The mystery of the Blue Train
"And if they do not believe me? If they ask for proof?" He was eyeing
her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round
her.
"Send them to me, Monsieur le Comte," she said softly; "I will give
them the proof they want."
Upon that she was gone, an impetuous whirlwind, her errand accomplished.
The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows delicately raised.
"She is in a fury," he murmured. "What has happened now to upset her?
But she shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr.
Kettering killed his wife? She would like me to believe it. She would
even like the police to believe it."
He smiled to himself. He had no intention whatsoever of going to the
police. He saw various other possibilities, to judge by his smile, an
agreeable vista of them.
Presently, however, his brow clouded. According to Mirelle, he was
suspected by the police. That might be true or it might not. An
angry woman of the type of the dancer was not likely to bother about
the strict veracity of her statements. On the other hand, she might
easily have obtained--inside information. In that case--his mouth set
grimly--in that case he must take certain precautions.
He went into the house and questioned Hippolyte closely once more as
to whether any strangers had been to the house. The valet was positive
in his assurances that this was not the case. The Comte went up to
his bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau that stood against the
wall. He let down the lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought for
a spring at the back of one of the pigeon-holes. A secret drawer flew
out; in it was a small brown paper package. The Comte took this out and
weighed it in his hand carefully for a minute or two. Raising his hand
to his head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a single hair. This he
placed on the lip of the drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying
the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs and out of the house
to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten minutes later
he had taken the road for Monte Carlo.
He spent a few hours at the Casino, then sauntered out into the town.
Presently he re-entered the car and drove off in the direction of
Mentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had noticed an inconspicuous grey
car some little distance behind him. He noticed it again now. He smiled
to himself. The road was climbing steadily upwards. The Comte's foot
pressed hard on the accelerator. The little red car had been specially
built to the Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than
would have been suspected from its appearance. It shot ahead.
Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following
behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road.
It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a
first-class driver. Now they were going down hill, twisting and curving
unceasingly. Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to
a standstill before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte jumped out, lifted
the lid of the tool chest, extracted the small brown paper parcel and
hurried into the post office. Two minutes later he was driving once
more in the direction of Mentone. When the grey car arrived there, the
Comte was drinking English five o'clock tea on the terrace of one of
the hotels.
Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once
more at eleven o'clock. Hippolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed
face.
"Ah! Monsieur le Comte has arrived. Monsieur le Comte did not telephone
me, by any chance?"
The Comte shook his head.
"And yet at three o'clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte,
to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco."
"Really," said the Comte; "and you went?"
"Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur
le Comte. He had not been there."
"Ah," said the Comte, "doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her
afternoon marketing?"
"That is so, Monsieur le Comte."
"Ah, well," said the Comte, "it is of no importance. A mistake."
He went upstairs, smiling to himself.
Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round.
Everything seemed as usual. He opened various drawers and cupboards.
Then he nodded to himself. Things had been replaced almost exactly as
he had left them, but not quite. It was evident that a very thorough
search had been made.
He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring. The drawer
flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it. He nodded
his head several times.
"They are excellent, our French police," he murmured to
himself--"excellent. Nothing escapes them."
20. Katherine Makes a Friend
On 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
manœuvres, 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 side-tracked.
"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 of cultivating 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 any one 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