The Mystery of the Blue Train hp-6

by Agatha Christie

  The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. “That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one of them. What name?”

  “Pavett,” said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street.

  The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.

  “I want to go to Nice – on the 14th. Isn't there a train called the Blue Train?”

  Derek looked round sharply.

  Coincidence – a strange coincidence. He remembered his own half-whimsical words to Mirelle, “Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.” But he had seen her again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the same day as he did.

  Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this woman might bring him bad luck. Suppose – suppose that should prove to be true. From the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk. For once his memory had not played him false. A lady – a lady in every sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful. But with something – grey eyes that might perhaps see too much. He knew as he went out of the door that in some way he was afraid of this woman. He had a sense of fatality.

  He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.

  “Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first thing in the morning, and go around to Cook's in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Pavett withdrew.

  Derek strolled over to a side-table and picked up a handful of letters. They were of a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and large bills, one and all pressing for payment. The tone of the demands was still polite. Derek knew how soon that polite tone would change if – if certain news became public property.

  He flung himself moodily into a large, leather-covered chair. A damned hole – that was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole! And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.

  Pavett appeared with a discreet cough.

  “A gentleman to see you – sir – Major Knighton.”

  “Knighton, eh?”

  Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself: “Knighton – I wonder what is in the wind now?”

  “Shall I – er – show him in, sir?”

  His master nodded. When Knighton entered the room he found a charming and genial host awaiting him.

  “Very good of you to look me up,” said Derek.

  Knighton was nervous.

  The other's keen eyes noticed that at once. The errand on which the secretary had come was clearly distasteful to him. He replied almost mechanically to Derek's easy flow of conversation. He declined a drink, and, if snything, his manner became stiffer than before. Derek appeared at last to notice it.

  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “what does my esteemed father-in-law want with me? You've come on his business, I take it?”

  Knighton did not smile in reply.

  “I have, yes,” he said carefully. “I – I wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen some one else.”

  Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.

  “Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin skinned, I can assure you, Knighton.”

  “No,” said Knighton; “but this-”

  He paused.

  Derek eyed him keenly.

  “Go on, out with it,” he said kindly. “I can imagine my dear father-in-law's errands might not always be pleasant ones.”

  Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally in tones that he strove to render free of embarrassment.

  “I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make you a definite offer.”

  “An offer?” For a moment Derek showed his surprise. Knighton's opening words were clearly not what he had expected. He offered a cigarette to Knighton, lit one himself, and sank back in his chair, murmuring in a slightly sardonic voice:

  “An offer? That sounds rather interesting.”

  “Shall I go on?”

  “Please. You must forgive my surprise, but it seems to me that my dear father-in-law has rather climbed down since our chat this morning. And climbing down is not what one associates with strong men, Napoleons of finance, etc. It shows – I think it shows that he finds his position weaker than he thought it.”

  Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of any kind showed itself on his rather stolid countenance.

  He waited until Derek had finished, and then he said quietly.

  “I will state the proposition in the fewest possible words.”

  “Go on.”

  Knighton did not look at the other. His voice was curt and matter-of-fact.

  “The matter is simply this. Mrs. Kettering, as you know, is about to file a petition for divorce. If the case goes undefended you will receive one hundred thousand on the day that the decree is made absolute.”

  Derek, in the act of lighting his cigarette, suddenly stopped dead.

  “A hundred thousand!” he said sharply. “Dollars?”

  “Pounds.”

  There was dead silence for at least two minutes. Kettering had his brows together linking. A hundred thousand pounds. It meant Mirelle and a continuance of his pleasant, carefree life. It meant that Van Aldin knew something. Van Aldin did not pay for nothing. He got up and stood by the chimney-piece.

  “And in the event of my refusing his handsome offer?” he asked, with a cold, ironical politeness.

  Knighton made a deprecating gesture.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Kettering,” he said earnestly, “that it is with the utmost unwillingness that I came here with this message.”

  “That's all right,” said Kettering. “Don't distress yourself; it's not your fault. Now then – I asked you a question, will you answer it?”

  Knighton also rose. He spoke more reluctantly than before.

  “In the event of your refusing this proposition,” he said, “Mr. Van Aldin wished me to tell you in plain words that he proposes to break you. Just that.”

  Kettering raised his eyebrows, but he retained his light, amused manner.

  “Well, well!” he said, “I suppose he can do it. I certainly should not be able to put up much of a fight against America's man of millions. A hundred thousand! If you are going to bribe a man there is nothing like doing it thoroughly. Supposing I were to tell you that for two hundred thousand I'd do what he wanted, what then?”

  “I would take your message back to Mr. Van Aldin,” said Knighton unemotionally. “Is that your answer?”

  “No,” said Derek; “funnily enough it is not. You can go back to my father-in-law and tell him to take himself and his bribes to hell. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” said Knighton. He got up, hesitated, and then flushed. “I – you will allow me to say, Mr. Kettering, that I am glad you have answered as you have.”

  Derek did not reply. When the other had left the room he remained for a minute or two lost in thought. A curious smile came to his lips.

  “And that is that,” he said softly.

  Chapter 10. On the Blue Train

  “Dad!”

  Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her nerves were not completely under control this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese lacquer red, she had been walking along the crowded platform of Victoria deep in thought, and her father's sudden appearance and hearty greeting had an unlooked-for effect upon her.

  “Why, Ruth, how you jumped!”

  “I didn't expect to see you, I suppose, Dad. You said good-bye to me last night and said you had a conference this morning.”

  “So I have,” said Van Aldin, “but you are more to me than any number of darned conferences. I came to take a last look at you, since I am not going to see you for some time.”


  “That is very sweet of you. Dad. I wish you were coming too.”

  “What would you say if I did?”

  The remark was merely a joking one. He was surprised to see the quick colour flame in Ruth's cheeks. For a moment he almost thought he saw dismay flash out of her eyes. She laughed uncertainly and nervously.

  “Just for a moment I really thought you meant it,” she said.

  “Would you have been pleased?”

  “Of course.” She spoke with exaggerated emphasis.

  “Well,” said Van Aldin, “that's good.”

  “It isn't really for very long. Dad,” continued Ruth; “you know, you are coming out next month.”

  “Ah!” said Van Aldin unemotionally, “sometimes I guess I will go to one of these big guys in Harley Street and have him tell that I need sunshine and change of air right away.”

  “Don't be so lazy,” cried Ruth; “next month is ever so much nicer than this month out there. You have got all sorts of things you can't possibly leave just now.”

  “Well, that's so, I suppose,” said Van Aldin with a sigh. “You had better be getting on board this train of yours, Ruth. Where is your seat?”

  Ruth Kettering looked vaguely up at the train. At the door of one of the Pullman cars a thin, tall woman dressed in black was standing – Ruth Kettering's maid. She drew aside as her mistress came up to her.

  “I have put your dressing-case under your seat. Madam, in case you should need it. Shall I take the rugs, or will you require one?”

  “No, no, I shan't want one. Better go and find your own seat now, Mason.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  The maid departed.

  Van Aldin entered the Pullman car with Ruth. She found her seat, and Van Aldin deposited various papers and magazines on the table in front of her. The seat opposite to her was already taken, and the American gave a cursory glance at its occupant. He had a fleeting impression of attractive grey eyes and a neat travelling costume. He indulged in a little more desultory conversation with Ruth, the kind of talk peculiar to those seeing other people off by train.

  Presently, as whistles blew, he glanced at his watch.

  “I had best be clearing out of here. Goodbye, my dear. Don't worry, I will attend to things.”

  “Oh, father!”

  He turned back sharply. There had been something in Ruth's voice, something so entirely foreign to her usual manner, that he was startled. It was almost a cry of despair. She had made an impulsive movement towards him, but in another minute she was mistress of herself once more.

  “Till next month,” she said cheerfully.

  Two minutes later the train started.

  Ruth sat very still, biting her under lip and trying hard to keep the unaccustomed tears from her eyes. She felt a sudden sense of horrible desolation. There was a wild longing upon her to jump out of the train and to go back before it was too late. She, so calm, so self-assured, for the first time in her life felt like a leaf swept by the wind. If her father knew – what would he say?

  Madness! Yes, just that, madness! For the first time in her life she was swept away by emotion, swept away to the point of doing a thing which even she knew to be incredibly foolish and reckless. She was enough Van Aldin's daughter to realize her own folly, and level headed enough to condemn her own action. But she was his daughter in another sense also. She had that same iron determination that would have what it wanted and once it had made up its mind would not be balked. From her cradle she had been self-willed; the very circumstances of her life had developed that self-will in her. It drove her now remorselessly. Well, the die was cast. She must go through with it now.

  She looked up, and her eyes met those of the woman sitting opposite. She had a sudden fancy that in some way this other woman had read her mind. She saw in those grey eyes understanding and – yes – compassion.

  It was only a fleeting impression. The faces of both women hardened to well-bred impassiveness. Mrs. Kettering took up a magazine, and Katherine Grey looked out of the window and watched a seemingly endless vista of depressing streets and suburban houses.

  Ruth found an increasing difficulty in fixing her mind on the printed page in front of her. In spite of herself, a thousand apprehensions preyed on her mind. What a fool she had been! What a fool she was! Like all cool and self-sufficient people, when she did lose her self-control she lost it thoroughly – It was too late… Was it too late? Oh, for some one to speak to, for some one to advise her. She had never before had such a wish; she would have scorned the idea of relying on any judgment other than her own, but now – what was the matter with her? Panic. Yes, that would describe it best – panic. She, Ruth Kettering, was completely and utterly panic stricken.

  She stole a covert glance at the figure opposite. If only she knew some one like that, some nice, cool, calm, sympathetic creature. That was the sort of person one could talk to. But you can't, of course, confide in a stranger. And Ruth smiled to herself a little at the idea. She picked up the magazine again. Really she must control herself. After all, she had thought all this out. She had decided of her own free will. What happiness had she ever had in her life up to now? She said to herself restlessly: “Why shouldn't I be happy? No one will ever know.”

  It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She disliked the cold, and was glad to reach the shelter of the private cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the fact, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been her vis-à-vis in the Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.

  “This is quite a coincidence,” said Mrs. Kettering.

  “I know,” said Katherine; “it is odd the way things happen.”

  A flying attendant shot up to them with the wonderful velocity always displayed by the Compagnie Internationale des WagonsLits and deposited two cups of soup. By the time the omelette succeeded the soup they were chatting together in friendly fashion.

  “It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine,” sighed Ruth.

  “I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling.”

  “You know the Riviera well?”

  “No; this is my first visit.”

  “Fancy that.”

  “You go every year, I expect?”

  “Practically. January and February in London are horrible.”

  “I have always lived in the country. They are not very inspiring months there either. Mostly mud.”

  “What made you suddenly decide to travel?”

  “Money,” said Katherine. “For ten years I have been a paid companion with just enough money of my own to buy myself strong country shoes; now I have been left what seems to me a fortune, though I dare say it would not seem so to you.”

  “Now I wonder why you say that – that it would not seem so to me.”

  Katherine laughed. “I don't really know. I suppose one forms impressions without thinking of it. I put you down in my own mind as one of the very rich of the earth. It was just an impression. I dare say I am wrong.”

  “No,” said Ruth, “you are not wrong.” She had suddenly become very grave. “I wish you would tell me what other impressions you formed about me?”

  “I-”

  Ruth swept on disregarding the other's embarrassment. “Oh, please, don't be conventional. I want to know. As we left Victoria I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that you – well, understood what was going on in my mind.”

  “I can assure you I am not a mind reader,” said Katherine, smiling.

  “No; but will you tell me, please, just what you thought.” Ruth's eagerness was so intense and so sincere that she carried her point.

  “I will tell you
if you like, but you must not think me impertinent. I thought that for some reason you were in great distress of mind, and I was sorry for you.”

  “You are right. You are quite right. I am in terrible trouble. I – I should like to tell you something about it, if I may.”

  “Oh, dear,” Katherine thought to herself, “how extraordinarily alike the world seems to be everywhere! People were always telling me things in St. Mary Mead, and it is just the same thing here, and I don't really want to hear anybody's troubles!”

  She replied politely:

  “Do tell me.”

  They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth gulped down her coffee, rose from her seat, and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine had not begun to sip her coffee, said: “Come to my compartment with me.”

  They were two single compartments with a communicating door between them. In the second of them a thin maid, whom Katherine had noticed at Victoria, was sitting very upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on it. Mrs. Kettering pulled the communicating door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine sat down beside her.

  “I am in trouble and I don't know what to do. There is a man whom I am fond of – very fond of indeed. We cared for each other when we were young, and we were thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now we have come together again.”

  “Yes?”

  “I – I am going to meet him now. Oh! I dare say you think it is all wrong, but you don't know the circumstances. My husband is impossible. He has treated me disgracefully.”

  “Yes,” said Katherine again.

  “What I feel so badly about is this. I have deceived my father – it was he who came to see me off at Victoria to-day. He wishes me to divorce my husband, and, of course, he has no idea – that I am going to meet this other man. He would think it extraordinarily foolish.”

  “Well, don't you think it is?”

  “I – I suppose it is.”

  Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands; they were shaking violently.

  “But I can't draw back now.”

  “Why not?”