The mystery of the Blue Train
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," cried 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. Every one has 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 world-wide
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 re-cutting and re-setting 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. _Ça 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 some one 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.
"Well--_voilà!_" With a dramatic flourish Poirot drew out from his
pocket a loosely wrapped brown paper package from which the string had
been removed.
"During that quarter of an hour's interval, our good gentleman mailed
this."
"The address?" asked the other sharply.
Poirot nodded his head.
"Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not. The
package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris
where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a
small commission."
"Yes, but what is inside?" demanded Van Aldin impatiently.
Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box.
He looked round him.
"It is a good moment," he said quietly. "All eyes are on the tennis.
Look, Monsieur!"
He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction of a second. An
exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face
turned as white as chalk.
"My God!" he breathed, "the rubies."
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his
pocket and beamed placidly. Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to
come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand
so heartily that the little man winced with pain.
"This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot.
Once and for all, you are the goods."
"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly. "Order, method, being prepared
for eventualities beforehand--that is all there is to it."
"And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?"
continued Van Aldin eagerly.
"No," said Poirot.
A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin's face.
"But why? What more do you want?"
"The Comte's alibi is still unshaken."
"But that is nonsense."
"Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately
we have to prove it so."
"In the meantime he will slip through your fingers."
Poirot shook his head very energetically.
"No," he said, "he will not do that. The one thing the Comte cannot
afford to sacrifice is his social position. At all costs he must stop
and brazen it out."
Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.
"But I don't see--"
Poirot raised a hand. "Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a
little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of
Hercule Poirot--and they have been wrong."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead. What is this little idea?"
Poirot paused for a moment and then he said:
"I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-morrow
morning. Until then, say nothing to any one."
22. M. Papopolous Breakfasts
M. Papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia.
There was a knock at the sitting-room door, and a chasseur entered with
a card which he brought to Mr. Papopolous. The latter scrutinized it,
raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully,
"Hercule Poirot. I wonder now."
Father and daughter looked at each other.
"I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said M. Papopolous. "Zia, I hardly
like this."
"He was very useful to you once," his daughter reminded him.
"That is true," acknowledged M. Papopolous; "also he has retired from
active work, so I hear."
These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own
language. Now M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French:
"_Faites monter ce monsieur._"
A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a
cane with a jaunty air, entered the room.
"My dear M. Papopolous."
"My dear M. Poirot."
"And Mademoiselle Zia." Poirot swept her a low bow.
"You will excuse us going on with our breakfast," said M. Papopolous,
pouring himself out another cup of coffee. "Your call is--ahem!--a
little early."
"It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but see you, I am pressed."
"Ah!" murmured M. Papopolous, "you are on an affair then?"
"A very serious affair," said Poirot: "the death of Madame Kettering."
"Let me see," M. Papopolous looked innocently up at the ceiling, "that
was the lady who died on the Blue Train, was it not? I saw a mention of
it in the papers, but there was no suggestion of foul play."
"In the interests of justice," said Poirot, "it was thought best to
suppress that fact."
There was a pause.
"And in what way can I assist you, M. Poirot?" asked the dealer
politely.
"_Voilà_," said Poirot, "I shall come to the point." He took from his
pocket the same box that he had displayed at Cannes, and opening it, he
took out the rubies and pushed them across the table to Papopolous.
Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old
man's face moved. He took up the jewels and examined them with a
kind of detached interest, then he looked across at the detective
inquiringly:
"Superb, are they not?" asked Poirot.
"Quite excellent," said M. Papopolous.
"How much should you say they are worth?"
The Greek's face quivered a little.
"Is it really necessary to tell you, M. Poirot?" he asked.
"You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it is not. They are not, for
instance, worth five hundred thousand dollars."
Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined with him.
"As an imitation," said Papopolous, handing them back to Poirot, "they
are, as I said, quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to ask, M.
Poirot, where you came across them?"
"Not at all," said Poirot; "I have no objection to telling an old
friend like yourself. They were in the possession of the Comte de la
Roche."
M. Papopolous' eyebrows lifted themselves eloquently.
"In-deed," he murmured.
Poirot leant forward and assumed his most innocent and beguiling air.
"M. Papopolous," he said, "I am going to lay my cards upon the table.
The original of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering on the
Blue Train. Now I will say to you first this: _I am not concerned with
the recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of the police._ I am
working not for the police but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands on
the man who killed Madame Kettering. I am interested in the jewels only
in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?"
The last two words were uttered with great significance. M. Papopolous,
his face quite unmoved, said quietly:
"Go on."
"It seems to me probable, Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands
in Nice--may already have done so."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and
patriarchal than usual.
"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with animation, "what good
fortune! My old friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will aid me."
"And how do you think I can aid you?" inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
"I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous is in Nice on business."
"Not at all," said M. Papopolous, "I am here for my health--by the
doctor's orders."
He coughed hollowly.
"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere
sympathy. "But to continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian
Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family
jewels--to whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it not? He who is
famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges
these things."