"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle," he said cheerfully. "Be seated, will you not, if Monsieur permits."
"Yes, yes, sit down, my girl," said Van Aldin.
"Thank you, sir," said Mason primly, and she sat down on the extreme edge of a chair. She looked bonier and more acid than ever.
"I have come to ask you yet more questions," said Poirot. "We must get to the bottom of this affair. Always I return to the question of the man in the train. You have been shown the Comte de la Roche. You say that it is possible he was the man, but you are not sure."
"As I told you, sir, I never saw the gentleman's face. That is what makes it so difficult."
Poirot beamed and nodded.
"Precisely, exactly. I comprehend well the difficulty. Now, Mademoiselle, you have been in the service of Madame Kettering two months, you say. During that time, how often did you see your master?"
Mason reflected a minute or two, and then said:
"Only twice, sir."
"And was that near to, or far away?"
"Well once, sir, he came to Curzon Street. I was upstairs, and I looked over the banisters and saw him in the hall below. I was a bit curious like, you understand, knowing the way things—er—were." Mason finished up with her discreet cough.
"And the other time?"
"I was in the Park, sir, with Annie—one of the housemaids, sir, and she pointed out the master to me walking with a foreign lady."
Again Poirot nodded.
"Now listen, Mason, this man whom you saw in the carriage talking to your mistress at the Gare de Lyon, how do you know it was not your master?"
"The master, sir? Oh, I don't think it could have been."
"But you are not sure," Poirot persisted.
"Well—I never thought of it, sir."
Mason was clearly upset at the idea.
"You have heard that your master was also on the train. What more natural than that it should be he who came along the corridor."
"But the gentleman who was talking to the mistress must have come from outside, sir. He was dressed for the street. In an overcoat and soft hat."
"Just so, Mademoiselle, but reflect a minute. The train has just arrived at the Gare de Lyon. Many of the passengers promenade themselves upon the quay. Your mistress was about to do so, and for that purpose had doubtless put on her fur coat, eh?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Mason.
"Your master, then, does the same. The train is heated, but outside in the station it is cold. He puts on his overcoat and his hat and he walks along beside the train, and looking up at the lighted windows he suddenly sees Madame Kettering. Until then he has had no idea that she was on the train. Naturally, he mounts the carriage and goes to her compartment. She gives an exclamation of surprise at seeing him and quickly shuts the door between the two compartments since it is possible that their conversation may be of a private nature."
He leaned back in his chair and watched the suggestion slowly take effect. No one knew better than Hercule Poirot that the class to which Mason belongs cannot be hurried. He must give her time to get rid of her own preconceived ideas. At the end of three minutes she spoke:
"Well, of course, sir, it might be so. I never thought of it that way. The master is tall and dark, and just about that build. It was seeing the hat and coat that made me say it was a gentleman from outside. Yes, it might have been the master. I would not like to say either way, I am sure."
"Thank you very much, Mademoiselle. I shall not require you any further. Ah, just one thing more." He took from his pocket the cigarette case he had already shown to Katherine. "Is that your mistress's case?" he said to Mason.
"No, sir, it is not the mistress's—at least—"
She looked suddenly startled. An idea was clearly working its way to the forefront of her mind.
"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.
"I think, sir—I can't be sure, but I think—it is a case that the mistress bought to give to the master."
"Ah," said Poirot in a non-committal manner.
"But whether she ever did give it to him or not, I can't say, of course."
"Precisely," said Poirot, "precisely. That is all, I think, Mademoiselle. I wish you good afternoon."
Ada Mason retired discreetly, closing the door noiselessly behind her.
Poirot looked across at Van Aldin, a faint smile upon his face. The millionaire looked thunderstruck.
"You think—you think it was Derek?" he queried, "but—everything points the other way. Why, the Count has actually been caught redhanded with the jewels on him."
"No."
"But you told me—"
"What did I tell you?"
"That story about the jewels. You showed them to me."
"No."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"You mean to say you didn't show them to me."
"No."
"Yesterday—at the tennis?"
"No."
"Are you crazy, M. Poirot, or am I?"
"Neither of us is crazy," said the detective. "You ask me a question; I answer it. You say have I not shown you the jewels yesterday? I reply—no. What I showed you, M. Van Aldin, was a first-class imitation, hardly to be distinguished except by an expert from the real ones."
It took the millionaire some few minutes to take the thing in. He stared at Poirot as though dumbfounded. The little Belgian nodded at him gently.
"Yes," he said, "it alters the position, does it not?"
"Imitation!"
He leaned forward.
"All along, M. Poirot, you have had this idea? All along this is what you have been driving at? You never believed that the Comte de la Roche was the murderer?"
"I have had doubts," said Poirot quietly. "I said as much to you. Robbery with violence and murder"—he shook his head energetically—"no, it is difficult to picture. It does not harmonize with the personality of the Comte de la Roche."
"But you believe that he meant to steal the rubies?"
"Certainly. There is no doubt as to that. See, I will recount to you the affair as I see it. The Comte knew of the rubies and he laid his plans accordingly. He made up a romantic story of a book he was writing, so as to induce your daughter to bring them with her. He provided himself with an exact duplicate. It is clear, is it not, that substitution is what he was after. Madame, your daughter, was not an expert on jewels. It would probably be a long time before she discovered what had occurred. When she did so—well—I do not think she would prosecute the Comte. Too much would come out. He would have in his possession various letters of hers. Oh yes, a very safe scheme from the Comte's point of view—one that he has probably carried out before."
"It seems clear enough, yes," said Van Aldin musingly.
"It accords with the personality of the Comte de la Roche," said Poirot.
"Yes, but now—" Van Aldin looked searchingly at the other. "What actually happened? Tell me that, M. Poirot."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"It is quite simple," he said; "some one stepped in ahead of the Comte."
There was a long pause.
Van Aldin seemed to be turning things over in his mind. When he spoke it was without beating about the bush.
"How long have you suspected my son-in-law, M. Poirot?"
"From the very first. He had the motive and the opportunity. Every one took for granted that the man in Madame's compartment in Paris was the Comte de la Roche. I thought so, too. Then you happened to mention that you had once mistaken the Comte for your son-in-law. That told me that they were of the same height and build, and alike in colouring. It put some curious ideas in my head. The maid had only been with your daughter a short time. It was unlikely that she would know Mr. Kettering well by sight, since he had not been living in Curzon Street; also the man was careful to keep his face turned away."
"You believe he—murdered her," said Van Aldin hoarsely.
Poirot raised a hand quickly.
"No, no, I did not say that—but it is a possibility—a very strong possibility. He was in a tight corner, a very tight corner, threatened with ruin. This was the one way out."
"But why take the jewels?"
"To make the crime appear an ordinary one committed by train robbers. Otherwise suspicion might have fallen on him straight away."
"If that is so, what has he done with the rubies?"
"That remains to be seen. There are several possibilities. There is a man in Nice who may be able to help, the man I pointed out at the tennis."
He rose to his feet and Van Aldin rose also and laid his hand on the little man's shoulder. His voice when he spoke was harsh with emotion.
"Find Ruth's murderer for me," he said, "that is all I ask."
Poirot drew himself up.
"Leave it in the hands of Hercule Poirot," he said superbly; "have no fears. I will discover the truth."
He brushed a speck of fluff from his hat, smiled reassuringly at the millionaire, and left the room. Nevertheless, as he went down the stairs some of the confidence faded from his face.
"It is all very well," he murmured to himself, "but there are difficulties. Yes, there are great difficulties." As he was passing out of the hotel he came to a sudden halt. A car had drawn up in front of the door. In it was Katherine Grey, and Derek Kettering was standing beside it talking to her earnestly. A minute or two later the car drove off and Derek remained standing on the pavement looking after it. The expression on his face was an odd one. He gave a sudden impatient gesture of the shoulders, sighed deeply, and turned to find Hercule Poirot standing at his elbow. In spite of himself he started. The two men looked at each other. Poirot steadily and unwaveringly and Derek with a kind of light-hearted defiance. There was a sneer behind the easy mockery of his tone when he spoke, raising his eyebrows slightly as he did so.
"Rather a dear, isn't she?" he asked easily.
His manner was perfectly natural.
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "that describes Mademoiselle Katherine very well. It is very English, that phrase there, and Mademoiselle Katherine, she also is very English."
Derek remained perfectly still without answering.
"And yet she issympathique, is it not so?"
"Yes," said Derek; "there are not many like her."
He spoke softly, almost as though to himself. Poirot nodded significantly. Then he leant towards the other and spoke in a different tone, a quiet, grave tone that was new to Derek Kettering.
"You will pardon an old man, Monsieur, if he says to you something that you may consider impertinent. There is one of your English proverbs that I would quote to you. It says that 'it is well to be off with the old love, before being on with the new.'"
Kettering turned on him angrily.
"What the devil do you mean?"
"You enrage yourself at me," said Poirot placidly. "I expected as much. As to what I mean—I mean, Monsieur, that there is a second car with a lady in it. If you turn your head you will see her."
Derek spun round. His face darkened with anger.
"Mirelle, damn her!" he muttered. "I will soon—"
Poirot arrested the movement he was about to make.
"Is it wise what you are about to do there?" he asked warningly. His eyes shone softly with a green light in them. But Derek was past noticing the warning signs. In his anger he was completely off his guard.
"I have broken with her utterly, and she knows it," cried Derek angrily.
"You have broken with her, yes, but hasshebroken with you?"
Derek gave a sudden harsh laugh.
"She won't break with two million pounds if she can help it," he murmured brutally; "trust Mirelle for that."
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
"You have the outlook cynical," he murmured.
"Have I?" There was no mirth in his sudden wide smile. "I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all women are pretty much alike." His face softened suddenly. "All save one."
He met Poirot's gaze defiantly. A look of alertness crept into his eyes, then faded again. "That one," he said, and jerked his head in the direction of Cap Martin.
"Ah!" said Poirot.
This quiescence was well calculated to provoke the impetuous temperament of the other.
"I know what you are going to say," said Derek rapidly, "the kind of life I have led, the fact that I am not worthy of her. You will say that I have no right to think even of such a thing. You will say that it is not a case of giving a dog a bad name—I know that it is not decent to be speaking like this with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered at that."
He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage of the pause to remark in his plaintive tone:
"But, indeed, I have not said anything at all."
"But you will."
"Eh?" said Poirot.
"You will say that I have no earthly chance of marrying Katherine."
"No," said Poirot, "I would not say that. Your reputation is bad, yes, but with women—never does that deter them. If you were a man of excellent character, of strict morality who had done nothing that he should not do, and—possibly everything that he should do—eh bien!then I should have grave doubts of your success. Moral worth, you understand, it is not romantic. It is appreciated, however, by widows."
Derek Kettering stared at him, then he swung round on his heel and went up to the waiting car.
Poirot looked after him with some interest. He saw the lovely vision lean out of the car and speak.
Derek Kettering did not stop. He lifted his hat and passed straight on.
"Ça y est," said M. Hercule Poirot, "it is time, I think, that I returnchez moi."
He found the imperturbable George pressing trousers.
"A pleasant day, Georges, somewhat fatiguing, but not without interest," he said.
George received these remarks in his usual wooden fashion.
"Indeed, sir."
"The personality of a criminal, Georges, is an interesting matter. Many murderers are men of great personal charm."
"I always heard, sir, that Dr. Crippen was a pleasant-spoken gentleman. And yet he cut up his wife like so much mincemeat."
"Your instances are always apt, Georges."
The valet did not reply, and at that moment the telephone rang. Poirot took up the receiver.
"'Allo—'allo—yes, yes, it is Hercule Poirot who speaks."
"This is Knighton. Will you hold the line a minute, M. Poirot? Mr. Van Aldin would like to speak to you."
There was a moment's pause, then the millionaire's voice came through.
"Is that you, M. Poirot? I just wanted to tell you that Mason came to me now of her own accord. She has been thinking it over, and she says that she is almost certain that the man at Paris was Derek Kettering. There was something familiar about him at the time, she says, but at the minute she could not place it. She seems pretty certain now."
"Ah," said Poirot, "thank you, M. Van Aldin. That advances us."
He replaced the receiver, and stood for a minute or two with a very curious smile on his face. George had to speak to him twice before obtaining an answer.
"Eh?" said Poirot. "What is that that you say to me?"
"Are you lunching here, sir, or are you going out?"
"Neither," said Poirot, "I shall go to bed and take atisane. The expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it always causes me emotion."
As Derek Kettering passed the car, Mirelle leant out.
"Dereek—I must speak to you for a moment—"
But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight on without stopping.
When he got back to his hotel, the concierge detached himself from his wooden pen and accosted him.
"A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur."
"Who is it?" asked Derek.
"He did not give me his name, Monsieur, but he said his business with you was important, and that he would wait."
"Where is he?"
"In the little salon, Monsieur. He preferred it to the lounge he said, as being more private."
Derek nodded, and turned his steps in that direction.
The small salon was empty except for the visitor, who rose and bowed with easy foreign grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had seen the Comte de la Roche only once, but found no difficulty in recognizing that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned angrily. Of all the consummate impertinence!
"The Comte de la Roche, is it not?" he said. "I am afraid you have wasted your time in coming here."
"I hope not," said the Comte agreeably. His white teeth glittered.
The Comte's charm of manner was usually wasted on his own sex. All men, without exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering was already conscious of a distinct longing to kick the Count bodily out of the room. It was only the realization that scandal would be unfortunate just at present that restrained him. He marvelled anew that Ruth could have cared, as she certainly had, for this fellow. A bounder, and worse than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the Count's exquisitely manicured hands.
"I called," said the Comte, "on a little matter of business. It would be advisable, I think, for you to listen to me."
Again Derek felt strongly tempted to kick him out, but again he refrained. The hint of a threat was not lost upon him, but he interpreted it in his own way. There were various reasons why it would be better to hear what the Comte had to say.
He sat down and drummed impatiently with his fingers on the table.
"Well," he said sharply, "what is it?"
It was not the Comte's way to come out into the open at once.
"Allow me, Monsieur, to offer you my condolences on your recent bereavement."
"If I have any impertinence from you," said Derek quietly, "you go out by that window."
He nodded his head towards the window beside the Comte, and the latter moved uneasily.
"I will send my friends to you, Monsieur, if that is what you desire," he said haughtily.
Derek laughed.
"A duel, eh? My dear Count, I don't take you seriously enough for that. But I should take a good deal of pleasure in kicking you down the Promenade des Anglais."
The Comte was not at all anxious to take offence. He merely raised his eyebrows and murmured:
"The English are barbarians."
"Well," said Derek, "what is it you have to say to me?"
"I will be frank," said the Comte, "I will come immediately to the point. That will suit us both, will it not?"
Again he smiled in his agreeable fashion.
"Go on," said Derek curtly.
The Comte looked at the ceiling, joined the tips of his fingers together, and murmured softly:
"You have come into a lot of money, Monsieur."
"What the devil has that got to do with you?"
The Comte drew himself up.
"Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am suspected—accused—of foul crime."
"The accusation does not come from me," said Derek coldly; "as an interested party I have not expressed any opinion."
"I am innocent," said the Comte, "I swear before heaven"—he raised his hand to heaven—"that I am innocent."
"M. Carrège is, I believe, the Juge d'Instruction in charge of the case," hinted Derek politely.
The Comte took no notice.
"Not only am I unjustly suspected of a crime that I did not commit, but I am also in serious need of money."
He coughed softly and suggestively.
Derek rose to his feet.
"I was waiting for that," he said softly; "you blackmailing brute! I will not give you a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal that you can make can touch her now. She wrote you foolish letters, I dare say. If I were to buy them from you for a round sum at this minute, I am pretty certain that you would manage to keep one or two back; and I will tell you this, M. de la Roche, blackmailing is an ugly word both in England and in France. That is my answer to you. Good afternoon."
"One moment"—the Comte stretched out a hand as Derek was turning to leave the room. "You are mistaken, Monsieur. You are completely mistaken. I am, I hope, a 'gentleman.'" Derek laughed. "Any letters that a lady might write to me I should hold sacred." He flung back his head with a beautiful air of nobility. "The proposition that I was putting before you was of quite a different nature. I am, as I said, extremely short of money, and my conscience might impel me to go to the police with certain information."
Derek came slowly back into the room.
"What do you mean?"
The Comte's agreeable smile flashed forth once more.
"Surely it is not necessary to go into details," he purred. "Seek whom the crime benefits, they say, don't they? As I said just now, you have come into a lot of money lately."
Derek laughed.
"If that is all—" he said contemptuously.
But the Comte was shaking his head.
"But it is not all, my dear sir. I should not come to you unless I had much more precise and detailed information than that. It is not agreeable, Monsieur, to be arrested and tried for murder."
Derek came close up to him. His face expressed such furious anger that involuntarily the Comte drew back a pace or two.
"Are you threateningme?" the young man demanded angrily.
"You shall hear nothing more of the matter," the Comte assured him.
"Of all the colossal bluffs that I have ever struck—"
The Comte raised a white hand.
"You are wrong. It is not a bluff. To convince you I will tell you this. My information was obtained from a certain lady. It is she who holds the irrefutable proof that you committed the murder."
"She? Who?"
"Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Derek drew back as though struck.
"Mirelle," he muttered.
The Comte was quick to press what he took to be his advantage.
"A bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs," he said. "I ask no more."
"Eh?" said Derek absently.
"I was saying, Monsieur, that a bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs would satisfy my—conscience."
Derek seemed to recollect himself. He looked earnestly at the Comte.
"You would like my answer now?"
"If you please, Monsieur."
"Then here it is. You can go to the devil. See?"
Leaving the Comte too astonished to speak, Derek turned on his heel and swung out of the room.
Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and drove to Mirelle's hotel. On inquiring, he learned that the dancer had just come in. Derek gave the concierge his card.
"Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if she will see me."
A very brief interval elapsed, and then Derek was bidden to follow achasseur.
A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek's nostrils as he stepped over the threshold of the dancer's apartments. The room was filled with carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle was standing by the window in apeignoirof foamy lace.
She came towards him, her hands outstretched.
"Dereek—you have come to me. I knew you would."
He put aside the clinging arms and looked down on her sternly.
"Why did you send the Comte de la Roche to me?"
She looked at him in astonishment, which he took to be genuine.
"I? Send the Comte de la Roche to you? But for what?"
"Apparently—for blackmail," said Derek grimly.
Again she stared. Then suddenly she smiled and nodded her head.
"Of course. It was to be expected. It is what he would do,ce type là. I might have known it. No, indeed, Dereek, I did not send him."
He looked at her piercingly, as though seeking to read her mind.
"I will tell you," said Mirelle. "I am ashamed, but I will tell you. The other day, you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite mad—" she made an eloquent gesture. "My temperament, it is not a patient one. I want to be revenged on you, and so I go to the Comte de la Roche, and I tell him to go to the police and say so and so, and so and so. But have no fear, Dereek. Not completely did I lose my head; the proof rests with me alone. The police can do nothing without my word, you understand? And now—now?"
She nestled up close to him, looking up at him with melting eyes.
He thrust her roughly away from him. She stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing to a cat-like slit.
"Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You have come back to me, have you not?"
"I shall never come back to you," said Derek steadily.
"Ah!"
More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.
"So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I right?"
"I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know."
"That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no." Her beautiful lithe body quivered. "Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only thing that could save you was the death of your wife. You regretted that she was so healthy. Then the idea of an accident came to your brain. And more than an accident."
"I suppose," said Derek contemptuously, "that it was this conversation that you repeated to the Comte de la Roche."
Mirelle laughed.
"Am I a fool? Could the police do anything with a vague story like that? See—I will give you a last chance. You shall give up this Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And then,chéri, never, never will I breathe—"
"Breathe what?"
She laughed softly. "You thought no one saw you—"
"What do you mean?"
"As I say, you thought no one saw you—butIsaw you, Dereek,mon ami;I saw you coming out of the compartment of Madame your wife just before the train got into Lyons that night.AndI know more than that. I know that when you came out of her compartment she was dead."
He stared at her. Then, like a man in a dream he turned very slowly and went out of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.