"Dear Katherine—Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose. Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is—all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Annie was no good—skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist—a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman, Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there—there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if things should go ill with you—and that is always possible. I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plain-spoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too.—Your affectionate old friend,"Amelia Viner."P.S.—I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin, Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings. I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and vainglory."
"Dear Katherine—Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose. Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is—all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Annie was no good—skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist—a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman, Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there—there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if things should go ill with you—and that is always possible. I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plain-spoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too.—Your affectionate old friend,
"Amelia Viner.
"P.S.—I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin, Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings. I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and vainglory."
Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things—and yet—home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say—what is the matter?"
"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her handbag.
"You looked rather queer," said Lenox. "I say—I hope you don't mind—I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me."
"Did you want to see him then?" asked Katherine.
"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's."
"All right," said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint.
"I have ordered the car," said Lenox, "and I have told Mother some lie or other—unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot."
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughter; yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, and Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting on the terrace sipping their coffee she suddenly attacked Poirot bluntly.
"How are things going? You know what I mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "They take their course," he said.
"And you are just letting them take their course?"
He looked at Lenox a little sadly.
"You are young, Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried—le bon Dieu, Nature, and old people."
"Nonsense!" said Lenox. "You are not old."
"Ah, it is pretty what you say there."
"Here is Major Knighton," said Lenox.
Katherine looked round quickly and then turned back again.
"He is with Mr. Van Aldin," continued Lenox. "There is something I want to ask Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute."
Left alone together, Poirot bent forward and murmured to Katherine:
"You aredistraite, Mademoiselle; your thoughts, they are far away, are they not?"
"Just as far as England, no farther."
Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the letter she had received that morning and handed it across to him to read.
"That is the first word that has come to me from my old life; somehow or other—it hurts."
He read it through and then handed it back to her. "So you are going back to St. Mary Mead?" he said slowly.
"No, I am not," said Katherine; "why should I?"
"Ah," said Poirot, "it is my mistake. You will excuse me one little minute."
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside.
"M. Van Aldin looks ill," he said.
"Do you wonder?" asked Knighton. "The scandal of Derek Kettering's arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth."
"He should go back to England," said Poirot.
"We are going the day after to-morrow."
"That is good news," said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting.
"I wish," he murmured, "that you could tell Miss Grey that."
"Tell her what?"
"That you—I mean that M. Van Aldin is returning to England."
Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he readily crossed the terrace and joined Katherine.
Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of the head, and then joined Lenox and the American. After a minute or two they joined the others. Conversation was general for a few minutes, then the millionaire and his secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to take his departure.
"A thousand thanks for your hospitality, Mesdemoiselles," he cried; "it has been a most charming luncheon.Ma foi, I needed it!" He swelled out his chest and thumped it. "I am now a lion—a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle Katherine, you have not seen me as I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to strike terror into the hearts of those who listen to me."
He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her under lip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth had a suspicious twitch.
"And I shall do it," he said gravely. "Oh yes, I shall succeed."
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's voice made him turn.
"M. Poirot, I—I want to tell you. I think you were right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately."
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
"I see," he said gravely.
"I don't believe you do," said Katherine.
"I know more than you think, Mademoiselle," he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes.
Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. Chancing to look out of the window, Hippolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to the hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hippolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he calledce type là.
"It is not the police again?" said Marie anxiously.
"Look for yourself," said Hippolyte.
Marie looked.
"Certainly not the police," she declared. "I am glad."
"They have not really worried us much," said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte's warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wine-shop to be what he was."
The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door.
"M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home."
The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly.
"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte Flavelle, are you not?"
"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."
"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?"
"Yes, Monsieur, but—"
"I desire to see you both," said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippolyte into the hall.
"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen," he said. "I will go there."
Before Hippolyte could recover his breath, the other had selected the right door at the back of the hall and passed along the passage and into the kitchen, where Marie paused open-mouthed to stare at him.
"Voilà," said the stranger, and sank into a wooden arm-chair; "I am Hercule Poirot."
"Yes, Monsieur?"
"You do not know the name?"
"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte.
"Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world."
He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.
Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor.
"Monsieur desires—" murmured Hippolyte mechanically.
"I desire to know why you have lied to the police."
"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte; "I—lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing."
M. Poirot shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said; "you have done it on several occasions. Let me see." He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you."
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned—your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January."
"But that was no lie, Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master fordéjeunerthat day?"
"I—" Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some things—and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.
"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes—two people. One isle bon Dieu—"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
"And the other is Hercule Poirot."
"I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night—"
"True," said Poirot—"by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning."
"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.
Poirot rose to his feet.
"Then the law must take its course," he murmured. "A pity."
"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
"You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed."
"Murder!"
The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep.
"But it is impossible—impossible. I thought—"
"Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish."
He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. I—I had no idea that it was anything of this kind. I—I thought it was just a matter concerning a lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies before. But murder—that is very different."
"I have no patience with you," cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your look out.For the last time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa Marina—Tuesday morning or Wednesday morning?"
"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.
"You are wise, my children," he said quietly. "Very nearly you were in serious trouble."
He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.
"One guess, confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance on the other?"
It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle. She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room feverishly. She turned on him furiously.
"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now? Have you not tortured me enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What more do you want?"
"Just one little question, Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons, when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment—"
"What is that?"
Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again.
"I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment—"
"I never did."
"And found her—"
"I never did."
"Ah, sacré!"
He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back before him.
"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though I had been there. You went into her compartment and you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful, Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell.
"I—I didn't—" she began uncertainly and stopped.
"There is only one thing about which I wonder," said Poirot—"I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking for or whether—"
"Whether what?"
"Or whether some one else had been before you."
"I will answer no more questions," screamed the dancer. She tore herself away from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging herself down on the floor in a frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid came rushing in.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the room.
But he seemed satisfied.
Katherine looked out of Miss Viner's bedroom window. It was raining, not violently, but with a quiet, well-bred persistence. The window looked out on a strip of front garden with a path down to the gate and neat little flower-beds on either side, where later roses and pinks and blue hyacinths would bloom.
Miss Viner was lying in a large Victorian bedstead. A tray with the remains of breakfast had been pushed to one side and she was busy opening her correspondence and making various caustic comments upon it.
Katherine had an open letter in her hand and was reading it through for the second time. It was dated from the Ritz Hotel, Paris.
"Chère Mademoiselle Katherine" (it began)—"I trust that you are in good health and that the return to the English winter has not proved too depressing. Me, I prosecute my inquiries with the utmost diligence. Do not think that it is the holiday that I take here. Very shortly I shall be in England, and I hope then to have the pleasure of meeting you once more. It shall be so, shall it not? On arrival in London I shall write to you. You remember that we are the colleagues in this affair? But indeed I think you know that very well."Be assured, Mademoiselle, of my most respectful and devoted sentiments."Hercule Poirot."
"Chère Mademoiselle Katherine" (it began)—"I trust that you are in good health and that the return to the English winter has not proved too depressing. Me, I prosecute my inquiries with the utmost diligence. Do not think that it is the holiday that I take here. Very shortly I shall be in England, and I hope then to have the pleasure of meeting you once more. It shall be so, shall it not? On arrival in London I shall write to you. You remember that we are the colleagues in this affair? But indeed I think you know that very well.
"Be assured, Mademoiselle, of my most respectful and devoted sentiments.
"Hercule Poirot."
Katherine frowned slightly. It was as though something in the letter puzzled and intrigued her.
"A choir boys' picnic indeed," came from Miss Viner. "Tommy Saunders and Albert Dykes ought to be left behind, and I shan't subscribe to it unless they are. What those two boys think they are doing in church on Sundays I don't know. Tommy sang, 'O God, make speed to save us,' and never opened his lips again, and if Albert Dykes wasn't sucking a mint humbug, my nose is not what it is and always has been."
"I know, they are awful," agreed Katherine.
She opened her second letter, and a sudden flush came to her cheeks. Miss Viner's voice in the room seemed to recede into the far distance.
When she came back to a sense of her surroundings Miss Viner was bringing a long speech to a triumphant termination.
"And I said to her, 'Not at all. As it happens, Miss Grey is Lady Tamplin's own cousin.' What do you think of that?"
"Were you fighting my battles for me? That was very sweet of you."
"You can put it that way if you like. There is nothing to me in a title. Vicar's wife or no vicar's wife, that woman is a cat. Hinting you had bought your way into Society."
"Perhaps she was not so very far wrong."
"And look at you," continued Miss Viner. "Have you come back a stuck-up fine lady, as well you might have done? No, there you are, as sensible as ever you were, with a pair of good Balbriggan stockings on and sensible shoes. I spoke to Ellen about it only yesterday. 'Ellen,' I said, 'you look at Miss Grey. She has been hobnobbing with some of the greatest in the land, and does she go about as you do with skirts up to her knees and silk stockings that ladder when you look at them, and the most ridiculous shoes that ever I set eyes on?'"
Katherine smiled a little to herself; it had apparently been worth while to conform to Miss Viner's prejudices. The old lady went on with increasing gusto.
"It has been a great relief to me that you have not had your head turned. Only the other day I was looking for my cuttings. I have several about Lady Tamplin and her War Hospital and what not, but I cannot lay my hand upon them. I wish you would look, my dear; your eyesight is better than mine. They are all in a box in the bureau drawer."
Katherine glanced down at the letter in her hand and was about to speak, but checked herself, and going over to the bureau found the box of cuttings and began to look over them. Since her return to St. Mary Mead her heart had gone out to Miss Viner in admiration of the old woman's stoicism and pluck. She felt that there was little she could do for her old friend, but she knew from experience how much those seemingly small trifles meant to old people.
"Here is one," she said presently. "'Viscountess Tamplin, who is running her villa at Nice as an Officers' Hospital, has just been the victim of a sensational robbery, her jewels having been stolen. Amongst them were some very famous emeralds, heirlooms of the Tamplin family.'"
"Probably paste," said Miss Viner; "a lot of these Society women's jewels are."
"Here is another," said Katherine. "A picture of her, 'A charming camera study of Viscountess Tamplin with her little daughter Lenox.'"
"Let me look," said Miss Viner. "You can't see much of the child's face, can you? But I dare say that is just as well. Things go by contraries in this world and beautiful mothers have hideous children. I dare say the photographer realized that to take the back of the child's head was the best thing he could do for her."
Katherine laughed.
"'One of the smartest hostesses on the Riviera this season is Viscountess Tamplin, who has a villa at Cap Martin. Her cousin, Miss Grey, who recently inherited a vast fortune in a most romantic manner, is staying with her there.'"
"That is the one I wanted," said Miss Viner. "I expect there has been a picture of you in one of the papers that I have missed; you know the kind of thing. Mrs. Somebody or other Jones-Williams, at the something or other Point-to-point, usually carrying a shooting-stick and having one foot lifted up in the air. It must be a trial to some of them to see what they look like."
Katherine did not answer. She was smoothing out the cutting with her finger, and her face had a puzzled, worried look. Then she drew the second letter out of its envelope and mastered its contents once more. She turned to her friend.
"Miss Viner? I wonder—there is a friend of mine, some one I met on the Riviera, who wants very much to come down and see me here?"
"A man," said Miss Viner.
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"He is secretary to Mr. Van Aldin, the American millionaire."
"What is his name?"
"Knighton. Major Knighton."
"Hm—secretary to a millionaire. And wants to come down here. Now, Katherine, I am going to say something to you for your own good. You are a nice girl and a sensible girl, and though you have your head screwed on the right way about most things, every woman makes a fool of herself once in her life. Ten to one what this man is after is your money."
With a gesture she arrested Katherine's reply. "I have been waiting for something of this kind. What is a secretary to a millionaire? Nine times out of ten it is a young man who likes living soft. A young man with nice manners and a taste for luxury and no brains and no enterprise, and if there is anything that is a softer job than being a secretary to a millionaire it is marrying a rich woman for her money. I am not saying that you might not be some man's fancy. But you are not young, and though you have a very good complexion you are not a beauty, and what I say to you is, don't make a fool of yourself; but if you are determined to do so, do see that your money is properly tied up on yourself. There, now I have finished. What have you got to say?"
"Nothing," said Katherine; "but would you mind if he did come to see me?"
"I wash my hands of it," said Miss Viner. "I have done my duty, and whatever happens now is on your own head. Would you like him to lunch or to dinner? I dare say Ellen could manage dinner—that is, if she didn't lose her head."
"Lunch would be very nice," said Katherine. "It is awfully kind of you, Miss Viner. He asked me to ring him up, so I will do so and say that we shall be pleased if he will lunch with us. He will motor down from town."
"Ellen does a steak with grilled tomatoes pretty fairly," said Miss Viner. "She doesn't do it well, but she does it better than anything else. It is no good having a tart because she is heavy handed with pastry; but her little castle puddings are not bad, and I dare say you could find a nice piece of Stilton at Abbot's. I have always heard that gentlemen like a nice piece of Stilton, and there is a good deal of father's wine left, a bottle of sparkling Moselle, perhaps."
"Oh, no, Miss Viner; that is really not necessary."
"Nonsense, my child. No gentleman is happy unless he drinks something with his meal. There is some good prewar whisky if you think he would prefer that. Now do as I say and don't argue. The key of the wine-cellar is in the third drawer down in the dressing-table, in the second pair of stockings on the left-hand side."
Katherine went obediently to the spot indicated.
"The second pair, now mind," said Miss Viner. "The first pair has my diamond earrings and my filigree brooch in it."
"Oh," said Katherine, rather taken aback, "wouldn't you like them put in your jewel-case?"
Miss Viner gave vent to a terrific and prolonged snort.
"No, indeed! I have much too much sense for that sort of thing, thank you. Dear, dear, I well remember how my poor father had a safe built in downstairs. Pleased as Punch he was with it, and he said to my mother, 'Now, Mary, you bring me your jewels in their case every night and I will lock them away for you.' My mother was a very tactful woman, and she knew that gentlemen like having their own way, and she brought him the jewel-case locked up just as he said.
"And one night burglars broke in, and of course—naturally—the first thing they went for was the safe! It would be, with my father talking up and down the village and bragging about it until you might have thought he kept all King Solomon's diamonds there. They made a clean sweep, got the tankards, the silver cups, and the presentation gold plate that my father had had presented to him,andthe jewel-case."
She sighed reminiscently. "My father was in a great state over my mother's jewels. There was the Venetian set and some very fine cameos and some pale pink corals, and two diamond rings with quite large stones in them. And then, of course, she had to tell him that, being a sensible woman, she had kept her jewellery rolled up in a pair of corsets, and there it was still as safe as anything."
"And the jewel-case had been quite empty?"
"Oh no, dear," said Miss Viner, "it would have been too light a weight then. My mother was a very intelligent woman; she saw to that. She kept her buttons in the jewel-case, and a very handy place it was. Boot buttons in the top tray, trouser buttons in the second tray, and assorted buttons below. Curiously enough, my father was quite annoyed with her. He said he didn't like deceit. But I mustn't go chattering on; you want to go and ring up your friend, and mind you choose a nice piece of steak, and tell Ellen she is not to have holes in her stockings when she waits at lunch."
"Is her name Ellen or Helen, Miss Viner? I thought—"
Miss Viner closed her eyes.
"I can sound my h's, dear, as well as any one, but Helen isnota suitable name for a servant. I don't know what the mothers in the lower classes are coming to nowadays."
The rain had cleared away when Knighton arrived at the cottage. The pale fitful sunshine shone down on it and burnished Katherine's head as she stood in the doorway to welcome him. He came up to her quickly, almost boyishly.
"I say, I hope you don't mind. I simply had to see you again soon. I hope the friend you are staying with does not mind."
"Come in and make friends with her," said Katherine. "She can be most alarming, but you will soon find that she has the softest heart in the world."
Miss Viner was enthroned majestically in the drawing-room, wearing a complete set of the cameos which had been so providentially preserved in the family. She greeted Knighton with dignity and an austere politeness which would have damped many men. Knighton, however, had a charm of manner which was not easily set aside, and after about ten minutes Miss Viner thawed perceptibly. Luncheon was a merry meal, and Ellen, or Helen, in a new pair of silk stockings devoid of ladders performed prodigies of waiting. Afterwards, Katherine and Knighton went for a walk and they came back to have teatête-à-tête, since Miss Viner had gone to lie down.
When the car had finally driven off Katherine went slowly upstairs. A voice called her and she went in to Miss Viner's bedroom.
"Friend gone?"
"Yes. Thank you so much for letting me ask him down."
"No need to thank me. Do you think I am the sort of old curmudgeon who never will do anything for anybody?"
"I think you are a dear," said Katherine affectionately.
"Humph," said Miss Viner mollified.
As Katherine was leaving the room she called her back.
"Katherine?"
"Yes."
"I was wrong about that young man of yours. A man when he is making up to anybody can be cordial and gallant and full of little attentions and altogether charming. But when a man is really in love he can't help looking like a sheep. Now, whenever that young man looked at you he looked like a sheep. I take back all I said this morning. It is genuine."
"Ah!" said Mr. Joseph Aarons, appreciatively.
He took a long draught from his tankard, set it down with a sigh, wiped the froth from his lips, and beamed across the table at his host, Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
"Give me," said Mr. Aarons, "a good Porterhouse steak and a tankard of something worth drinking, and any one can have your French fallals and whatnots, your ordoovres and your omelettes and your little bits of quail. Give me," he reiterated, "a Porterhouse steak."
Poirot, who had just complied with this request, smiled sympathetically.
"Not that there is much wrong with a steak and kidney pudding," continued Mr. Aarons. "Apple tart? Yes, I will take apple tart, thank you, Miss, and a jug of cream."
The meal proceeded. Finally, with a long sigh, Mr. Aarons laid down his spoon and fork preparatory to toying with some cheese before turning his mind to other matters.
"There was a little matter of business I think you said, Monsieur Poirot," he remarked. "Anything I can do to help you I am sure I shall be most happy."
"That is very kind of you," said Poirot. "I said to myself, 'If you want to know anything about the dramatic profession there is one person who knows all that is to be known and that is my old friend, Mr. Joseph Aarons.'"
"And you don't say far wrong," said Mr. Aarons complacently; "whether it is past, present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to come to."
"Précisément.Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know about a young woman called Kidd."
"Kidd? Kitty Kidd?"
"Kitty Kidd."
"Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator, song and a dance—That one?"
"That is the one."
"Verysmart, she was. Made a good income. Never out of an engagement. Male impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of fact, you could not touch her as a character actress."
"So I have heard," said Poirot; "but she has not been appearing lately, has she?"
"No. Dropped right out of things. Went over to France and took up with some swell nobleman there. She quitted the stage then for good and all, I guess."
"How long ago was that?"
"Let me see. Three years ago. And she has been a loss—let me tell you that."
"She was clever?"
"Clever as a cartload of monkeys."
"You don't know the name of the man she became friends with in Paris?"
"He was a swell, I know that. A Count—or was it a Marquis? Now I come to think of it, I believe it was a Marquis."
"And you know nothing about her since?"
"Nothing. Never even run across her accidentally like. I bet she is tooling it round some of these foreign resorts. Being a Marquise to the life. You couldn't put one over on Kitty. She would give as good as she got any day."
"I see," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"I am sorry I can't tell you more, Monsieur Poirot," said the other. "I would like to be of use to you if I could. You did me a good turn once."
"Ah, but we are quits on that; you, too, did me a good turn."
"One good turn deserves another. Ha, ha!" said Mr. Aarons.
"Your profession must be a very interesting one," said Poirot.
"So-so," said Mr. Aarons non-committally. "Taking the rough with the smooth, it is all right. I don't do so badly at it, all things considered, but you have to keep your eyes skinned. Never know what the public will jump for next."
"Dancing has come very much to the fore in the last few years," murmured Poirot reflectively.
"Inever saw anything in this Russian ballet, but people like it. Too highbrow for me."
"I met one dancer out on the Riviera—Mademoiselle Mirelle."
"Mirelle? She is hot stuff, by all accounts. There is always money going to back her—though, so far as that goes, the girl can dance; I have seen her, and I know what I am talking about. I never had much to do with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to deal with. Tempers and tantrums all the time."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully; "yes, so I should imagine."
"Temperament!" said Mr. Aarons, "temperament! That is what they call it themselves. My missus was a dancer before she married me, but I am thankful to say she never had any temperament. You don't want temperament in the home, Monsieur Poirot."
"I agree with you, my friend; it is out of place there."
"A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook," said Mr. Aarons.
"Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?" asked Poirot.
"About two and a half years, that is all," said Mr. Aarons. "Some French Duke started her. I hear now that she has taken up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece. These are the chaps who manage to put money away quietly."
"That is news to me," said Poirot.
"Oh, she's not one to let the grass grow under her feet. They say that young Kettering murdered his wife on her account. I don't know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in prison, and she had to look round for herself, and pretty smart she has been about it. They say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg—not that I have ever seen a pigeon's egg myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction."
"A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!" said Poirot. His eyes were green and cat-like. "How interesting!"
"I had it from a friend of mine," said Mr. Aarons. "But, for all I know, it may be coloured glass. They are all the same, these women—they never stop telling tall stories about their jewels. Mirelle goes about bragging that it has got a curse on it. 'Heart of Fire,' I think she calls it."
"But if I remember rightly," said Poirot, "the ruby that is named 'Heart of Fire' is the centre stone in a necklace."
"There you are! Didn't I tell you there is no end to the lies women will tell about their jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said before, ten to one it is a bit of coloured glass."
"No," said Poirot gently; "no—somehow I do not think it is coloured glass."
"You have changed, Mademoiselle," said Poirot suddenly. He and Katherine were seated opposite each other at a small table at the Savoy.
"Yes, you have changed," he continued.
"In what way?"
"Mademoiselle, thesenuancesare difficult to express."
"I am older."
"Yes, you are older. And by that I do not mean that the wrinkles and the crows' feet are coming. When I first saw you, Mademoiselle, you were a looker-on at life. You had the quiet, amused look of one who sits back in the stalls and watches the play."
"And now?"
"Now, you no longer watch. It is an absurd thing, perhaps, that I say here, but you have the wary look of a fighter who is playing a difficult game."
"My old lady is difficult sometimes," said Katherine, with a smile; "but I can assure you that I don't engage in deadly contests with her. You must go down and see her some day, Monsieur Poirot. I think you are one of the people who would appreciate her pluck and her spirit."
There was a silence while the waiter deftly served them with chickenen casserole. When he had departed, Poirot said:
"You have heard me speak of my friend Hastings?—he who said that I was a human oyster.Eh bien, Mademoiselle, I have met my match in you. You, far more than I, play a lone hand."
"Nonsense," said Katherine lightly.
"Never does Hercule Poirot talk nonsense. It is as I say."
Again there was a silence. Poirot broke it by inquiring:
"Have you seen any of our Riviera friends since you have been back, Mademoiselle?"
"I have seen something of Major Knighton."
"A-ha! Is that so?"
Something in Poirot's twinkling eyes made Katherine lower hers.
"So Mr. Van Aldin remains in London?"
"Yes."
"I must try to see him to-morrow or the next day."
"You have news for him?"
"What makes you think that?"
"I—wondered, that is all."
Poirot looked across at her with twinkling eyes.
"And now, Mademoiselle, there is much that you wish to ask me, I can see that. And why not? Is not the affair of the Blue Train our own 'Roman Policier'?"
"Yes, there are things I should like to ask you."
"Eh bien?"
Katherine looked up with a sudden air of resolution.
"What were you doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot smiled slightly.
"I made a call at the Russian Embassy."
"Oh."
"I see that that tells you nothing. But I will not be a human oyster. No, I will lay my cards on the table, which is assuredly a thing that oysters do not do. You suspect, do you not, that I am not satisfied with the case against Derek Kettering?"
"That is what I have been wondering. I thought, in Nice, that you had finished with the case."
"You do not say all that you mean, Mademoiselle. But I admit everything. It was I—my researches—which placed Derek Kettering where he is now. But for me the Examining Magistrate would still be vainly trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de la Roche.Eh bien, Mademoiselle, what I have done I do not regret. I have only one duty—to discover the truth, and that way led straight to Mr. Kettering. But did it end there? The police say yes, but I, Hercule Poirot, am not satisfied."
He broke off suddenly. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, have you heard from Mademoiselle Lenox lately?"
"One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I think, annoyed with me for coming back to England."
Poirot nodded.
"I had an interview with her the night that Monsieur Kettering was arrested. It was an interesting interview in more ways than one."
Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not interrupt his train of thought.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last, "I am now on delicate ground, yet I will say this to you. There is, I think, some one who loves Monsieur Kettering—correct me if I am wrong—and for her sake—well—for her sake I hope that I am right and the police are wrong. You know who that some one is?"
There was a pause, then Katherine said:
"Yes—I think I know."
Poirot leant across the table towards her.
"I am not satisfied, Mademoiselle; no, I am not satisfied. The facts, the main facts, led straight to Monsieur Kettering. But there is one thing that has been left out of account."
"And what is that?"
"The disfigured face of the victim. I have asked myself, Mademoiselle, a hundred times, 'Was Derek Kettering the kind of man who would deal that smashing blow after having committed the murder?' What end would it serve? What purpose would it accomplish? Was it a likely action for one of Monsieur Kettering's temperament? And, Mademoiselle, the answer to these questions is profoundly unsatisfactory. Again and again I go back to that one point—'why?' And the only things I have to help me to a solution of the problem are these."
He whipped out his pocket-book and extracted something from it which he held between his finger and thumb.
"Do you remember, Mademoiselle? You saw me take these hairs from the rug in the railway carriage."
Katherine leant forward, scrutinizing the hairs keenly.
Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.
"They suggest nothing to you, I see that, Mademoiselle. And yet—I think somehow that you see a good deal."
"I have had ideas," said Katherine slowly, "curious ideas. That is why I ask you what you were doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot."
"When I wrote to you—"
"From the Ritz?"
A curious smile came over Poirot's face.
"Yes, as you say, from the Ritz. I am a luxurious person sometimes—when a millionaire pays."
"The Russian Embassy," said Katherine, frowning. "No, I don't see where that comes in."
"It does not come in directly, Mademoiselle. I went there to get certain information. I saw a particular personage and I threatened him—yes, Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him."
"With the police?"
"No," said Poirot drily, "with the Press—a much more deadly weapon."
He looked at Katherine and she smiled at him, just shaking her head.
"Are you not just turning back into an oyster again, Monsieur Poirot?"
"No, no! I do not wish to make mysteries. See, I will tell you everything. I suspect this man of being the active party in the sale of the jewels of Monsieur Van Aldin. I tax him with it, and in the end I get the whole story out of him. I learn where the jewels were handed over, and I learn, too, of the man who paced up and down outside in the street—a man with a venerable head of white hair, but who walked with the light, springy step of a young man—and I give that man a name in my own mind—the name of 'Monsieur le Marquis.'"
"And now you have come to London to see Mr. Van Aldin?"
"Not entirely for that reason. I had other work to do. Since I have been in London I have seen two more people—a theatrical agent and a Harley Street doctor. From each of them I have got certain information. Put these things together, Mademoiselle, and see if you can make of them the same as I do."
"I?"
"Yes, you. I will tell you one thing, Mademoiselle. There has been a doubt all along in my mind as to whether the robbery and the murder were done by the same person. For a long time I was not sure—"
"And now?"
"And now Iknow."
There was a silence. Then Katherine lifted her head. Her eyes were shining.
"I am not clever like you, Monsieur Poirot. Half the things that you have been telling me don't seem to me to point anywhere at all. The ideas that came to me came from such an entirely different angle—"
"Ah, but that is always so," said Poirot quietly. "A mirror shows the truth, but every one stands in a different place for looking into the mirror."
"My ideas may be absurd—they may be entirely different from yours, but—"
"Yes?"
"Tell me, does this help you at all?"
He took a newspaper cutting from her outstretched hand. He read it and, looking up, he nodded gravely.
"As I told you, Mademoiselle, one stands at a different angle for looking into the mirror, but it is the same mirror and the same things are reflected there."
Katherine got up. "I must rush," she said. "I have only just time to catch my train. Monsieur Poirot—"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"It—it mustn't be much longer, you understand. I—I can't go on much longer."
There was a break in her voice.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
"Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not fail now; the end is very near."
"Monsieur Poirot wants to see you, sir."
"Damn the fellow!" said Van Aldin.
Knighton remained sympathetically silent.
Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced up and down.
"I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers this morning?"
"I have glanced at them, sir."
"Still at it hammer and tongs?"
"I am afraid so, sir."
The millionaire sat down again and pressed his hand to his forehead.
"If I had had an idea of this," he groaned. "I wish to God I had never got that little Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth's murderer—that was all I thought about."
"You wouldn't have liked your son-in-law to go scot free?"
Van Aldin sighed.
"I would have preferred to take the law into my own hands."
"I don't think that would have been a very wise proceeding, sir."
"All the same—are you sure the fellow wants to see me?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Aldin. He is very urgent about it."
"Then I suppose he will have to. He can come along this morning if he likes."
It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot who was ushered in. He did not seem to see any lack of cordiality in the millionaire's manner, and chatted pleasantly about various trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name of an eminent surgeon.
"No, no,pas la guerre—a memory of my days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally Apache."
He touched his left shoulder and winced realistically.
"I always consider you a lucky man, Monsieur Van Aldin; you are not like our popular idea of American millionaires, martyrs to the dyspepsia."
"I am pretty tough," said Van Aldin. "I lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare and not too much of it."
"You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?" inquired Poirot, innocently turning to the secretary.
"I—yes; once or twice," said Knighton.
He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed in surprise:
"Funny you never mentioned to me that you had seen her, Knighton?"
"I didn't think you would be interested, sir."
"I like that girl very much," said Van Aldin.
"It is a thousand pities that she should have buried herself once more in St. Mary Mead," said Poirot.
"It is very fine of her," said Knighton hotly. "There are very few people who would bury themselves down there to look after a cantankerous old woman who has no earthly claim on her."
"I am silent," said Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little; "but all the same I say it is a pity. And now, Messieurs, let us come to business."
Both the other men looked at him in some surprise.
"You must not be shocked or alarmed at what I am about to say. Supposing, Monsieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur Derek Kettering did not murder his wife?"
"What?"
Both men stared at him in blank surprise.
"Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Kettering did not murder his wife?"
"Are you mad, Monsieur Poirot?"
It was Van Aldin who spoke.
"No," said Poirot, "I am not mad. I am eccentric, perhaps—at least certain people say so; but as regards my profession, I am very much, as one says, 'all there.' I ask you, Monsieur Van Aldin, whether you would be glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the case?"
Van Aldin stared at him.
"Naturally I should be glad," he said at last. "Is this an exercise in suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts behind it?"
Poirot looked at the ceiling.
"There is an off-chance," he said quietly, "that it might be the Comte de la Roche after all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting his alibi."
"How did you manage that?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.
"I have my own methods. The exercise of a little tact, a little cleverness—and the thing is done."
"But the rubies," said Van Aldin, "these rubies that the Count had in his possession were false."
"And clearly he would not have committed the crime except for the rubies. But you are overlooking one point, Monsieur Van Aldin. Where the rubies were concerned, some one might have been before him."
"But this is an entirely new theory," cried Knighton.
"Do you really believe all this rigmarole, Monsieur Poirot?" demanded the millionaire.
"The thing is not proved," said Poirot quietly. "It is as yet only a theory, but I tell you this, Monsieur Van Aldin, the facts are worth investigating. You must come out with me to the south of France and go into the case on the spot."
"You really think this is necessary—that I should go, I mean."
"I thought it would be what you yourself would wish," said Poirot.
There was a hint of reproach in his tone which was not lost upon the other.
"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "When do you wish to start, Monsieur Poirot?"
"You are very busy at present, sir," murmured Knighton.
But the millionaire had now made up his mind, and he waved the other's objections aside.
"I guess this business comes first," he said. "All right, Monsieur Poirot, to-morrow. What train?"
"We will go, I think, by the Blue Train," said Poirot, and he smiled.
"The Millionaire's Train," as it is sometimes called, swung round a curve of line at what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin, Knighton, and Poirot sat together in silence. Knighton and Van Aldin had two compartments connecting with each other, as Ruth Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful journey. Poirot's own compartment was further along the coach.
The journey was a painful one for Van Aldin, recalling as it did the most agonizing memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed occasionally in low tones without disturbing him.
When, however, the train had completed its slow journey round theceintureand reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became suddenly galvanized into activity. Van Aldin realized that part of his object in travelling by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime. Poirot himself acted every part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly shut into her own compartment, Mrs. Kettering, recognizing her husband with surprise and a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering discovering that his wife was travelling on the train. He tested various possibilities, such as the best way for a person to conceal himself in the second compartment.
Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He clutched at Van Aldin's arm.
"Mon Dieu, but that is something I have not thought of! We must break our journey in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once."
Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the train. Van Aldin and Knighton, bewildered but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having once formed his opinion of Poirot's ability was slow to part from it. At the barrier they were held up. Their tickets were in charge of the conductor of the train, a fact which all three of them had forgotten.
Poirot's explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they produced no effect upon the stolid-faced official.
"Let us get quit of this," said Van Aldin abruptly. "I gather you are in a hurry, Monsieur Poirot. For God's sake pay the fares from Calais and let us get right on with whatever you have got in your mind."
But Poirot's flood of language had suddenly stopped dead, and he had the appearance of a man turned to stone. His arm, still outflung in an impassioned gesture, remained there as though stricken with paralysis.
"I have been an imbecile," he said simply. "Ma foi, I lose my head nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With reasonable luck the train will not have gone."
They were only just in time, the train moving off as Knighton, the last of the three, swung himself and his suitcase on board.
The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly, and assisted them to carry their luggage back to their compartments. Van Aldin said nothing, but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot's extraordinary conduct. Alone with Knighton for a moment or two, he remarked:
"This is a wildgoose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He has got brains up to a point, but any man who loses his head and scuttles round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly darned good."
Poirot came to them in a moment or two, full of abject apologies and clearly so crestfallen that harsh words would have been superfluous. Van Aldin received his apologies gravely, but managed to restrain himself from making acid comments.
They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the surprise of the other two, Poirot suggested that they should all three set up in Van Aldin's compartment.
The millionaire looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything that you are keeping back from us, Monsieur Poirot?"
"I?" Poirot opened his eyes in innocent surprise. "But what an idea."
Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not satisfied. The conductor was told that he need not make up the beds. Any surprise he might have felt was obliterated by the largeness of the tip which Van Aldin handed to him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot fidgeted and seemed restless. Presently he turned to the secretary.
"Major Knighton, is the door of your compartment bolted? The door into the corridor, I mean."
"Yes; I bolted it myself just now."
"Are you sure?" said Poirot.
"I will go and make sure, if you like," said Knighton smiling.
"No, no, do not derange yourself. I will see for myself."
He passed through the connecting door and returned in a second or two, nodding his head.
"Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must pardon an old man's fussy ways."
He closed the connecting door and resumed his place in the right-hand corner.
The hours passed. The three men dozed fitfully, waking with uncomfortable starts. Probably never before had three people booked berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to avail themselves of the accommodations they had paid for. Every now and then Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head and composed himself to slumber once more. On one occasion he rose from his seat and opened the connecting door, peered sharply into the adjoining compartment, and then returned to his seat, shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" whispered Knighton. "You are expecting something to happen, aren't you?"
"I have the nerves," confessed Poirot. "I am like the cat upon the hot tiles. Every little noise it makes me jump."
Knighton yawned.
"Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys," he murmured. "I suppose you know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot."
He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Van Aldin had succumbed to slumber, when Poirot, glancing for the fourteenth time at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire on the shoulder.
"Eh? What is it?"
"In five or ten minutes, Monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyons."
"My God!" Van Aldin's face looked white and haggard in the dim light. "Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was killed."
He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little, his mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh of the brake, and the train slackened speed and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down the window and leant out.
"If it wasn't Derek—if your new theory is correct, it is here that the man left the train?" he asked over his shoulder.
Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his head.
"No," he said thoughtfully, "nomanleft the train, but I think—yes, I think, awomanmay have done so."
Knighton gave a gasp.
"A woman?" demanded Van Aldin sharply.
"Yes, a woman," said Poirot, nodding his head. "You may not remember, Monsieur Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat descended on to the platform ostensibly to stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth was most probably a woman."
"But who was she?"
Van Aldin's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously and categorically.
"Her name—or the name under which she was known, for many years—is Kitty Kidd, but you, Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by another name—that of Ada Mason."
Knighton sprang to his feet.
"What?" he cried.
Poirot swung round to him.
"Ah!—before I forget it." He whipped something from a pocket and held it out.
"Permit me to offer you a cigarette—out of your own cigarette case. It was careless of you to drop it when you boarded the train on theceintureat Paris."
Knighton stood staring at him as though stupefied. Then he made a movement, but Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.
"No, don't move," he said in a silky voice; "the door into the next compartment is open, and you are being covered from there this minute. I unbolted the door into the corridor when we left Paris, and our friends the police were told to take their places there. As I expect you know, the French police want you rather urgently, Major Knighton—or shall we say—Monsieur le Marquis?"
"Explanations?"
Poirot smiled. He was sitting opposite the millionaire at a luncheon table in the latter's private suite at the Negresco. Facing him was a relieved but very puzzled man. Poirot leant back in his chair, lit one of his tiny cigarettes, and stared reflectively at the ceiling.
"Yes, I will give you explanations. It began with the one point that puzzled me. You know what that point was?The disfigured face.It is not an uncommon thing to find when investigating a crime and it rouses an immediate question, the question of identity. That naturally was the first thing that occurred to me. Was the dead woman really Mrs. Kettering? But that line led me nowhere, for Miss Grey's evidence was positive and very reliable, so I put that idea aside. The dead womanwasRuth Kettering."
"When did you first begin to suspect the maid?"
"Not for some time, but one peculiar little point drew my attention to her. The cigarette case found in the railway carriage and which she told us was one which Mrs. Kettering had given to her husband. Now that was, on the face of it, most improbable, seeing the terms that they were on. It awakened a doubt in my mind as to the general veracity of Ada Mason's statements. There was the rather suspicious fact to be taken into consideration, that she had only been with her mistress for two months. Certainly it did not seem as if she could have had anything to do with the crime since she had been left behind in Paris and Mrs. Kettering had been seen alive by several people afterwards, but—"
Poirot leant forward. He raised an emphatic forefinger and wagged it with intense emphasis at Van Aldin.
"But I am a good detective. I suspect. There is nobody and nothing that I do not suspect. I believe nothing that I am told. I say to myself: how do we know that Ada Mason was left behind in Paris? And at first the answer to that question seemed completely satisfactory. There was the evidence of your secretary, Major Knighton, a complete outsider whose testimony might be supposed to be entirely impartial, and there was the dead woman's own words to the conductor on the train. But I put the latter point aside for the moment, because a very curious idea—an idea perhaps fantastic and impossible—was growing up in my mind. If by any outside chance it happened to be true, that particular piece of testimony was worthless.
"I concentrated on the chief stumbling-block to my theory, Major Knighton's statement that he saw Ada Mason at the Ritz after the Blue Train had left Paris. That seemed conclusive enough, but yet, on examining the facts carefully, I noted two things. First, that by a curious coincidence he, too, had been exactly two months in your service. Secondly, his initial letter was the same—'K.' Supposing—just supposing—that it washiscigarette case which had been found in the carriage. Then, if Ada Mason and he were working together, and she recognized it when we showed it to her, would she not act precisely as she had done? At first, taken aback, she quickly evolved a plausible theory that would agree with Mr. Kettering's guilt.Bien entendu, that was not the original idea. The Comte de la Roche was to be the scapegoat, though Ada Mason would not make her recognition of him too certain, in case he should be able to prove an alibi. Now, if you will cast your mind back to that time, you will remember a significant thing that happened. I suggested to Ada Mason that the man she had seen was not the Comte de la Roche, but Derek Kettering. She seemed uncertain at the time, but after I had got back to my hotel you rang me up and told me that she had come to you and said that, on thinking it over, she was now quite convinced that the man in questionwasMr. Kettering. I had been expecting something of the kind. There could be but one explanation of this sudden certainty on her part. After my leaving your hotel, she had had time to consult with somebody, and had received instructions which she acted upon. Who had given her these instructions? Major Knighton. And there was another very small point, which might mean nothing or might mean a great deal. In casual conversation Knighton had talked of a jewel robbery in Yorkshire in a house where he was staying. Perhaps a mere coincidence—perhaps another small link in the chain."
"But there is one thing I do not understand, Monsieur Poirot. I guess I must be dense or I would have seen it before now. Who was the man in the train at Paris? Derek Kettering or the Comte de la Roche?"
"That is the simplicity of the whole thing.There was no man.Ah—mille tonnerres!—do you not see the cleverness of it all? Whose word have we for it that there ever was a man there? Only Ada Mason's. And we believe in Ada Mason because of Knighton's evidence that she was left behind in Paris."
"But Ruth herself told the conductor that she had left her maid behind there," demurred Van Aldin.
"Ah! I am coming to that. We have Mrs. Kettering's own evidence there, but, on the other hand, we have not really got her evidence, because, Monsieur Van Aldin, a dead woman cannot give evidence. It is notherevidence, but the evidence of the conductor of the train—a very different affair altogether."