The mystery of the Blue Train
as if he had been frightened out of his life. He was eyeing her in a
curious manner. Presently he said abruptly: "Madame will excuse me, but
is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice?"
"Probably," said Katherine. "Why?"
But the man merely shook his head and murmured something that Katherine
could not catch and moved away, not reappearing until the train came to
rest at the station, when he started handing her belongings down from
the window.
Katherine stood for a moment or two on the platform rather at a loss,
but a fair young man with an ingenuous face came up to her and said
rather hesitatingly:
"Miss Grey, is it not?"
Katherine said that it was, and the young man beamed upon her
seraphically and murmured:
"I am Chubby, you know--Lady Tamplin's husband. I expect she mentioned
me, but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your _billet de bagages_? I
lost mine when I came out this year, and you would not believe the fuss
they made about it. Regular French red tape!"
Katherine produced it, and was just about to move off beside him when a
very gentle and insidious voice murmured in her ear:
"A little moment, Madame, if you please."
Katherine turned to behold an individual who made up for
insignificance of stature by a large quantity of gold lace and uniform.
The individual explained. "There were certain formalities. Madame
would perhaps be so kind as to accompany him. The regulations of the
police--" He threw up his arms. "Absurd, doubtless, but there it was."
Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very imperfect comprehension, his
French being of a limited order.
"So like the French," murmured Mr. Evans. He was one of those staunch
patriotic Britons who, having made a portion of a foreign country their
own, strongly resent the original inhabitants of it. "Always up to
some silly dodge or other. They've never tackled people on the station
before, though. This is something quite new. I suppose you'll have to
go."
Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat to her surprise, he led
her towards a siding where a coach of the departed train had been
shunted. He invited her to mount into this, and, preceding her down
the corridor, held aside the door of one of the compartments. In it
was a pompous-looking official personage, and with him a nondescript
being who appeared to be a clerk. The pompous-looking personage rose
politely, bowed to Katherine, and said:
"You will excuse me, Madame, but there are certain formalities to be
complied with. Madame speaks French, I trust?"
"Sufficiently, I think, Monsieur," replied Katherine in that language.
"That is good. Pray be seated, Madame. I am M. Caux, the Commissary of
Police." He blew out his chest importantly, and Katherine tried to look
sufficiently impressed.
"You wish to see my passport?" she inquired. "Here it is."
The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave a little grunt.
"Thank you, Madame," he said, taking the passport from her. He cleared
his throat. "But what I really desire is a little information."
"Information?"
The Commissary nodded his head slowly.
"About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger of yours. You lunched
with her yesterday."
"I am afraid I can't tell you anything about her. We fell into
conversation over our meal, but she is a complete stranger to me. I
have never seen her before."
"And yet," said the Commissary sharply, "you returned to her
compartment with her after lunch and sat talking for some time?"
"Yes," said Katherine; "that is true."
The Commissary seemed to expect her to say something more. He looked at
her encouragingly.
"Yes, Madame?"
"Well, Monsieur?" said Katherine.
"You can, perhaps, give me some kind of idea of that conversation?"
"I could," said Katherine, "but at the moment I see no reason to do so."
In somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed. This foreign official
seemed to her impertinent.
"No reason?" cried the Commissary. "Oh yes, Madame, I can assure you
that there _is_ a reason."
"Then perhaps you will give it to me."
The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a minute or two without
speaking.
"Madame," he said at last, "the reason is very simple. The lady in
question was found dead in her compartment this morning."
"Dead!" gasped Katherine. "What was it--heart failure?"
"No," said the Commissary in a reflective, dreamy voice. "No--she was
murdered."
"Murdered!" cried Katherine.
"So you see, Madame, why we are anxious for any information we can
possibly get."
"But surely her maid--"
"The maid has disappeared."
"Oh!" Katherine paused to assemble her thoughts.
"Since the conductor had seen you talking with her in her compartment,
he quite naturally reported the fact to the police, and that is why,
Madame, we have detained you, in the hope of gaining some information."
"I am very sorry," said Katherine; "I don't even know her name."
"Her name is Kettering. That we know from her passport and from the
labels on her luggage. If we--"
There was a knock on the compartment door. M. Caux frowned. He opened
it about six inches.
"What is the matter?" he said peremptorily. "I cannot be disturbed."
The egg-shaped head of Katherine's dinner acquaintance showed itself in
the aperture. On his face was a beaming smile.
"My name," he said, "is Hercule Poirot."
"Not," the Commissary stammered, "not _the_ Hercule Poirot?"
"The same," said M. Poirot. "I remember meeting you once, M. Caux, at
the _Sûreté_ in Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten me?"
"Not at all, Monsieur, not at all," declared the Commissary heartily.
"But enter, I pray of you. You know of this--"
"Yes, I know," said Hercule Poirot. "I came to see if I might be of any
assistance?"
"We should be flattered," replied the Commissary promptly. "Let me
present you, M. Poirot, to"--he consulted the passport he still held
in his hand--"to Madame--er--Mademoiselle Grey."
Poirot smiled across at Katherine.
"It is strange, is it not," he murmured, "that my words should have
come true so quickly?"
"Mademoiselle, alas! can tell us very little," said the Commissary.
"I have been explaining," said Katherine, "that this poor lady was a
complete stranger to me."
Poirot nodded.
"But she talked to you, did she not?" he said gently. "You formed an
impression--is it not so?"
"Yes," said Katherine thoughtfully. "I suppose I did."
"And that impression was--"
"Yes, Mademoiselle"--the Commissary jerked himself forward--"let us by
all means have your impressions."
Katherine sat turning the whole thing over in her mind. She felt in
a way as if she were betraying a confidence, but with that ugly word
"Murder" ringing in her ears she dared not keep anything back. Too much
might hang upon it. So, as nearly as she could, she repeated word for
word the conversation she had had with the dead woman.
"That is interesting," said the Commissary, glancing at the other. "Eh,
M. Poirot, that is interesting? Whether it has anything to do with the
crime--" He left the sentence unfinished.
"I suppose it could not be suicide," said Katherine, rather doubtfully.
"No," said the Commissary, "it could not be suicide. She was strangled
with a length of black cord."
"Oh!" Katherine shivered. M. Caux spread out his hands apologetically.
"It is not nice--no. I think that our train robbers are more brutal
than they are in your country."
"It is horrible."
"Yes, yes"--he was soothing and apologetic--"but you have great
courage, Mademoiselle. At once, as soon as I saw you, I said to myself,
'Mademoiselle has great courage.' That is why I am going to ask you
to do something more--something distressing, but I assure you very
necessary."
Katherine looked at him apprehensively.
He spread out his hands apologetically.
"I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to be so good as to accompany me
to the next compartment."
"Must I?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"Some one must identify her," said the Commissary, "and since the maid
has disappeared"--he coughed significantly--"you appear to be the
person who has seen most of her since she joined the train."
"Very well," said Katherine quietly; "if it is necessary--"
She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of approval.
"Mademoiselle is sensible," he said. "May I accompany you, M. Caux?"
"Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot."
They went out into the corridor, and M. Caux unlocked the door of the
dead woman's compartment. The blinds on the far side had been drawn
half-way up to admit light. The dead woman lay on the berth to their
left, in so natural a posture that one could have thought her asleep.
The bedclothes were drawn up over her, and her head was turned to the
wall, so that only the red auburn curls showed. Very gently M. Caux
laid a hand on her shoulder and turned the body back so that the face
came into view. Katherine flinched a little and dug her nails into
her palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the features almost beyond
recognition. Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.
"When was that done, I wonder?" he demanded. "Before death or after?"
"The doctor says after," said M. Caux.
"Strange," said Poirot, drawing his brows together. He turned to
Katherine. "Be brave, Mademoiselle; look at her well. Are you sure that
this is the woman you talked to in the train yesterday?"
Katherine had good nerves. She steeled herself to look long and
earnestly at the recumbent figure. Then she leaned forward and took up
the dead woman's hand.
"I am quite sure," she replied at length. "The face is too disfigured
to recognize, but the build and carriage and hair are exact, and
besides I noticed _this_"--she pointed to a tiny mole on the dead
woman's wrist--"while I was talking to her."
"_Bon_," approved Poirot. "You are an excellent witness, Mademoiselle.
There is, then, no question as to the identity, but it is strange, all
the same." He frowned down on the dead woman in perplexity.
M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.
"The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless," he suggested.
"If she had been struck down, it would have been comprehensible," mused
Poirot, "but the man who strangled her slipped up behind and caught
her unawares. A little choke--a little gurgle--that is all that would
be heard, and then afterwards--that smashing blow on her face. Now
why? Did he hope that if the face were unrecognizable she might not
be identified? Or did he hate her so much that he could not resist
striking that blow even after she was dead?"
Katherine shuddered, and he turned at once to her kindly.
"You must not let me distress you, Mademoiselle," he said. "To you this
is all very new and terrible. To me, alas! it is an old story. One
moment, I pray of you both."
They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the
compartment. He noted the dead woman's clothes neatly folded on the
end of the berth, the big fur coat that hung from a hook, and the
little red lacquer hat tossed up on the rack. Then he passed through
into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen the
maid sitting. Here the berth had not been made up. Three or four rugs
were piled loosely on the seat; there was a hat-box and a couple of
suit-cases. He turned suddenly to Katherine.
"You were in here yesterday," he said. "Do you see anything changed,
anything missing?"
Katherine looked carefully round both compartments.
"Yes," she said, "there is something missing--a scarlet morocco case.
It had the initials 'R. V. K.' on it. It might have been a small
dressing-case or a big jewel-case. When I saw it, the maid was holding
it."
"Ah!" said Poirot.
"But, surely," said Katherine. "I--of course, I don't know anything
about such things, but surely it is plain enough, if the maid and the
jewel-case are missing?"