The Mystery of the Blue Train (15 page)

Twenty-four

P
OIROT
G
IVES
A
DVICE

I
t 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; “someone 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. Everyone 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 lighthearted 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 is
sympathique,
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 has
she
broken 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.

“Ca y est,”
said M. Hercule Poirot, “it is time, I think, that I return
chez moi.
”

He found an 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 a
tisane.
The expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it always causes me emotion.”

Twenty-five

D
EFIANCE

A
s 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 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 only seen the Comte de la Roche 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 daresay. 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 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 threatening
me?
” 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 a
chasseur.

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 a
peignoir
of 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 at him with melting eyes.

He thrust her roughly away from him. She stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing to a catlike 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—but
I
saw 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.
And I 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.