The Mystery of the Blue Train hp-6

by Agatha Christie

  He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage of the pause to remark in his plaintive tone.

  “But, indeed, I have not said anything at all.”

  “But you will.”

  “Eh?” said Poirot.

  “You will say that I have no earthly chance of marrying Katherine.”

  “No,” said Poirot, “I would not say that. Your reputation is bad, yes, but with women – never does that deter them. If you were a man of excellent character, of strict morality who had done nothing that he should not do, and – possibly everything that he should do – eh bien! then I should have grave doubts of your success. Moral worth, you understand, it is not romantic. It is appreciated, however, by widows.”

  Derek Kettering stared at him, then he swung round on his heel and went up to the waiting car.

  Poirot looked after him with some interest He saw the lovely vision lean out of the car and speak.

  Derek Kettering did not stop. He lifted his hat and passed straight on.

  “Ca y est,” said M. Hercule Poirot, “it is time, I think, that I return chez moi.”

  He found the imperturbable George pressing trousers.

  “A pleasant day, Georges, somewhat fatiguing, but not without interest,” he said.

  George received these remarks in his usual wooden fashion.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “The personality of a criminal, Georges, is an interesting matter. Many murderers are men of great personal charm.”

  “I always heard, sir, that Dr. Crippen was a pleasant-spoken gentleman. And yet he cut up his wife like so much mincemeat.”

  “Your instances are always apt, Georges.”

  The valet did not reply, and at that moment the telephone rang. Poirot took up the receiver.

  “'Allo – 'allo – yes, yes, it is Hercule Poirot who speaks.”

  “This is Knighton. Will you hold the line a minute, M. Poirot? Mr. Van Aldin would like to speak to you.”

  There was a moment's pause, then the millionaire's voice came through.

  “Is that you, M. Poirot? I just wanted to tell you Ada Mason came to me now of her own accord. She has been thinking it over, and she says that she is almost certain that the man at Paris was Derek Kettering. There was something familiar about him at the time, she says, but at the minute she could not place it. She seems pretty certain now.”

  “Ah,” said Poirot, “thank you, M. Van Aldin. That advances us.”

  He replaced the receiver, and stood for a minute or two with a very curious smile on his face. George had to speak to him twice before obtaining an answer.

  “Eh?” said Poirot. “What is that that you say to me?”

  “Are you lunching here, sir, or are you going out?”

  “Neither,” said Poirot, “I shall go to bed and take a tisane. The expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it always causes me emotion.”

  Chapter 25. Defiance

  As Derek Kettering passed the car, Mirelle leant out.

  “Dereek – I must speak to you for a moment-”

  But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight on without stopping.

  When he got back to his hotel, the concierge detached himself from his wooden pen and accosted him.

  “A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur.”

  “Who is it?” asked Derek.

  “He did not give me his name. Monsieur, but he said his business with you was important, and that he would wait.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the little salon. Monsieur. He preferred it to the lounge he said, as being more private.”

  Derek nodded, and turned his steps in that direction.

  The small salon was empty except for the visitor, who rose and bowed with easy foreign grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had only seen the Comte de la Roche once, but found no difficulty in recognizing that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned angrily. Of all the consummate impertinence!

  “The Comte de la Roche, is it not?” he said. “I am afraid you have wasted your time in coming here.”

  “I hope not,” said the Comte agreeably. His white teeth glittered.

  The Comte's charm of manner was usually wasted on his own sex. All men, without exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering was already conscious of a distinct longing to kick the Count bodily out of the room. It was only the realization that scandal would be unfortunate just at present that constrained him. He marveled anew that Ruth would have cared, as she certainly had, for this fellow. A bounder, and worse than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the count's exquisitely manicured hands.

  “I called,” said the Comte, “on a little matter of business. It would be advisable I think, for you to listen to me.”

  Again Derek felt strongly tempted to kick him out, but again he refrained. The hint of a threat was not lost upon him, but he interpreted it in his own way. There were various reasons why it would be better to hear what the Comte had to say.

  He sat down and drummed impatiently with his fingers on the table.

  “Well,” he said sharply, “what is it?”

  It was not the Comte's way to come out into the open at once.

  “Allow me. Monsieur, to offer you my condolences on your recent bereavement.”

  “If I have any impertinence from you,” said Derek quietly, “you go out by that window.”

  He nodded his head towards the window beside the Comte, and the latter moved uneasily.

  “I will send my friends to you, Monsieur, if that is what you desire,” he said haughtily.

  Derek laughed.

  “A duel, eh? My dear Count, I don't take you seriously enough for that. But I should take a good deal of pleasure in kicking you down the Promenade des Anglais.”

  The Comte was not at all anxious to take offence. He merely raised his eyebrows and murmured:

  “The English are barbarians.”

  “Well,” said Derek, “what is it you have to say to me?”

  “I will be frank,” said the Comte, “I will come immediately to the point. That will suit us both, will it not?”

  Again he smiled in his agreeable fashion.

  “Go on,” said Derek curtly.

  The Comte looked at the ceiling, joined the tips of his fingers together, and murmured softly:

  “You have come into a lot of money, Monsieur.”

  “What the devil has that got to do with you?”

  The Comte drew himself up.

  “Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am suspected – accused – of foul crime.”

  “The accusation does not come from me,” said Derek coldly; “as an interested party I have not expressed any opinion.”

  “I am innocent,” said the Comte, “I swear before heaven” – he raised his hand to heaven – “that I am innocent.”

  “M. Carrège is, I believe, the Juge d'Instruction in charge of the case,” hinted Derek politely.

  The Comte took no notice.

  “Not only am I unjustly suspected of a crime that I did not commit, but I am also in serious need of money.”

  He coughed softly and suggestively.

  Derek rose to his feet.

  “I was waiting for that,” he said softly; “you blackmailing brute! I will not give you a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal that you can make can touch her now. She wrote you foolish letters, I dare say. If I were to buy them from you for a round sum at this minute, I am pretty certain that you would manage to keep one or two back; and I will tell you this, M. de la Roche, blackmailing is an ugly word both in England and in France. That is my answer to you. Good afternoon.”

  “One moment” – the Comte stretched out a hand as Derek was turning to leave the room. “You are mistaken. Monsieur. You are completely mistaken. I am, I hope, a gentleman.” Derek laughed. “Any letters that a lady might write to me I should hold sacred.” He flung back his head with a beautiful air of nobility. “The proposition that I was putting before you was of quite a d
ifferent nature. I am, as I said, extremely short of money, and my conscience might imp^ ifine to go to the police with certain information.”

  Derek came slowly back into the room.

  “What do you mean?”

  The Comte's agreeable smile flashed forth once more.

  “Surely it is not necessary to go into details,” he purred. “Seek whom the crime benefits, they say, don't they? As I said just now, you have come into a lot of money lately.”

  Derek laughed.

  “If that is all-” he said contemptuously.

  But the Comte was shaking his head.

  “But it is not all, my dear sir. I should not come to you unless I had much more precise and detailed information than that. It is not agreeable. Monsieur, to be arrested and tried for murder.”

  Derek came close up to him. His face expressed such furious anger that involuntarily the Comte drew back a pace or two.

  “Are you threatening me?” the young man demanded angrily.

  “You shall hear nothing more of the matter” the Comte assured him.

  “Of all the colossal bluffs that I have ever struck-”

  The Comte raised a white hand.

  “You are wrong. It is not a bluff. To convince you I will tell you this. My information was obtained from a certain lady. It is she who holds the irrefutable proof that you committed the murder.”

  “She? Who?”

  “Mademoiselle Mirelle.”

  Derek drew back as though struck.

  “Mirelle,” he muttered.

  The Comte was quick to press what he took to be his advantage.

  “A bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs,” he said. “I ask no more.”

  “Eh?” said Derek absently.

  “I was saying. Monsieur, that a bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs would satisfy my – conscience.”

  Derek seemed to recollect himself. He looked earnestly at the Comte.

  “You would like my answer now?”

  “If you please, Monsieur.”

  “Then here it is. You can go to the devil. See?”

  Leaving the Comte too astonished to speak, Derek turned on his heel and swung out of the room.

  Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and drove to Mirelle's hotel. On inquiring, he learned that the dancer had just come in. Derek gave the concierge his card.

  “Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if she will see me.”

  A very brief interval elapsed, and then Derek was bidden to follow a chasseur.

  A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek's nostrils as he stepped over the threshold of the dancer's apartments. The room was filled with carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle was standing by the window in a peignoir of foamy lace.

  She came towards him, her hands outstretched.

  “Derek – you have come to me. I knew you would.”

  He put aside the clinging arms and looked down on her sternly.

  “Why did you send the Comte de la Roche to me?”

  She looked at him in astonishment, which he took to be genuine.

  “I? Send the Comte de la Roche to you? But for what?”

  “Apparently – for blackmail,” said Derek grimly.

  Again she stared. Then suddenly she smiled and nodded her head.

  “Of course. It was to be expected. It is what he would do, ce type là. I might have known it. No, indeed, Dereek, I did not send him.”

  He looked at her piercingly, as though seeking to read her mind.

  “I will tell you,” said Mirelle. “I am ashamed, but I will tell you. The other day you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite mad-” she made an eloquent gesture. “My temperament, it is not a patient one. I want to be revenged on you, and so I go to the Comte de la Roche, and I tell him to go to the police and say so and so, and so and so. But have no fear, Dereek. Not completely did I lose my head; the proof rests with me alone. The police can do nothing without my word, you understand? And now – now?”

  She nestled up close to him, looking up at him with melting eyes.

  He thrust her roughly away from him. She stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing to a cat-like slit.

  “Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You have come back to me, have you not?”

  “I shall never come back to you,” said

  Derek steadily.

  “Ah!”

  More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.

  “So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I right?”

  “I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know.”

  “That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no.” Her beautiful lithe body quivered. “Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only thing that could save you was the death of your wife. You regretted that she was so healthy. Then the idea of an accident came to your brain. And more than an accident.”

  “I suppose,” said Derek contemptuously, “that it was this conversation that you related to the Comte de la Roche.” Mirelle laughed.

  “Am I a fool? Could the police do anything with a vague story like that? See – I will give you a last chance. You shall give up this Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And then, chéri, never, never will I breathe-”

  “Breathe what?”

  She laughed softly. “You thought no one saw you-”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As I say, you thought no one saw you – but I saw you, Dereek, mon ami; I saw you coming out of the compartment of Madame- your wife just before the train got into Lyons that night. And I know more than that. I know that when you came out of her compartment she was dead.”

  He stared at her. Then, like a man in a dream he turned very slowly and went out of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.

  Chapter 26. A Warning

  “And so it is,” said Poirot, “that we are the good friends and have no secrets from each other.”

  Katherine turned her head to look at him. There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of seriousness, which she had not heard before.

  They were sitting in the gardens of Monte Carlo. Katherine had come over with her friends, and they had run into Knighton and Poirot almost immediately on arrival. Lady Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most of which Katherine had a faint suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin with her hand on the Young man's arm. Knighton had thrown a couple of glances back over his shoulder, and Poirot's eyes twinkled a little as he saw them.

  “Of course we are friends,” said Katherine.

  “From the beginning we have been sympathetic to each other,” mused Poirot.

  “When you told me that a roman policier occurs in real life.”

  “And I was right, was I not?' he challenged her, with an emphatic forefinger. 'Here we are, plunged in the middle of one. That is natural for me – it is my métier – but for you it is different. Yes,' he added in a reflective tone, 'for you it is different.”

  She looked sharply at him. It was as though he were warning her, pointing out to her some menace that she had not seen.

  “Why do you say that I am in the middle of it? It is true that I had that conversation with Mrs Kettering just before she died, but now – now all that is over. I am not connected with the case any more.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, can we ever say, 'I have finished with this or that'?”

  Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.

  “What is it?' she asked. “You are trying to tell me something – to convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out.”

  Poirot looked at her sadly. “Ah, mais c'est anglais ça,” he murmured, “everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined. But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are the thing
s that are not yet, but which cast their shadow before.”

  He dabbed his brow with a very large silk pocket-handkerchief and murmured:

  “Ah, but it is that I become poetical. Let us, as you say, speak only of facts. And, speaking of facts, tell me what you think of Major Knighton.”

  “I like him very much indeed,' said Katherine warmly; 'he is quite delightful.”

  Poirot sighed.

  “What is the matter?” asked Katherine.

  “You reply so heartily,' said Poirot. “If you had said in an indifferent voice, "Oh, quite nice," eh bien, do you know I should have been better pleased.”

  Katharine did not answer. She felt slightly uncomfortable. Poirot went on dreamily:

  “And yet, who knows? With les femmes, they have so many ways of concealing what they feel – and heartiness is perhaps as good a way as any other.”

  He sighed.

  “I don't see-” began Katherine.

  He interrupted her.

  “You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am an old man and now and then – not very often – I come across some one whose welfare is dear to me. We are friends. Mademoiselle. You have said so yourself. And it is just this – I should like to see you happy.”

  Katherine stared very straight in front of her. She had a cretonne sunshade with her, and with its point she traced little designs in the gravel at her feet.

  “I have asked you a question about Major Knighton, now I will ask you another. Do you like Mr. Derek Kettering?”

  “I hardly know him,” said Katherine.

  “That is not an answer, that.”

  “I think it is.”

  He looked at her, struck by something in her tone. Then he nodded his head gravely and slowly.

  “Perhaps you are right. Mademoiselle. See you, I who speak to you have seen much of the world, and I know that there are two things which are true. A good man may be ruined by his love for a bad woman – but the other way holds good also. A bad man may equally be ruined by his love for a good woman.”