The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie
“Maybe I’m fanciful,” he muttered, “and yet—I bet there’s something she has not told me.”
Five
A USEFUL GENTLEMAN
Rufus Van Aldin had just finished the sparse breakfast of coffee and dry toast, which was all he ever allowed himself, when Knighton entered the room.
“Mr. Goby is below, sir, waiting to see you.”
The millionaire glanced at the clock. It was just half past nine.
“All right,” he said curtly. “He can come up.”
A minute or two later, Mr. Goby entered the room. He was a small, elderly man, shabbily dressed, with eyes that looked carefully all round the room, and never at the person he was addressing.
“Good morning, Goby,” said the millionaire. “Take a chair.”
“Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin.”
Mr. Goby sat down with his hands on his knees, and gazed earnestly at the radiator.
“I have got a job for you.”
“Yes, Mr. Van Aldin?”
“My daughter is married to the Hon. Derek Kettering, as you may perhaps know.”
Mr. Goby transferred his gaze from the radiator to the left-hand drawer of the desk, and permitted a deprecating smile to pass over his face. Mr. Goby knew a great many things, but he always hated to admit the fact.
“By my advice, she is about to file a petition for divorce. That, of course, is a solicitor’s business. But, for private reasons, I want the fullest and most complete information.”
Mr. Goby looked at the cornice and murmured:
“About Mr. Kettering?”
“About Mr. Kettering.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mr. Goby rose to his feet.
“When will you have it ready for me?”
“Are you in a hurry, sir?”
“I’m always in a hurry,” said the millionaire.
Mr. Goby smiled understandingly at the fender.
“Shall we say two o’clock this afternoon, sir?” he asked.
“Excellent,” approved the other. “Good morning, Goby.”
“Good morning, Mr. Van Aldin.”
“That’s a very useful man,” said the millionaire as Goby went out and his secretary came in. “In his own line he’s a specialist.”
“What is his line?”
“Information. Give him twenty-four hours and he would lay the private life of the Archbishop of Canterbury bare for you.”
“A useful sort of chap,” said Knighton, with a smile.
“He has been useful to me once or twice,” said Van Aldin. “Now then, Knighton, I’m ready for work.”
The next few hours saw a vast quantity of business rapidly transacted. It was half past twelve when the telephone bell rang, and Mr. Van Aldin was informed that Mr. Kettering had called. Knighton looked at Van Aldin, and interpreted his brief nod.
“Ask Mr. Kettering to come up, please.”
The secretary gathered up his papers and departed. He and the visitor passed each other in the doorway, and Derek Kettering stood aside to let the other go out. Then he came in, shutting the door behind him.
“Good morning, sir. You are very anxious to see me, I hear.”
The lazy voice with its slightly ironic inflection roused memories in Van Aldin. There was charm in it—there had always been charm in it. He looked piercingly at his son-in-law. Derek Kettering was thirty-four, lean of build, with a dark, narrow face, which had even now something indescribably boyish in it.
“Come in,” said Van Aldin curtly. “Sit down.”
Kettering flung himself lightly into an armchair. He looked at his father-in-law with a kind of tolerant amusement.
“Not seen you for a long time, sir,” he remarked pleasantly. “About two years, I should say. Seen Ruth yet?”
“I saw her last night,” said Van Aldin.
“Looking very fit, isn’t she?” said the other lightly.
“I didn’t know you had had much opportunity of judging,” said Van Aldin drily.
Derek Kettering raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, we sometimes meet at the same nightclub, you know,” he said airily.
“I am not going to beat about the bush,” Van Aldin said curtly. “I have advised Ruth to file a petition for divorce.”
Derek Kettering seemed unmoved.
“How drastic!” he murmured. “Do you mind if I smoke, sir?”
He lit a cigarette, and puffed out a cloud of smoke as he added nonchalantly:
“And what did Ruth say?”
“Ruth proposes to take my advice,” said her father.
“Does she really?”
“Is that all you have got to say?” demanded Van Aldin sharply.
Kettering flicked his ash into the grate.
“I think, you know,” he said, with a detached air, “that she’s making a great mistake.”
“From your point of view she doubtless is,” said Van Aldin grimly.
“Oh, come now,” said the other; “don’t let’s be personal. I really wasn’t thinking of myself at the moment. I was thinking of Ruth. You know my poor old Governor really can’t last much longer; all the doctors say so. Ruth had better give it a couple more years, then I shall be Lord Leconbury, and she can be châtelaine of Leconbury, which is what she married me for.”
“I won’t have any of your darned impudence,” roared Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering smiled at him unmoved.
“I agree with you. It’s an obsolete idea,” he said. “There’s nothing in a title nowadays. Still, Leconbury is a very fine old place, and, after all, we are one of the oldest families in England. It will be very annoying for Ruth if she divorces me to find me marrying again, and some other woman queening it at Leconbury instead of her.”
“I am serious, young man,” said Van Aldin.
“Oh, so am I,” said Kettering. “I am in very low water financially; it will put me in a nasty hole if Ruth divorces me, and, after all, if she has stood it for ten years, why not stand it a little longer? I give you my word of honour that the old man can’t possibly last out another eighteen months, and, as I said before, it’s a pity Ruth shouldn’t get what she married me for.”
“You suggest that my daughter married you for your title and position?”
Derek Kettering laughed a laugh that was not all amusement.
“You don’t think it was a question of a love match?” he asked.
“I know,” said Van Aldin slowly, “that you spoke very differently in Paris ten years ago.”
“Did I? Perhaps I did. Ruth was very beautiful, you know—rather like an angel or a saint, or something that had stepped down from a niche in a church. I had fine ideas, I remember, of turning over a new leaf, of settling down and living up to the highest traditions of English home life with a beautiful wife who loved me.”
He laughed again, rather more discordantly.
“But you don’t believe that, I suppose?” he said.
“I have no doubt at all that you married Ruth for her money,” said Van Aldin unemotionally.
“And that she married me for love?” asked the other ironically.
“Certainly,” said Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering stared at him for a minute or two, then he nodded reflectively.
“I see you believe that,” he said. “So did I at the time. I can assure you, my dear father-in-law, I was very soon undeceived.”
“I don’t know what you are getting at,” said Van Aldin, “and I don’t care. You have treated Ruth darned badly.”
“Oh, I have,” agreed Kettering lightly, “but she’s tough, you know. She’s your daughter. Underneath the pink-and-white softness of her she’s as hard as granite. You have always been known as a hard man, so I have been told, but Ruth is harder than you are. You, at any rate, love one person better than yourself. Ruth never has and never will.”
“That is enough,” said Van Aldin. “I asked you here so that I could tell you fair and square what I meant to do. My girl has go
Derek Kettering got up and stood by the mantelpiece. He tossed away his cigarette. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.
“What exactly do you mean by that, I wonder?” he said.
“I mean,” said Van Aldin, “that you had better not try to defend the case.”
“Oh,” said Kettering, “is that a threat?”
“You can take it any way you please,” said Van Aldin.
Kettering drew a chair up to the table. He sat down fronting the millionaire.
“And supposing,” he said softly, “that, just for argument’s sake, I did defend the case?”
Van Aldin shrugged his shoulders.
“You have not got a leg to stand upon, you young fool. Ask your solicitors, they will soon tell you. Your conduct has been notorious, the talk of London.”
“Ruth has been kicking up a row about Mirelle, I suppose. Very foolish of her. I don’t interfere with her friends.”
“What do you mean?” said Van Aldin sharply.
Derek Kettering laughed.
“I see you don’t know everything, sir,” he said. “You are, perhaps naturally, prejudiced.”
He took up his hat and stick and moved towards the door.
“Giving advice is not much in my line.” He delivered his final thrust. “But, in this case, I should advise most strongly perfect frankness between father and daughter.”
He passed quickly out of the room and shut the door behind him just as the millionaire sprang up.
“Now, what the hell did he mean by that?” said Van Aldin as he sank back into his chair again.
All his uneasiness returned in full force. There was something here that he had not yet got to the bottom of. The telephone was by his elbow; he seized it, and asked for the number of his daughter’s house.
“Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 81907? Mrs. Kettering in? Oh, she’s out, is she? Yes, out to lunch. What time will she be in? You don’t know? Oh, very good; no, there’s no message.”
He slammed the receiver down again angrily. At two o’clock he was pacing the floor of his room waiting expectantly for Goby. The latter was ushered in at ten minutes past two.
“Well?” barked the millionaire sharply.
But little Mr. Goby was not to be hurried. He sat down at the table, produced a very shabby pocketbook, and proceeded to read from it in a monotonous voice. The millionaire listened attentively, with an increasing satisfaction. Goby came to a full stop, and looked attentively at the wastepaper basket.
“Um!” said Van Aldin. “That seems pretty definite. The case will go through like winking. The hotel evidence is all right, I suppose?”
“Cast iron,” said Mr. Goby, and looked malevolently at a gilt armchair.
“And financially he’s in very low water. He’s trying to raise a loan now, you say? Has already raised practically all he can upon his expectations from his father. Once the news of the divorce gets about, he won’t be able to raise another cent, and not only that, his obligations can be bought up and pressure can be put upon him from that quarter. We have got him, Goby; we have got him in a cleft stick.”
He hit the table a bang with his fist. His face was grim and triumphant.
“The information,” said Mr. Goby in a thin voice, “seems satisfactory.”
“I have got to go round to Curzon Street now,” said the millionaire. “I am much obliged to you, Goby. You are the goods all right.”
A pale smile of gratification showed itself on the little man’s face.
“Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin,” he said; “I try to do my best.”
Van Aldin did not go direct to Curzon Street. He went first to the City, where he had two interviews which added to his satisfaction. From there he took the tube to Down Street. As he was walking along Curzon Street, a figure came out of No. 160, and turned up the street towards him, so that they passed each other on the pavement. For a moment, the millionaire had fancied it might be Derek Kettering himself; the height and build were not unlike. But as they came face to face, he saw that the man was a stranger to him. At least—no, not a stranger; his face awoke some call of recognition in the millionaire’s mind, and it was associated definitely with something unpleasant. He cudgelled his brains in vain, but the thing eluded him. He went on, shaking his head irritably. He hated to be baffled.
Ruth Kettering was clearly expecting him. She ran to him and kissed him when he entered.
“Well, Dad, how are things going?”
“Very well,” said Van Aldin; “but I have got a word or two to say to you, Ruth.”
Almost insensibly he felt the change in her; something shrewd and watchful replaced the impulsiveness of her greeting. She sat down in a big armchair.
“Well, Dad?” she asked. “What is it?”
“I saw your husband this morning,” said Van Aldin.
“You saw Derek?”
“I did. He said a lot of things, most of which were darned cheek. Just as he was leaving, he said something that I didn’t understand. He advised me to be sure that there was perfect frankness between father and daughter. What did he mean by that, Ruthie?”
Mrs. Kettering moved a little in her chair.
“I—I don’t know, Dad. How should I?”
“Of course you know,” said Van Aldin. “He said something else, about his having his friends and not interfering with yours. What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” said Ruth Kettering again.
Van Aldin sat down. His mouth set itself in a grim line.
“See here, Ruth. I am not going into this with my eyes closed. I am not at all sure that that husband of yours doesn’t mean to make trouble. Now, he can’t do it, I am sure of that. I have got the means to silence him, to shut his mouth for good and all, but I have got to know if there’s any need to use those means. What did he mean by your having your own friends?”
Mrs. Kettering shrugged her shoulders.
“I have got lots of friends,” she said uncertainly. “I don’t know what he meant, I am sure.”
“You do,” said Van Aldin.
He was speaking now as he might have spoken to a business adversary.
“I will put it plainer. Who is the man?”
“What man?”
“The man. That’s what Derek was driving at. Some special man who is a friend of yours. You needn’t worry, honey, I know there is nothing in it, but we have got to look at everything as it might appear to the Court. They can twist these things about a good deal, you know. I want to know who the man is, and just how friendly you have been with him.”
Ruth didn’t answer. Her hands were kneading themselves together in intense nervous absorption.
“Come, honey,” said Van Aldin in a softer voice. “Don’t be afraid of your old Dad. I was not too harsh, was I, even that time in Paris?—By gosh!”
He stopped, thunderstruck.
“That’s who it was,” he murmured to himself. “I thought I knew his face.”
“What are you talking about, Dad? I don’t understand.”
The millionaire strode across to her and took her firmly by the wrist.
“See here, Ruth, have you been seeing that fellow again?”
“What fellow?”
“The one we had all that fuss about years ago. You know who I mean well enough.”
“You mean”—she hesitated—“you mean the Comte de la Roche?”
“Comte de la Roche!” snorted Van Aldin. “I told you at the time that the man was no better than a swindler. You had entangled yourself with him then very deeply, but I got you out of his clutches.”
“Yes, you did,” said Ruth bitterly. “And I married Derek Kettering.”
“You wanted to,” said the millionaire sharply.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“And now,” said Van Aldin slowly, “you have been seeing him again—after all I told you. He has been in the house today. I met him outside, a
Ruth Kettering had recovered her composure.
“I want to tell you one thing, Dad; you are wrong about Armand—the Comte de la Roche, I mean. Oh, I know there were several regrettable incidents in his youth—he has told me about them; but—well, he has cared for me always. It broke his heart when you parted us in Paris, and now—”
She was interrupted by the snort of indignation her father gave.
“So you fell for that stuff, did you? You, a daughter of mine! My God!”
He threw up his hands.
“That women can be such darned fools!”
Six
MIRELLE
Derek Kettering emerged from Van Aldin’s suite so precipitantly that he collided with a lady passing across the corridor. He apologized, and she accepted his apologies with a smiling reassurance and passed on, leaving with him a pleasant impression of a soothing personality and rather fine grey eyes.
For all his nonchalance, his interview with his father-in-law had shaken him more than he cared to show. He had a solitary lunch, and after it, frowning to himself a little, he went round to the sumptuous flat that housed the lady known as Mirelle. A trim Frenchwoman received him with smiles.
“But enter then, Monsieur. Madame reposes herself.”
He was ushered into the long room with its Eastern setting which he knew so well. Mirelle was lying on the divan, supported by an incredible number of cushions, all in varying shades of amber, to harmonize with the yellow ochre of her complexion. The dancer was a beautifully made woman, and if her face, beneath its mask of yellow, was in truth somewhat haggard, it had a bizarre charm of its own, and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering.
He kissed her, and flung himself into a chair.
“What have you been doing with yourself? Just got up, I suppose?”
The orange mouth widened into a long smile.
“No,” said the dancer. “I have been at work.”