The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie
The Count rose, picked up his handsome stick from the corner, and, with rather a curt bow, left the room.
“And that is that,” said M. Carrège. “You were quite right, M. Poirot—much better to let him feel he is not suspected. Two of my men will shadow him night and day, and at the same time we will go into the question of the alibi. It seems to me rather—er—a fluid one.”
“Possibly,” agreed Poirot thoughtfully.
“I asked M. Kettering to come here this morning,” continued the Magistrate, “though really I doubt if we have much to ask him, but there are one or two suspicious circumstances—” He paused, rubbing his nose.
“Such as?” asked Poirot.
“Well”—the Magistrate coughed—“this lady with whom he is said to be travelling—Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at one hotel and he at another. That strikes me—er—as rather odd.”
“It looks,” said M. Caux, “as though they were being careful.”
“Exactly,” said M. Carrège triumphantly; “and what should they have to be careful about?”
“An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?” said Poirot.
“Précisément.”
“We might, I think,” murmured Poirot, “ask M. Kettering one or two questions.”
The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair as ever, entered the room.
“Good morning, Monsieur,” said the Judge politely.
“Good morning,” said Derek Kettering curtly. “You sent for me. Has anything fresh turned up?”
“Pray sit down, Monsieur.”
Derek took a seat and flung his hat and stick on the table.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“We have, so far, no fresh data,” said M. Carrège cautiously.
“That’s very interesting,” said Derek drily. “Did you send for me here in order to tell me that?”
“We naturally thought, Monsieur, that you would like to be informed of the progress of the case,” said the Magistrate severely.
“Even if the progress is nonexistent.”
“We also wished to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away.”
“You are quite sure that you neither saw nor spoke with your wife on the train.”
“I’ve answered that already. I did not.”
“You had, no doubt, your reasons.”
Derek stared at him suspiciously.
“I—did—not—know—she—was—on—the—train,” he explained, spacing his words elaborately, as though to someone dull of intellect.
“That is what you say, yes,” murmured M. Carrège.
A quick frown suffused Derek’s face.
“I should like to know what you are driving at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrège?”
“What do you think, Monsieur?”
“I think the French police are vastly overrated. Surely you must have some data as to these gangs of train robbers. It’s outrageous that such a thing could happen on a train de luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter.”
“We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never fear.”
“Madame Kettering, I understand, did not leave a will,” interposed Poirot suddenly. His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.
“I don’t think she ever made one,” said Kettering. “Why?”
“It is a very pretty little fortune that you inherit there,” said Poirot—“a very pretty little fortune.”
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose to Derek Kettering’s face.
“What do you mean, and who are you?”
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face.
“My name is Hercule Poirot,” he said quietly, “and I am probably the greatest detective in the world. You are quite sure that you did not see or speak to your wife on that train?”
“What are you getting at? Do you—do you mean to insinuate that I—I killed her?”
He laughed suddenly.
“I mustn’t lose my temper; it’s too palpably absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would I?”
“That is true,” murmured Poirot, with a rather crestfallen air. “I did not think of that.”
“If ever there were a clear case of murder and robbery this is it,” said Derek Kettering. “Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies did for her. It must have got about she had them with her. There has been murder done for those same stones before now, I believe.”
Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. He looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed cat.
“One more question, M. Kettering,” he said. “Will you give me the date when you last saw your wife?”
“Let me see,” Kettering reflected. “It must have been—yes, over three weeks ago. I am afraid I can’t give you the date exactly.”
“No matter,” said Poirot drily; “that is all I wanted to know.”
“Well,” said Derek Kettering impatiently, “anything further?”
He looked towards M. Carrège. The latter sought inspiration from Poirot, and received it in a very faint shake of the head.
“No, M. Kettering,” he said politely; “no, I do not think we need trouble you any further. I wish you good morning.”
“Good morning,” said Kettering. He went out, banging the door behind him.
Poirot leaned forward and spoke sharply, as soon as the young man was out of the room.
“Tell me,” he said peremptorily, “when did you speak of these rubies to M. Kettering?”
“I have not spoken of them,” said M. Carrège. “It was only yesterday afternoon that we learnt about them from M. Van Aldin.”
“Yes; but there was a mention of them in the Comte’s letter.”
M. Carrège looked pained.
“Naturally I did not speak of that letter to M. Kettering,” he said in a shocked voice. “It would have been most indiscreet at the present juncture of affairs.”
Poirot leaned forward and tapped the table.
“Then how did he know about them?” he demanded softly. “Madame could not have told him, for he has not seen her for three weeks. It seems unlikely that either M. Van Aldin or his secretary would have mentioned them; their interviews with him have been on entirely different lines, and there has not been any hint or reference to them in the newspapers.”
He got up and took his hat and stick.
“And yet,” he murmured to himself, “our gentleman knows all about them. I wonder now, yes, I wonder!”
Eighteen
DEREK LUNCHES
Derek Kettering went straight to the Negresco, where he ordered a couple of cocktails and disposed of them rapidly; then he stared moodily out over the dazzling blue sea. He noted the passersby mechanically—a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw anything worthwhile nowadays. Then he corrected this last impression rapidly, as a woman placed herself at a table a little distance away from him. She was wearing a marvellous confection of orange and black, with a little hat that shaded her face. He ordered a third cocktail; again he stared out to sea, and then suddenly he started. A well-known perfume assailed his nostrils, and he looked up to see the orange-and-black lady standing beside him. He saw her face now, and recognized her. It was Mirelle. She was smiling that insolent, seductive smile he knew so well.
“Dereek!” she murmured. “You are pleased to see me, no?”
She dropped into a seat the other side of the table.
“But welcome me, then, stupid one,” she mocked.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said Derek. “When did you leave London?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“A day or two ago?”
“And the Parthenon?”
“I have, how do yo
“Really?”
“You are not very amiable, Dereek.”
“Do you expect me to be?”
Mirelle lit a cigarette and puffed at it for a few minutes before saying:
“You think, perhaps, that it is not prudent so soon?”
Derek stared at her, then he shrugged his shoulders, and remarked formally:
“You are lunching here?”
“Mais oui. I am lunching with you.”
“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Derek. “I have a very important engagement.”
“Mon Dieu! But you men are like children,” exclaimed the dancer. “But yes, it is the spoilt child that you act to me, ever since that day in London when you flung yourself out of my flat, you sulk. Ah! mais c’est inouï!”
“My dear girl,” said Derek, “I really don’t know what you are talking about. We agreed in London that rats desert a sinking ship, that is all that there is to be said.”
In spite of his careless words, his face looked haggard and strained. Mirelle leaned forward suddenly.
“You cannot decieve me,” she murmured. “I know—I know what you have done for me.”
He looked up at her sharply. Some undercurrent in her voice arrested his attention. She nodded her head at him.
“Ah! have no fear; I am discreet. You are magnificent! You have a superb courage, but, all the same, it was I who gave you the idea that day, when I said to you in London that accidents sometimes happened. And you are not in danger? The police do not suspect you?”
“What the devil—?”
“Hush!”
She held up a slim olive hand with one big emerald on the little finger.
“You are right, I should not have spoken so in a public place. We will not speak of the matter again, but our troubles are ended; our life together will be wonderful—wonderful!”
Derek laughed suddenly—a harsh, disagreeable laugh.
“So the rats come back, do they? Two million makes a difference—of course it does. I ought to have known that.” He laughed again. “You will help me to spend that two million, won’t you, Mirelle? You know how, no woman better.” He laughed again.
“Hush!” cried the dancer. “What is the matter with you, Dereek? See—people are turning to stare at you.”
“Me? I will tell you what is the matter. I have finished with you, Mirelle. Do you hear? Finished!”
Mirelle did not take it as he expected her to do. She looked at him for a minute or two, and then she smiled softly.
“But what a child! You are angry—you are sore, and all because I am practical. Did I not always tell you that I adored you?”
She leaned forward.
“But I know you, Dereek. Look at me—see, it is Mirelle who speaks to you. You cannot live without her, you know it. I loved you before, I will love you a hundred times more now. I will make life wonderful for you—but wonderful. There is no one like Mirelle.”
Her eyes burned into his. She saw him grow pale and draw in his breath, and she smiled to herself contentedly. She knew her own magic and power over men.
“That is settled,” she said softly, and gave a little laugh. “And now, Dereek, will you give me lunch?”
“No.”
He drew in his breath sharply and rose to his feet.
“I am sorry, but I told you—I have got an engagement.”
“You are lunching with someone else? Bah! I don’t believe it.”
“I am lunching with that lady over there.”
He crossed abruptly to where a lady in white had just come up the steps. He addressed her a little breathlessly.
“Miss Grey, will you—will you have lunch with me? You met me at Lady Tamplin’s, if you remember.”
Katherine looked at him for a minute or two with those thoughtful grey eyes that said so much.
“Thank you,” she said, after a moment’s pause; “I should like to very much.”
Nineteen
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
The Comte de la Roche had just finished déjeuner, consisting of an omelette fines herbes, an entrecôte Bearnaise, and a savarin au rhum. Wiping his fine black moustache delicately with his table napkin, the Comte rose from the table. He passed through the salon of the villa, noting with appreciation the few objets d’art which were carelessly scattered about. The Louis XV snuff-box, the satin shoe worn by Marie Antoinette, and the other historic trifles that were part of the Comte’s mise en scène. They were, he would explain to his fair visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing through on to the terrace the Comte looked out on to the Mediterranean with an unseeing eye. He was in no mood for appreciating the beauties of scenery. A fully matured scheme had been rudely brought to naught, and his plans had to be cast afresh. Stretching himself out in a basket chair, a cigarette held between his white fingers, the Comte pondered deeply.
Presently Hipolyte, his manservant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs. The Comte selected some very fine old brandy.
As the manservant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight gesture. Hipolyte stood respectfully to attention. His countenance was hardly a prepossessing one, but the correctitude of his demeanour went far to obliterate the fact. He was now the picture of respectful attention.
“It is possible,” said the Comte, “that in the course of the next few days various strangers may come to the house. They will endeavour to scrape acquaintance with you and with Marie. They will probably ask you various questions concerning me.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Perhaps this has already happened?”
“No, Monsieur le Comte.”
“There have been no strangers about the place? You are certain?”
“There has been no one, Monsieur le Comte.”
“That is well,” said the Comte drily; “nevertheless they will come—I am sure of it. They will ask questions.”
Hipolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation.
The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hipolyte.
“As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday morning. If the police or any other inquirer should question you, do not forget that fact. I arrived on Tuesday, the 14th—not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?”
“Perfectly, Monsieur le Comte.”
“In an affair where a lady is concerned, it is always necessary to be discreet. I feel certain, Hipolyte, that you can be discreet.”
“I can be discreet, Monsieur.”
“And Marie?”
“Marie also. I will answer for her.”
“That is well then,” murmured the Comte.
When Hipolyte had withdrawn, the Comte sipped his black coffee with a reflective air. Occasionally he frowned, once he shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it. Into the midst of these cogitations came Hipolyte once more.
“A lady, Monsieur.”
“A lady?”
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visit from a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa Marina, but at this particular moment the Comte could not think who the lady was likely to be.
“She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur,” murmured the valet helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
“Show her out here, Hipolyte,” he commanded.
A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out in the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic blossoms.
“Monsieur le Comte de la Roche?”
“At your service, Mademoiselle,” said the Comte, bowing.
“My name is Mirelle. You may have heard of me.”
“Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle, but who has not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle Mirelle? Exquisite!”
The dancer acknowledged this compliment with a brief mechanical smile.
“My descent upon you is unceremonious,” she began.
“But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle,” cried the Comte, bringing forwa
Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his experience had not lain much in ladies of Mirelle’s class, who were themselves predatory. He and the dancer were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts, the Comte knew, would be thrown away on Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that the Comte could recognize infallibly when he saw it. He knew at once that he was in the presence of a very angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Comte was well aware, always says more than is prudent, and is occasionally a source of profit to a levelheaded gentleman who keeps cool.
“It is most amiable of you, Mademoiselle, to honour my poor abode thus.”
“We have mutual friends in Paris,” said Mirelle. “I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you today for another reason. I have heard of you since I came to Nice—in a different way, you understand.”
“Ah?” said the Comte softly.
“I will be brutal,” continued the dancer; “nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare at heart. They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte, that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering.”
“I!—the murderer of Madame Kettering? Bah! But how absurd!”
He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further.
“But yes,” she insisted, “it is as I tell you.”
“It amuses people to talk,” murmured the Comte indifferently. “It would be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously.”
“You do not understand.” Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing. “It is not the idle talk of those in the street. It is the police.”
“The police—ah?”
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times.
“Yes, yes. You comprehend me—I have friends everywhere. The Prefect himself—” She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.