The Mystery of the Blue Train (3 page)

Four

O
N CURZON STREET

T
he Hon. Mrs. Derek Kettering lived
in Curzon Street. The butler who opened the door recognized Rufus Van Aldin at once and
permitted himself a discreet smile of greeting. He led the way upstairs to the big double
drawing room on the first floor.

A woman who was sitting by the window started up with a cry.

“Why, Dad, if that isn't too good for anything! I've been telephoning Major
Knighton all day to try and get hold of you, but he couldn't say for sure when you were
expected back.”

Ruth Kettering was twenty-eight years of age.
Without being beautiful, or in the real sense of the word even pretty, she was
striking
-looking because of her colouring. Van Aldin had been called Carrots and Ginger in his
time, and Ruth's hair was almost pure auburn. With it went dark eyes and very black
lashes—the effect somewhat enhanced by art. She was tall and slender, and moved well. At a
careless glance it was the face of a Raphael Madonna. Only if one looked closely did one
perceive the same line of jaw and chin as in Van Aldin's face, bespeaking the same
hardness and
determination. It suited the man, but suited the woman less well. From
her childhood upward Ruth Van Aldin had been accustomed to having her own way, and anyone
who had ever stood up against her soon realized that Rufus Van Aldin's daughter never gave
in.

“Knighton told me you'd 'phoned him,” said Van Aldin. “I only got back from
Paris half an hour ago. What's all this about Derek?”

Ruth Kettering flushed angrily.

“It's unspeakable. It's beyond all limits,” she cried. “He—he doesn't seem to
listen to anything I say.”

There was bewilderment as well as anger in her voice.

“He'll listen to me,” said the millionaire grimly.

Ruth went on.

“I've hardly seen him for the last month. He goes about everywhere with that
woman.”

“With what woman?”

“Mirelle. She dances at the Parthenon, you know.”

Van Aldin nodded.

“I was down at Leconbury last week. I—I spoke to Lord Leconbury. He was awfully
sweet to me, sympathized entirely. He said he'd give Derek a good talking to.”

“Ah!” said Van Aldin.

“What do you mean by ‘Ah!' Dad?”

“Just what you think I mean, Ruthie. Poor old Leconbury is a washout. Of course
he sympathized with you, of course he tried to soothe you down. Having got his son and heir
married to the daughter of one of the richest men in the States, he naturally doesn't want
to mess the thing up. But he's got one foot in the grave already, everyone knows that, and
anything he may say will cut darned little ice with Derek.”

“Can't
you
do anything, Dad?” urged Ruth, after a
minute or two.

“I might,” said the millionaire. He waited a second reflectively, and then went
on. “There are several things I might do, but there's only one that will be any real good.
How much pluck have you got, Ruthie?”

She stared at him. He nodded back at her.

“I mean just what I say. Have you got the grit to admit to all the world that
you've made a mistake? There's only one way out of this mess, Ruthie. Cut your losses and
start afresh.”

“You mean—?”

“Divorce.”

“Divorce!”

Van Aldin smiled drily.

“You say that word, Ruth, as though you'd never heard it before. And yet your
friends are doing it all round you every day.”

“Oh! I know that. But—”

She stopped, biting her lip. Her father nodded comprehendingly.

“I know, Ruth. You're like me, you can't bear to let go. But I've learnt, and
you've got to learn, that there are times when it's the only way. I might find ways of
whistling Derek back to you, but it would all come to the same in the end.
He's no good,
Ruth; he's rotten through and through. And mind you, I
blame myself for ever letting you marry him. But you were kind of set on having him, and he
seemed in earnest about turning over a new leaf—and well, I'd crossed you once, honey.
. . .”

He did not look at her as he said the last words. Had he done so, he might have
seen the swift colour that came up in her face.

“You did,” she said in a hard voice.

“I was too durned softhearted to do it a second time. I can't tell you how I
wish I had, though. You've led a poor kind of life for the last few years, Ruth.”

“It has not been very—agreeable,” agreed Mrs. Kettering.

“That's why I say to you that this thing has got to
stop!
” He brought his hand down with a bang on the table. “You may have a
hankering after the fellow still.
Cut it out.
Face facts. Derek
Kettering married you for your money. That's all there is to it. Get rid of him, Ruth.”

Ruth Kettering looked down at the ground for some moments, then she said,
without raising her head:

“Supposing he doesn't consent?”

Van Aldin looked at her in astonishment.

“He won't have a say in the matter.”

She flushed and bit her lip.

“No—no—of course not. I only meant—”

She stopped. Her father eyed her keenly.

“What did you mean?”

“I meant—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “He mayn't take it lying
down.”

The millionaire's chin shot out grimly.

“You mean he'll fight the case? Let him! But, as a matter of fact, you're wrong.
He won't fight. Any solicitor he consults will tell him he hasn't a leg to stand upon.”

“You don't think”—she hesitated—“I mean—out of sheer spite against me—he might,
well, try to make it awkward?”

Her father looked at her in some astonishment.

“Fight the case, you mean?”

He shook his head.

“Very unlikely. You see, he would have to have something to go upon.”

Mrs. Kettering did not answer. Van Aldin looked at her sharply.

“Come, Ruth, out with it. There's something troubling you—what is it?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

But her voice was unconvincing.

“You are dreading the publicity, eh? Is that it? You leave it to me. I'll put
the whole thing through so smoothly that there will be no fuss at all.”

“Very well, Dad, if you really think it's the best thing to be done.”

“Got a fancy for the fellow still, Ruth? Is that it?”

“No.”

The word came with no uncertain emphasis. Van Aldin seemed satisfied. He patted
his daughter on the shoulder.

“It will be all right, little girl. Don't you worry any. Now let's forget about
all this. I have brought you a present from Paris.”

“For me? Something very nice?”

“I hope you'll think so,” said Van Aldin, smiling.

He took the parcel from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She unwrapped it
eagerly, and snapped open the case. A long-drawn “Oh!” came from her lips. Ruth Kettering
loved jewels—always had done so.

“Dad, how—how wonderful!”

“Rather in a class by themselves, aren't they?” said the millionaire with
satisfaction. “You like them, eh.”

“Like them? Dad, they're unique. How did you get hold of them?”

Van Aldin smiled.

“Ah! that's my secret. They had to be bought privately, of course. They are
rather well-known. See that big stone in the middle? You have heard of it, maybe; that's the
historic ‘Heart of Fire.' ”

“ ‘Heart of Fire!' ” repeated Mrs. Kettering.

She had taken the stones from the case and was holding them against her breast.
The millionaire watched her. He was thinking of the series of women who had worn the jewels.
The heartaches, the despairs, the jealousies. “Heart of Fire,” like all famous stones, had
left behind it a trail of tragedy and violence. Held in Ruth Kettering's assured hand, it
seemed to lose its potency of evil. With her cool, equable poise, this woman of the western
world seemed a negation to tragedy or heart burnings. Ruth returned the stones to their
case; then, jumping up, she flung her arms round her father's neck.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Dad. They are wonderful! You do give me the
most marvellous presents always.”

“That's all right,” said Van Aldin, patting her shoulder. “You are all I have,
you know, Ruthie.”

“You will stay to dinner, won't you, Father?”

“I don't think so. You were going out, weren't you?”

“Yes, but I can easily put that off. Nothing very exciting.”

“No,” said Van Aldin. “Keep your engagement. I have got a good deal to attend
to. See you tomorrow, my dear. Perhaps if I 'phone you, we can meet at Galbraiths?”

Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith, Cuthbertson & Galbraith were Van Aldin's
London solicitors.

“Very well, Dad.” She hesitated. “I suppose it—this—won't keep me from going to
the Riviera?”

“When are you off?”

“On the fourteenth.”

“Oh, that will be all right. These things take a long time to mature. By the
way, Ruth, I shouldn't take those rubies abroad if I were you. Leave them at the bank.”

Mrs. Kettering nodded.

“We don't want to have you robbed and murdered for the sake of ‘Heart of Fire,'
” said the millionaire jocosely.

“And yet you carried it about in your pocket loose,” retorted his daughter,
smiling.

“Yes—”

Something, some hesitation, caught her attention.

“What is it, Dad?”

“Nothing.” He smiled. “Thinking of a little adventure of mine in Paris.”

“An adventure?”

“Yes, the night I bought these things.”

He made a gesture towards the jewel case.

“Oh, do tell me.”

“Nothing to tell, Ruthie. Some apache fellows got a bit fresh and I shot at them
and they got off. That's all.”

She looked at him with some pride.

“You're a tough proposition, Dad.”

“You bet I am, Ruthie.”

He kissed her affectionately and departed. On arriving back at the Savoy, he
gave a curt order to Knighton.

“Get hold of a man called Goby; you'll find his address in my private book. He's
to be here tomorrow morning at half past nine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also want to see Mr. Kettering. Run him to earth for me if you can. Try
his Club—at any rate, get hold of him somehow, and arrange for me to see him here tomorrow
morning. Better make it latish, about twelve. His sort aren't early risers.”

The secretary nodded in comprehension of these instructions. Van Aldin gave
himself into the hands of this valet. His bath was prepared, and as he lay luxuriating in
the hot water, his mind went back over the conversation with his daughter. On the whole he
was well-satisfied. His keen mind had long since accepted the fact that divorce was the only
possible way out. Ruth had agreed to the proposed solution with more readiness than he had
hoped for. Yet, in spite of her acquiescence, he was left with a vague sense of uneasiness.
Something about her manner, he felt, had not been quite natural. He frowned to himself.

“Maybe I'm fanciful,” he muttered, “and yet—I bet there's something she has not
told me.”

Five

A U
SEFUL
G
ENTLEMAN

R
ufus Van Aldin had just finished the sparse breakfast of coffee and dry toast, which was all he ever allowed himself, when Knighton entered the room.

“Mr. Goby is below, sir, waiting to see you.”

The millionaire glanced at the clock. It was just half past nine.

“All right,” he said curtly. “He can come up.”

A minute or two later, Mr. Goby entered the room. He was a small, elderly man, shabbily dressed, with eyes that looked carefully all round the room, and never at the person he was addressing.

“Good morning, Goby,” said the millionaire. “Take a chair.”

“Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin.”

Mr. Goby sat down with his hands on his knees, and gazed earnestly at the radiator.

“I have got a job for you.”

“Yes, Mr. Van Aldin?”

“My daughter is married to the Hon. Derek Kettering, as you may perhaps know.”

Mr. Goby transferred his gaze from the radiator to the left-hand drawer of the desk, and permitted a deprecating smile to pass over his face. Mr. Goby knew a great many things, but he always hated to admit the fact.

“By my advice, she is about to file a petition for divorce. That, of course, is a solicitor's business. But, for private reasons, I want the fullest and most complete information.”

Mr. Goby looked at the cornice and murmured:

“About Mr. Kettering?”

“About Mr. Kettering.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mr. Goby rose to his feet.

“When will you have it ready for me?”

“Are you in a hurry, sir?”

“I'm always in a hurry,” said the millionaire.

Mr. Goby smiled understandingly at the fender.

“Shall we say two o'clock this afternoon, sir?” he asked.

“Excellent,” approved the other. “Good morning, Goby.”

“Good morning, Mr. Van Aldin.”

“That's a very useful man,” said the millionaire as Goby went out and his secretary came in. “In his own line he's a specialist.”

“What is his line?”

“Information. Give him twenty-four hours and he would lay the private life of the Archbishop of Canterbury bare for you.”

“A useful sort of chap,” said Knighton, with a smile.

“He has been useful to me once or twice,” said Van Aldin. “Now then, Knighton, I'm ready for work.”

The next few hours saw a vast quantity of business rapidly transacted. It was half past twelve when the telephone bell rang, and Mr. Van Aldin was informed that Mr. Kettering had called. Knighton looked at Van Aldin, and interpreted his brief nod.

“Ask Mr. Kettering to come up, please.”

The secretary gathered up his papers and departed. He and the visitor passed each other in the doorway, and Derek Kettering stood aside to let the other go out. Then he came in, shutting the door behind him.

“Good morning, sir. You are very anxious to see me, I hear.”

The lazy voice with its slightly ironic inflection roused memories in Van Aldin. There was charm in it—there had always been charm in it. He looked piercingly at his son-in-law. Derek Kettering was thirty-four, lean of build, with a dark, narrow face, which had even now something indescribably boyish in it.

“Come in,” said Van Aldin curtly. “Sit down.”

Kettering flung himself lightly into an armchair. He looked at his father-in-law with a kind of tolerant amusement.

“Not seen you for a long time, sir,” he remarked pleasantly. “About two years, I should say. Seen Ruth yet?”

“I saw her last night,” said Van Aldin.

“Looking very fit, isn't she?” said the other lightly.

“I didn't know you had had much opportunity of judging,” said Van Aldin drily.

Derek Kettering raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, we sometimes meet at the same nightclub, you know,” he said airily.

“I am not going to beat about the bush,” Van Aldin said curtly. “I have advised Ruth to file a petition for divorce.”

Derek Kettering seemed unmoved.

“How drastic!” he murmured. “Do you mind if I smoke, sir?”

He lit a cigarette, and puffed out a cloud of smoke as he added nonchalantly:

“And what did Ruth say?”

“Ruth proposes to take my advice,” said her father.

“Does she really?”

“Is that all you have got to say?” demanded Van Aldin sharply.

Kettering flicked his ash into the grate.

“I think, you know,” he said, with a detached air, “that she's making a great mistake.”

“From your point of view she doubtless is,” said Van Aldin grimly.

“Oh, come now,” said the other; “don't let's be personal. I really wasn't thinking of myself at the moment. I was thinking of Ruth. You know my poor old Governor really can't last much longer; all the doctors say so. Ruth had better give it a couple more years, then I shall be Lord Leconbury, and she can be châtelaine of Leconbury, which is what she married me for.”

“I won't have any of your darned impudence,” roared Van Aldin.

Derek Kettering smiled at him unmoved.

“I agree with you. It's an obsolete idea,” he said. “There's nothing in a title nowadays. Still, Leconbury is a very fine old place, and, after all, we are one of the oldest families in England. It will be very annoying for Ruth if she divorces me to find me marrying again, and some other woman queening it at Leconbury instead of her.”

“I am serious, young man,” said Van Aldin.

“Oh, so am I,” said Kettering. “I am in very low water financially; it will put me in a nasty hole if Ruth divorces me, and, after all, if she has stood it for ten years, why not stand it a little longer? I give you my word of honour that the old man can't possibly last out another eighteen months, and, as I said before, it's a pity Ruth shouldn't get what she married me for.”

“You suggest that my daughter married you for your title and position?”

Derek Kettering laughed a laugh that was not all amusement.

“You don't think it was a question of a love match?” he asked.

“I know,” said Van Aldin slowly, “that you spoke very differently in Paris ten years ago.”

“Did I? Perhaps I did. Ruth was very beautiful, you know—rather like an angel or a saint, or something that had stepped down from a niche in a church. I had fine ideas, I remember, of turning over a new leaf, of settling down and living up to the highest traditions of English home life with a beautiful wife who loved me.”

He laughed again, rather more discordantly.

“But you don't believe that, I suppose?” he said.

“I have no doubt at all that you married Ruth for her money,” said Van Aldin unemotionally.

“And that she married me for love?” asked the other ironically.

“Certainly,” said Van Aldin.

Derek Kettering stared at him for a minute or two, then he nodded reflectively.

“I see you believe that,” he said. “So did I at the time. I can assure you, my dear father-in-law, I was very soon undeceived.”

“I don't know what you are getting at,” said Van Aldin, “and I don't care. You have treated Ruth darned badly.”

“Oh, I have,” agreed Kettering lightly, “but she's tough, you know. She's your daughter. Underneath the pink-and-white softness of her she's as hard as granite. You have always been known as a hard man, so I have been told, but Ruth is harder than you are. You, at any rate, love one person better than yourself. Ruth never has and never will.”

“That is enough,” said Van Aldin. “I asked you here so that I could tell you fair and square what I meant to do. My girl has got to have some happiness, and remember this, I am behind her.”

Derek Kettering got up and stood by the mantelpiece. He tossed away his cigarette. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.

“What exactly do you mean by that, I wonder?” he said.

“I mean,” said Van Aldin, “that you had better not try to defend the case.”

“Oh,” said Kettering, “is that a threat?”

“You can take it any way you please,” said Van Aldin.

Kettering drew a chair up to the table. He sat down fronting the millionaire.

“And supposing,” he said softly, “that, just for argument's sake, I did defend the case?”

Van Aldin shrugged his shoulders.

“You have not got a leg to stand upon, you young fool. Ask your solicitors, they will soon tell you. Your conduct has been notorious, the talk of London.”

“Ruth has been kicking up a row about Mirelle, I suppose. Very foolish of her. I don't interfere with her friends.”

“What do you mean?” said Van Aldin sharply.

Derek Kettering laughed.

“I see you don't know everything, sir,” he said. “You are, perhaps naturally, prejudiced.”

He took up his hat and stick and moved towards the door.

“Giving advice is not much in my line.” He delivered his final thrust. “But, in this case, I should advise most strongly perfect frankness between father and daughter.”

He passed quickly out of the room and shut the door behind him just as the millionaire sprang up.

“Now, what the hell did he mean by that?” said Van Aldin as he sank back into his chair again.

All his uneasiness returned in full force. There was something here that he had not yet got to the bottom of. The telephone was by his elbow; he seized it, and asked for the number of his daughter's house.

“Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 81907? Mrs. Kettering in? Oh, she's out, is she? Yes, out to lunch. What time will she be in? You don't know? Oh, very good; no, there's no message.”

He slammed the receiver down again angrily. At two o'clock he was pacing the floor of his room waiting expectantly for Goby. The latter was ushered in at ten minutes past two.

“Well?” barked the millionaire sharply.

But little Mr. Goby was not to be hurried. He sat down at the table, produced a very shabby pocketbook, and proceeded to read from it in a monotonous voice. The millionaire listened attentively, with an increasing satisfaction. Goby came to a full stop, and looked attentively at the wastepaper basket.

“Um!” said Van Aldin. “That seems pretty definite. The case will go through like winking. The hotel evidence is all right, I suppose?”

“Cast iron,” said Mr. Goby, and looked malevolently at a gilt armchair.

“And financially he's in very low water. He's trying to raise a loan now, you say? Has already raised practically all he can upon his expectations from his father. Once the news of the divorce gets about, he won't be able to raise another cent, and not only that, his obligations can be bought up and pressure can be put upon him from that quarter. We have got him, Goby; we have got him in a cleft stick.”

He hit the table a bang with his fist. His face was grim and triumphant.

“The information,” said Mr. Goby in a thin voice, “seems satisfactory.”

“I have got to go round to Curzon Street now,” said the millionaire. “I am much obliged to you, Goby. You are the goods all right.”

A pale smile of gratification showed itself on the little man's face.

“Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin,” he said; “I try to do my best.”

Van Aldin did not go direct to Curzon Street. He went first to the City, where he had two interviews which added to his satisfaction. From there he took the tube to Down Street. As he was walking along Curzon Street, a figure came out of No. 160, and turned up the street towards him, so that they passed each other on the pavement. For a moment, the millionaire had fancied it might be Derek Kettering himself; the height and build were not unlike. But as they came face to face, he saw that the man was a stranger to him. At least—no, not a stranger; his face awoke some call of recognition in the millionaire's mind, and it was associated definitely with something unpleasant. He cudgelled his brains in vain, but the thing eluded him. He went on, shaking his head irritably. He hated to be baffled.

Ruth Kettering was clearly expecting him. She ran to him and kissed him when he entered.

“Well, Dad, how are things going?”

“Very well,” said Van Aldin; “but I have got a word or two to say to you, Ruth.”

Almost insensibly he felt the change in her; something shrewd and watchful replaced the impulsiveness of her greeting. She sat down in a big armchair.

“Well, Dad?” she asked. “What is it?”

“I saw your husband this morning,” said Van Aldin.

“You saw Derek?”

“I did. He said a lot of things, most of which were darned cheek. Just as he was leaving, he said something that I didn't understand. He advised me to be sure that there was perfect frankness between father and daughter. What did he mean by that, Ruthie?”

Mrs. Kettering moved a little in her chair.

“I—I don't know, Dad. How should I?”

“Of course you know,” said Van Aldin. “He said something else, about his having his friends and not interfering with yours. What did he mean by that?”

“I don't know,” said Ruth Kettering again.

Van Aldin sat down. His mouth set itself in a grim line.

“See here, Ruth. I am not going into this with my eyes closed. I am not at all sure that that husband of yours doesn't mean to make trouble. Now, he can't do it, I am sure of that. I have got the means to silence him, to shut his mouth for good and all, but I have got to know if there's any need to use those means. What did he mean by your having your own friends?”

Mrs. Kettering shrugged her shoulders.

“I have got lots of friends,” she said uncertainly. “I don't know what he meant, I am sure.”

“You do,” said Van Aldin.

He was speaking now as he might have spoken to a business adversary.

“I will put it plainer. Who is the man?”