The mystery of the Blue Train
actually happened? Tell me that, M. Poirot."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"It is quite simple," he said; "some one 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. Every one
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 light-hearted 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.
"_Ça y est_," said M. Hercule Poirot, "it is time, I think, that I
return _chez moi_."
He found the 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."
25. Defiance
As 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 me 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
seen the Comte de la Roche only 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."