The Mystery of the Blue Train (13 page)

Twenty

K
ATHERINE
M
AKES A
F
RIEND

O
n the following morning Katherine and Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa Marguerite. Something in the nature of a friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age. But for Lenox, Katherine would have found life at the Villa Marguerite quite intolerable. The Kettering case was the topic of the moment. Lady Tamplin frankly exploited her guest's connection with the affair for all it was worth. The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine could administer quite failed to pierce Lady Tamplin's self-esteem. Lenox adopted a detached attitude, seemingly amused at her mother's manoeuvres, and yet with a sympathetic understanding of Katherine's feelings. The situation was not helped by Chubby, whose naïve delight was unquenchable, and who introduced Katherine to all and sundry as:

“This is Miss Grey. You know that Blue Train business? She was in it up to the ears! Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few hours before the murder! Bit of luck for her, eh?”

A few remarks of this kind had provoked Katherine that morning to an unusually tart rejoinder, and when they were alone together Lenox observed in her slow drawl:

“Not used to exploitation, are you? You have a lot to learn, Katherine.”

“I am sorry I lost my temper. I don't, as a rule.”

“It is about time you learnt to blow off steam. Chubby is only an ass; there is no harm in him. Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper with her until Kingdom come, and it won't make any impression. She will open large, sad blue eyes at you and not care a bit.”

Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:

“I am rather like Chubby. I delight in a good murder, and besides—well, knowing Derek makes a difference.”

Katherine nodded.

“So you lunched with him yesterday,” pursued Lenox reflectively. “Do you like him, Katherine?”

Katherine considered for a minute or two.

“I don't know,” she said very slowly.

“He is very attractive.”

“Yes, he is attractive.”

“What don't you like about him?”

Katherine did not reply to the question, or at any rate not directly. “He spoke of his wife's death,” she said. “He said he would not pretend that it had been anything but a bit of most marvellous luck for him.”

“And that shocked you, I suppose,” said Lenox. She paused, and then added in rather a queer tone of voice: “He likes you, Katherine.”

“He gave me a very good lunch,” said Katherine, smiling.

Lenox refused to be sidetracked.

“I saw it the night he came here,” she said thoughtfully. “The way he looked at you; and you are not his usual type—just the opposite. Well, I suppose it is like religion—you get it at a certain age.”

“Mademoiselle is wanted at the telephone,” said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon. “M. Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her.”

“More blood and thunder. Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective.”

M. Hercule Poirot's voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine's ear.

“That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks?
Bon.
Mademoiselle, I have a word for you from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or at his hotel, whichever you prefer.”

Katherine reflected for a moment, but she decided that for Van Aldin to come to the Villa Marguerite would be both painful and unnecessary. Lady Tamplin would have hailed his advent with far too much delight. She never lost a chance to cultivate millionaires. She told Poirot that she would much rather come to Nice.

“Excellent, Mademoiselle. I will call for you myself in an auto. Shall we say in about three-quarters of an hour?”

Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared. Katherine was waiting for him, and they drove off at once.

“Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?”

She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was confirmed in her first impression that there was something very attractive about M. Hercule Poirot.

“This is our own
roman policier,
is it not?” said Poirot. “I made you the promise that we should study it together. And me, I always keep my promises.”

“You are too kind,” murmured Katherine.

“Ah, you mock yourself at me; but do you want to hear the developments of the case, or do you not?”

Katherine admitted that she did, and Poirot proceeded to sketch for her a thumbnail portrait of the Comte de la Roche.

“You think he killed her,” said Katherine thoughtfully.

“That is the theory,” said Poirot guardedly.

“Do you yourself believe that?”

“I did not say so. And you, Mademoiselle, what do you think?”

Katherine shook her head.

“How should I know? I don't know anything about those things, but I should say that—”

“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.”

“A
mauvais sujet,
” said Poirot, shaking his head; “but
les 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 anyone 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.”

“Daydreaming, 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.”

Twenty-one

A
T THE
T
ENNIS

S
everal 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 with
empressement.
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 today,” 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 anyone 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.

“
Bonjour,
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 everyone. 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 everyone at their 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 signalling 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,” replied 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. Everyone 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 worldwide 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 recutting and resetting 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 myself
why 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, a
poseur
only. 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.
Ca 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 someone 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.