The mystery of the Blue Train
certainly," and Poirot withdrew forthwith.
He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they strolled out into the gardens.
"This is where the suicides take place," said Zia.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is said. Men are foolish, are
they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air,
it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave
all that simply because one has no money--or because the heart aches.
_L'amour_, it causes many fatalities, does it not?"
Zia laughed.
"You should not laugh at love, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, shaking an
energetic forefinger at her. "You who are young and beautiful."
"Hardly that," said Zia; "you forget that I am thirty-three, M. Poirot.
I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise. As you told
my father, it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris
that time."
"When I look at you, it seems much less," said Poirot gallantly. "You
were then very much as you are now, Mademoiselle, a little thinner,
a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh
from your pension. Not quite the _petite pensionnaire_, not quite a
woman. You were very delicious, very charming, Mademoiselle Zia; others
thought so too, without doubt."
"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and a little fool."
"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is
credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told."
If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he
pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily: "It was a
curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never
understood the true inwardness of it."
"No?"
"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus:
'Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost. You must
ask no questions.' Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I said these things?"
"I have no idea," said the girl coldly.
"It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little
pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious."
"I don't understand what you are talking about," cried Zia angrily.
"Do you not, Mademoiselle? Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?"
He heard the quick intake of her breath--almost a gasp.
"He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he
have got hold of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his eyes to
his master's daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with
a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they
must occasionally talk of things that interest them both--such as
that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous'
possession. And since, as you say, Mademoiselle, the young are foolish
and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of
that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards
when it is gone--when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas!
the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She
is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And
then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost
a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The
priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions."
Zia turned on him fiercely.
"You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it--was it Antonio?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No one told me," he said quietly. "I guessed. It was a good guess, was
it not, Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is
not much use being a detective."
The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence. Then she
said in a hard voice:
"Well, what are you going to do about it, are you going to tell my
father?"
"No," said Poirot sharply. "Certainly not."
She looked at him curiously.
"You want something from me?"
"I want your help, Mademoiselle."
"What makes you think that I can help you?"
"I do not think so. I only hope so."
"And if I do not help you, then--you will tell my father?"
"But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle. I
am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and
threaten you with it."
"If I refuse to help you--" began the girl slowly.
"Then you refuse, and that is that."
"Then why--" she stopped.
"Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If
they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them,
they will do it. I was generous once to you, Mademoiselle. When I might
have spoken, I held my tongue."
There was another silence; then the girl said, "My father gave you a
hint the other day."
"It was very kind of him."
"I do not think," said Zia slowly, "that there is anything that I can
add to that."
If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it. Not a muscle of his face
changed.
"_Eh bien!_" he said cheerfully, "then we must talk of other things."
And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was _distraite_, however, and
her answers were mechanical and not always to the point. It was when
they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a
decision.
"M. Poirot?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"I--I should like to help you if I could."
"You are very amiable, Mademoiselle--very amiable."
Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content
to wait and let her take her own time.
"Ah bah," said Zia, "after all, why should I not tell you? My father is
cautious--always cautious in everything he says. But I know that with
you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you
seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you.
You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because
of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My
father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our
mysterious client was."
"The Marquis?" murmured Poirot softly.
"Yes, the Marquis."
"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?"
"Once," said the girl. "But not very well," she added. "It was through
a keyhole."
"That always presents difficulties," said Poirot sympathetically, "but
all the same you saw him. You would know him again?"
Zia shook her head.
"He wore a mask," she explained.
"Young or old?"
"He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very
well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his
voice."
"His voice?" said Poirot thoughtfully. "Ah, his voice! Would you know
it again, Mademoiselle Zia?"
"I might," said the girl.
"You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the
keyhole."
Zia nodded.
"Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much--he is not the ordinary
thief--he is more like a figure of history or romance."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes; perhaps so."
"But it is not this that I meant to tell you," said Zia. "It was just
one other little fact that I thought might be--well--useful to you."
"Yes?" said Poirot encouragingly.
"The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I
did not see the person who handed them over, but--"
"Yes?"
"I know one thing. _It was a woman._"
29. A Letter From Home
"_Dear Katherine--Living among grand friends as you are doing now,
I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I
always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle
less swollen-headed than I suppose. Everything goes on much the
same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is
scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a
Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know
what the Vicar is--all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I
have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Annie was
no good--skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen
stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a
lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris
persuaded me to go and see a London specialist--a waste of three
guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until
Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled
a long face and talked all round about and never straight out,
until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman, Doctor, and I like things
to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of
course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not
too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any
other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most
of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary
Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this
money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you
double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me;
but there--there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if
things should go ill with you--and that is always possible. I have
heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting
hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I
dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to
you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of
any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my
dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a
plain-spoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too.--Your affectionate
old friend,_
"_Amelia Viner._
"_P.S.--I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin,
Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings.
I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and
vainglory._"
Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid
it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the blue waters
of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden
wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar,
everyday, stupid little things--and yet--home. She felt very inclined
to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say--what is the matter?"
"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and
thrusting it into her handbag.
"You looked rather queer," said Lenox. "I say--I hope you don't mind--I
rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with
us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not
come for me."
"Did you want to see him then?" asked Katherine.
"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a
man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's."
"All right," said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days
had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the
hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every
conceivable standpoint.
"I have ordered the car," said Lenox, "and I have told Mother some lie
or other--unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't
matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she
would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot."
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon
the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughter; yet for all
that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted,