The mystery of the Blue Train
"She might have trusted me," said Lenox, with a shade of bitterness.
"Yes," said Poirot gravely, "she might have trusted you. But
Mademoiselle Katherine has spent a great deal of her life listening,
and those who have listened do not find it easy to talk; they keep
their sorrows and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she really cared for Knighton.
I ought to have known better. I suppose I thought so because--well, I
hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little friendly squeeze. "Courage,
Mademoiselle," he said gently.
Lenox looked very straight out across the sea, and her face, in its
ugly rigidity, had for the moment a tragic beauty.
"Oh, well," she said at last, "it would not have done. I am too young
for Derek; he is like a kid that has never grown up. He wants the
Madonna touch."
There was a long silence, then Lenox turned to him quickly and
impulsively. "But I _did_ help, Monsieur Poirot--at any rate I did
help."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave me the first inkling of the
truth when you said that the person who committed the crime need not
have been on the train at all. Before that, I could not see how the
thing had been done."
Lenox drew a deep breath.
"I am glad," she said; "at any rate--that is something."
From far behind them there came a long-drawn-out scream of an engine's
whistle.
"That is that damned Blue Train," said Lenox. "Trains are relentless
things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die, but
they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know what I
mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And
it is a good thing that that is so."
"Why?"
"Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a
proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle."
"'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'" Lenox laughed. "That is not going
to be true for me."
"Yes--yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know.
Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is _le bon Dieu_ who drives it."
The whistle of the engine came again.
"Trust the train, Mademoiselle," murmured Poirot again. "And trust
Hercule Poirot. He knows."