The mystery of the Blue Train
Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle would receive them.
When they were ushered into the dancer's apartments, Poirot immediately
took the lead.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing very low, "we are here on behalf of
M. Van Aldin."
"Ah! And why did he not come himself?"
"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously; "the Riviera throat, it
has him in its grip, but me, I am empowered to act for him, as is Major
Knighton, his secretary. Unless, of course, Mademoiselle would prefer
to wait a fortnight or so."
If there was one thing of which Poirot was tolerably certain, it was
that to a temperament such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait" was
anathema.
"_Eh bien_, I will speak, Messieurs," she cried. "I have been patient.
I have held my hand. And for what? That I should be insulted! Yes,
insulted! Ah! Does he think to treat Mirelle like that? To throw her
off like an old glove. I tell you never has a man tired of me. Always
it is I who tire of them."
She paced up and down the room, her slender body trembling with rage. A
small table impeded her free passage and she flung it from her into a
corner, where it splintered against the wall.
"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"
Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies she flung it into the grate,
where it smashed into a hundred pieces.
Knighton was looking at her with cold British disapproval. He felt
embarrassed and ill at ease. Poirot, on the other hand, with twinkling
eyes was thoroughly enjoying the scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can be seen--Madame has a
temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist has a temperament. I told
Dereek to beware, and he would not listen." She whirled round on Poirot
suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that English
miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"_On m'a dit_," he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."
Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There--now you have it! He told
me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an _impasse_--zut!
he took the easiest way out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that--er--statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the
train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that, Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was panting, and her eyes, half
defiant, half frightened, went from the face of one man to the other.
"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle," said the detective. "You
realize how serious?"
"Certainly I do."
"That is well," said Poirot. "Then you understand, Mademoiselle, that
no time must be lost. You will, perhaps, accompany us immediately to
the office of the Examining Magistrate."
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen,
she had no loophole for escape.
"Very well," she muttered. "I will fetch a coat."
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton exchanged glances.
"It is necessary to act while--how do you say it?--the iron is hot,"
murmured Poirot. "She is temperamental; in an hour's time, maybe, she
will repent, and she will wish to draw back. We must prevent that at
all costs."
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sand-coloured velvet wrap trimmed with
leopard skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and
dangerous. Her eyes still flashed with anger and determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate together. A few
brief introductory words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle Mirelle was
courteously entreated to tell her tale. This she did in much the same
words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more
soberness of manner.
"This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège slowly.
He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked keenly
and searchingly at the dancer through them.
"You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually boasted of the crime to
you beforehand?"
"Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said. If she were to die it must be
an accident--he would arrange it all."
"You are aware, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège sternly, "that you are
making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?"
"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I
take that statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know men, Monsieur;
they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one
were to take all they said _au pied de la lettre_."
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.
"We are to take it, then, that you regarded M. Kettering's threats as
mere idle words? May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up your
engagements in London and come out to the Riviera?"
Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so
unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that you accompanied him to Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She
hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a
haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself, Monsieur," she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men.
They said nothing.
"When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?"
"As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife's
compartment just before the train drew into Lyons. There was a look on
his face--ah! at the moment I could not understand it--a look haunted
and terrible. I shall never forget it."
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant
gesture.
"Quite so," said M. Carrège.
"Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when the train
left Lyons, then--then I knew!"
"And still--you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the
Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in
the rôle she was playing.
"Shall I betray my lover?" she asked. "Ah no; do not ask a woman to do
that."
"Yet now--" hinted M. Caux.
"Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in
silence...?"
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly. "And now, Mademoiselle,
perhaps you will read over the statement of what you have told us, see
that it is correct, and sign it."
Mirelle wasted no time on the document.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct." She rose to her feet. "You
require me no longer, Messieurs?"
"At present, no, Mademoiselle."
"And Dereek will be arrested?"
"At once, Mademoiselle."
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.
"He should have thought of this before he insulted me," she cried.
"There is one little matter"--Poirot coughed apologetically--"just a
matter of detail."
"Yes?"
"What makes you think Madame Kettering was dead when the train left
Lyons?"
Mirelle stared.
"But she _was_ dead."
"Was she?"
"Yes, of course. I--"
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was regarding her intently, and he
saw the wary look that came into her eyes.
"I have been told so. Everybody says so."
"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned
outside the Examining Magistrate's office."
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
"One hears those things," she said vaguely; "they get about. Somebody
told me. I can't remember who it was."
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang forward to open it for her, and
as he did so, Poirot's voice rose gently once more.
"And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle. Can you tell me anything about
those?"
"The jewels? What jewels?"
"The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since you hear so much, you must
have heard of them."
"I know nothing about any jewels," said Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her. M. Caux came back to his
chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.
"What a fury!" he said, "but _diablement chic_, I wonder if she is
telling the truth? I think so."
"There is _some_ truth in her story, certainly," said Poirot. "We have
confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor a
short time before the train reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go
into his wife's compartment."
"The case against him seems quite clear," said the Commissary, sighing;
"it is a thousand pities," he murmured.
"How do you mean?" asked Poirot.
"It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche
by the heels. This time, _ma foi_, I thought we had got him. This
other--it is not nearly so satisfactory."
M. Carrège rubbed his nose.
"If anything goes wrong," he observed cautiously, "it will be most
awkward. M. Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get into the
newspapers. If we have made a mistake--" He shrugged his shoulders
forebodingly.
"The jewels now," said the Commissary, "what do you think he has done
with them?"
"He took them for a plant, of course," said M. Carrège; "they must have
been a great inconvenience to him and very awkward to dispose of."
Poirot smiled.
"I have an idea of my own about the jewels. Tell me, Messieurs, what do
you know of a man called the Marquis?"
The Commissary leant forward excitedly.
"The Marquis," he said, "the Marquis? Do you think he is mixed up in
this affair, M. Poirot?"
"I ask you what you know of him."
The Commissary made an expressive grimace.
"Not as much as we should like to," he observed ruefully. "He works
behind the scenes, you understand. He has underlings who do his dirty
work for him. But he is some one high up. That we are sure of. He does
not come from the criminal classes."
"A Frenchman?"
"Y--es. At least we believe so. But we are not sure. He has worked in
France, in England, in America. There was a series of robberies in
Switzerland last autumn which were laid at his door. By all accounts
he is a _grand seigneur_, speaking French and English with equal
perfection and his origin is a mystery."
Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.
"Can you tell us nothing more, M. Poirot," urged the Commissary.
"At present, no," said Poirot, "but I may have news awaiting me at my
hotel."
M. Carrège looked uncomfortable. "If the Marquis is concerned in
this--" he began, and then stopped.
"It upsets our ideas," complained M. Caux.
"It does not upset mine," said Poirot. "On the contrary, I think it
agrees with them very well. Au revoir, Messieurs; if news of any
importance comes to me I will communicate it to you immediately."
He walked back to his hotel with a grave face. In his absence a
telegram had come to him. Taking a paper-cutter from his pocket, he
slit it open. It was a long telegram, and he read it over twice before
slowly putting it in his pocket. Upstairs, George was awaiting his
master.
"I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued. Will you order for me a small
pot of chocolate?"
The chocolate was duly ordered and brought, and George set it at the
little table at his master's elbow. As he was preparing to retire,
Poirot spoke:
"I believe, Georges, that you have a good knowledge of the English
aristocracy?" murmured Poirot.
George smiled apologetically.
"I think that I might say that I have, sir," he replied.
"I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are
invariably drawn from the lower orders."
"Not always, sir. There was great trouble with one of the Duke of
Devize's younger sons. He left Eton under a cloud, and after that he