The mystery of the Blue Train

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15.The Comte de la Roche

Van Aldin read the letter through in silence.His face turned a dull angry crimson.The men watching him saw the veins start out on his forehead, and his big hands clench themselves unconsciously.He handed back the letter without a word.M.Carrège was looking with close attention at his desk, M.Caux's eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, and M.Hercule Poirot was tenderly brushing a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.With the greatest tact they none of them looked at Van Aldin.

It was M.Carrège, mindful of his status and his duties, who tackled the unpleasant subject.

"Perhaps, Monsieur," he murmured, "you are aware by whom—er—this letter was written?"

"Yes, I know," said Van Aldin heavily.

"Ah?"said the Magistrate inquiringly.

"A scoundrel who calls himself the Comte de la Roche."

There was a pause; then M.Poirot leaned forward, straightened a ruler on the judge's desk, and addressed the millionaire directly.

"M.Van Aldin, we are all sensible, deeply sensible, of the pain it must give you to speak of these matters, but believe me, Monsieur, it is not the time for concealments.If justice is to be done, we must know everything.If you will reflect a little minute you will realize the truth of that clearly for yourself."

Van Aldin was silent for a moment or two, then almost reluctantly he nodded his head in agreement.

"You are quite right, M.Poirot," he said."Painful as it is, I have no right to keep anything back."

The Commissary gave a sigh of relief, and the Examining Magistrate leaned back in his chair and adjusted a pince-nez on his long thin nose.

"Perhaps you will tell us in your own words, M.Van Aldin," he said, "all that you know of this gentleman."

"It began eleven or twelve years ago—in Paris.My daughter was a young girl then, full of foolish, romantic notions, like all young girls are.Unknown to me, she made the acquaintance of this Comte de la Roche.You have heard of him, perhaps?"

The Commissary and Poirot nodded in assent.

"He calls himself the Comte de la Roche," continued Van Aldin, "but I doubt if he has any right to the title."

"You would not have found his name in the Almanach de Gotha," agreed the Commissary.

"I discovered as much," said Van Aldin."The man was a good-looking, plausible scoundrel, with a fatal fascination for women.Ruth was infatuated with him, but I soon put a stop to the whole affair.The man was no better than a common swindler."

"You are quite right," said the Commissary. "The Comte de la Roche is well known to us. If it were possible, we should have laid him by the heels before now, but ma foi! it is not easy; the fellow is cunning, his affairs are always conducted with ladies of high social position. If he obtains money from them under false pretences or as the fruit of blackmail, eh bien! naturally they will not prosecute. To look foolish in the eyes of the world, oh no, that would never do, and he has an extraordinary power over women."

"That is so," said the millionaire heavily."Well, as I told you, I broke the affair up pretty sharply.I told Ruth exactly what he was, and she had, perforce, to believe me.About a year afterwards, she met her present husband and married him.As far as I knew, that was the end of the matter; but only a week ago, I discovered, to my amazement, that my daughter had resumed her acquaintance with the Comte de la Roche.She had been meeting him frequently in London and Paris.I remonstrated with her on her imprudence, for I may tell you gentlemen, that, on my insistence, she was preparing to bring a suit for divorce against her husband."

"That is interesting," murmured Poirot softly, his eyes on the ceiling.

Van Aldin looked at him sharply, and then went on.

"I pointed out to her the folly of continuing to see the Comte under the circumstances.I thought she agreed with me."

The Examining Magistrate coughed delicately.

"But according to this letter—" he began, and then stopped.

Van Aldin's jaw set itself squarely.

"I know.It's no good mincing matters.However unpleasant, we have got to face facts.It seems clear that Ruth had arranged to go to Paris and meet de la Roche there.After my warnings to her, however, she must have written to the Count suggesting a change of rendezvous."

"The Isles d'Or," said the Commissary thoughtfully, "are situated just opposite Hyères, a remote and idyllic spot."

Van Aldin nodded.

"My God!How could Ruth be such a fool?"he exclaimed bitterly."All this talk about writing a book on jewels!Why, he must have been after the rubies from the first."

"There are some very famous rubies," said Poirot, "originally part of the Crown jewels of Russia; they are unique in character, and their value is almost fabulous.There has been a rumour that they have lately passed into the possession of an American.Are we right in concluding, Monsieur, that you were the purchaser?"

"Yes," said Van Aldin."They came into my possession in Paris about ten days ago."

"Pardon me, Monsieur, but you have been negotiating for their purchase for some time?"

"A little over two months.Why?"

"These things become known," said Poirot."There is always a pretty formidable crowd on the track of jewels such as these."

A spasm distorted the other's face.

"I remember," he said brokenly, "a joke I made to Ruth when I gave them to her.I told her not to take them to the Riviera with her, as I could not afford to have her robbed and murdered for the sake of the jewels.My God!the things one says—never dreaming or knowing they will come true."

There was a sympathetic silence, and then Poirot spoke in a detached manner.

"Let us arrange our facts with order and precision.According to our present theory, this is how they run.The Comte de la Roche knows of your purchase of these jewels.By an easy stratagem he induces Madame Kettering to bring the stones with her.He, then, is the man Mason saw in the train at Paris."

The other three nodded in agreement.

"Madame is surprised to see him, but she deals with the situation promptly.Mason is got out of the way; a dinner basket is ordered.We know from the conductor that he made up the berth for the first compartment, but he did not go into the second compartment, and that a man could quite well have been concealed from him.So far the Comte could have been hidden to a marvel.No one knows of his presence on the train except Madame; he has been careful that the maid did not see his face.All that she could say is that he was tall and dark.It is all most conveniently vague.They are alone—and the train rushes through the night.There would be no outcry, no struggle, for the man is, so she thinks, her lover."

He turned gently to Van Aldin.

"Death, Monsieur, must have been almost instantaneous.We will pass over that quickly.The Comte takes the jewel-case which lies ready to his hand.Shortly afterwards the train draws into Lyons."

M.Carrège nodded his approval.

"Precisely.The conductor without descends.It would be easy for our man to leave the train unseen; it would be easy to catch a train back to Paris or anywhere he pleases.And the crime would be put down as an ordinary train robbery.But for the letter found in Madame's bag, the Comte would not have been mentioned."

"It was an oversight on his part not to search that bag," declared the Commissary.

"Without doubt he thought she had destroyed that letter.It was—pardon me, Monsieur—it was an indiscretion of the first water to keep it."

"And yet," murmured Poirot, "it was an indiscretion the Comte might have foreseen."

"You mean?"

"I mean we are all agreed on one point, and that is that the Comte de la Roche knows one subject à fond: Women.How was it that, knowing women as he does, he did not foresee that Madame would have kept that letter?"

"Yes—yes," said the Examining Magistrate doubtfully, "there is something in what you say. But at such times, you understand, a man is not master of himself. He does not reason calmly. Mon Dieu!" he added, with feeling, "if our criminals kept their heads and acted with intelligence, how should we capture them?"

Poirot smiled to himself.

"It seems to me a clear case," said the other, "but a difficult one to prove.The Comte is a slippery customer, and unless the maid can identify him—"

"Which is most unlikely," said Poirot.

"True, true."The Examining Magistrate rubbed his chin."It is going to be difficult."

"If he did indeed commit the crime—" began Poirot.M.Caux interrupted.

"If—you say if?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Juge, I say if."

The other looked at him sharply."You are right," he said at last, "we go too fast.It is possible that the Comte may have an alibi.Then we should look foolish."

"Ah, ça par exemple," replied Poirot, "that is of no importance whatever. Naturally, if he committed the crime he will have an alibi. A man with the Comte's experience does not neglect to take precautions. No, I said if for a very different reason."

"And what was that?"

Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger."The psychology."

"Eh?"said the Commissary.

"The psychology is at fault. The Comte is a scoundrel—yes. The Comte is a swindler—yes. The Comte preys upon women—yes. He proposes to steal Madame's jewels—again yes. Is he the kind of man to commit murder? I say no!A man of the type of the Comte is always a coward; he takes no risks.He plays the safe, the mean, what the English call the low-down game; but murder, a hundred times no!"He shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

The Examining Magistrate, however, did not seem disposed to agree with him.

"The day always comes when such gentry lose their heads and go too far," he observed sagely."Doubtless that is the case here.Without wishing to disagree with you, M.Poirot—"

"It was only an opinion," Poirot hastened to explain."The case is, of course, in your hands, and you will do what seems fit to you."

"I am satisfied in my own mind that the Comte de la Roche is the man we need to get hold of," said M.Carrège."You agree with me, Monsieur le Commissaire?"

"Perfectly."

"And you, M.Van Aldin?"

"Yes," said the millionaire."Yes; the man is a thorough-paced villain, no doubt about it."

"It will be difficult to lay hands on him, I am afraid," said the Magistrate, "but we will do our best.Telegraphed instructions shall go out at once."

"Permit me to assist you," said Poirot."There need be no difficulty."

"Eh?"

The others stared at him.The little man smiled beamingly back at them.

"It is my business to know things," he explained."The Comte is a man of intelligence.He is at present at a villa he has leased, the Villa Marina at Antibes."

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16.Poirot Discusses the Case

Everybody looked respectfully at Poirot.Undoubtedly the little man had scored heavily.The Commissary laughed—on a rather hollow note.

"You teach us all our business," he cried."M.Poirot knows more than the police."

Poirot gazed complacently at the ceiling, adopting a mock-modest air.

"What will you; it is my little hobby," he murmured, "to know things.Naturally I have the time to indulge it.I am not overburdened with affairs."

"Ah!"said the Commissary shaking his head portentously."As for me—"

He made an exaggerated gesture to represent the cares that lay on his shoulders.

Poirot turned suddenly to Van Aldin.

"You agree, Monsieur, with this view?You feel certain that the Comte de la Roche is the murderer?"

"Why, it would seem so—yes, certainly."

Something guarded in the answer made the Examining Magistrate look at the American curiously.Van Aldin seemed aware of his scrutiny and made an effort as though to shake off some preoccupation.

"What about my son-in-law?"he asked."You have acquainted him with the news?He is in Nice, I understand."

"Certainly, Monsieur."The Commissary hesitated, and then murmured very discreetly: "You are doubtless aware, M.Van Aldin, that M.Kettering was also one of the passengers on the Blue Train that night?"

The millionaire nodded.

"Heard it just before I left London," he vouchsafed laconically.

"He tells us," continued the Commissary, "that he had no idea his wife was travelling on the train."

"I bet he hadn't," said Van Aldin grimly."It would have been rather a nasty shock to him if he'd come across her on it."

The three men looked at him questioningly.

"I'm not going to mince matters," said Van Aldin savagely."No one knows what my poor girl has had to put up with.Derek Kettering wasn't alone.He had a lady with him."

"Ah?"

"Mirelle—the dancer."

M.Carrège and the Commissary looked at each other and nodded as though confirming some previous conversation.M.Carrège leaned back in his chair, joined his hands, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

"Ah!"he murmured again."One wondered."He coughed."One has heard rumours."

"The lady," said M.Caux, "is very notorious."

"And also," murmured Poirot softly, "very expensive."

Van Aldin had gone very red in the face.He leant forward and hit the table a bang with his fist.

"See here," he cried, "my son-in-law is a damned scoundrel!"

He glared at them, looking from one face to another.

"Oh, I know," he went on."Good looks and a charming, easy manner.It took me in once upon a time.I suppose he pretended to be broken-hearted when you broke the news to him—that is, if he didn't know it already."

"Oh, it came as a complete surprise to him.He was overwhelmed."

"Darned young hypocrite," said Van Aldin."Simulated great grief, I suppose?"

"N—no," said the Commissary cautiously."I would not quite say that—eh, M.Carrège?"

The Magistrate brought the tips of his fingers together, and half closed his eyes.

"Shock, bewilderment, horror—these things, yes," he declared judicially."Great sorrow—no—I should not say that."

Hercule Poirot spoke once more.

"Permit me to ask, M.Van Aldin, does M.Kettering benefit by the death of his wife?"

"He benefits to the tune of a couple of millions," said Van Aldin.

"Dollars?"

"Pounds.I settled that sum on Ruth absolutely on her marriage.She made no will and leaves no children, so the money will go to her husband."

"Whom she was on the point of divorcing," murmured Poirot."Ah, yes—précisément."

The Commissary turned and looked sharply at him.

"Do you mean—" he began.

"I mean nothing," said Poirot."I arrange the facts, that is all."

Van Aldin stared at him with awakening interest.

The little man rose to his feet.

"I do not think I can be of any further service to you, M.le Juge," he said politely, bowing to M.Carrège."You will keep me informed of the course of events?It will be a kindness."

"But certainly—most certainly."

Van Aldin rose also.

"You don't want me any more at present?"

"No, Monsieur; we have all the information we need for the moment."

"Then I will walk a little way with M.Poirot.That is, if he does not object?"

"Enchanted, Monsieur," said the little man, with a bow.

Van Aldin lighted a large cigar, having first offered one to Poirot, who declined it and lit one of his own tiny cigarettes.A man of great strength of character, Van Aldin already appeared to be his everyday, normal self once more.After strolling along for a minute or two in silence, the millionaire spoke:

"I take it, M.Poirot, that you no longer exercise your profession?"

"That is so, Monsieur.I enjoy the world."

"Yet you are assisting the police in this affair?"

"Monsieur, if a doctor walks along the street and an accident happens, does he say, 'I have retired from my profession, I will continue my walk,' when there is some one bleeding to death at his feet?If I had been already in Nice, and the police had sent to me and asked me to assist them, I should have refused.But this affair, the good God thrust it upon me."

"You were on the spot," said Van Aldin thoughtfully."You examined the compartment, did you not?"

Poirot nodded.

"Doubtless you found things that were, shall we say, suggestive to you?"

"Perhaps," said Poirot.

"I hope you see what I am leading up to?"said Van Aldin."It seems to me that the case against this Comte de la Roche is perfectly clear, but I am not a fool.I have been watching you for this last hour or so, and I realize that for some reason of your own you don't agree with that theory?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"I may be wrong."

"So we come to the favour I want to ask you.Will you act in this matter for me?"

"For you personally?"

"That was my meaning."

Poirot was silent for a moment or two.Then he said:

"You realize what you are asking?"

"I guess so," said Van Aldin.

"Very well," said Poirot."I accept.But in that case, I must have frank answers to my questions."

"Why, certainly.That is understood."

Poirot's manner changed.He became suddenly brusque and business-like.

"This question of a divorce," he said."It was you who advised your daughter to bring the suit?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"About ten days ago.I had had a letter from her complaining of her husband's behaviour, and I put it to her very strongly that divorce was the only remedy."

"In what way did she complain of his behaviour?"

"He was being seen about with a very notorious lady—the one we have been speaking of—Mirelle."

"The dancer.Ah-ha!And Madame Kettering objected?Was she very devoted to her husband?"

"I would not say that," said Van Aldin, hesitating a little.

"It was not her heart that suffered, it was her pride—is that what you would say?"

"Yes, I suppose you might put it like that."

"I gather that the marriage had not been a happy one from the beginning?"

"Derek Kettering is rotten to the core," said Van Aldin."He is incapable of making any woman happy."

"He is, as you say in England, a bad lot.That is right, is it not?"

Van Aldin nodded.

"Très bien! You advise Madame to seek a divorce, she agrees; you consult your solicitors. When does M. Kettering get news of what is in the wind?"

"I sent for him myself, and explained the course of action I proposed to take."

"And what did he say?"murmured Poirot softly.

Van Aldin's face darkened at the remembrance.

"He was infernally impudent."

"Excuse the question, Monsieur, but did he refer to the Comte de la Roche?"

"Not by name," growled the other unwillingly, "but he showed himself cognizant of the affair."

"What, if I may ask, was M.Kettering's financial position at the time?"

"How do you suppose I should know that?"asked Van Aldin, after a very brief hesitation.

"It seemed likely to me that you would inform yourself on that point."

"Well—you are quite right, I did.I discovered that Kettering was on the rocks."

"And now he has inherited two million pounds! La vie—it is a strange thing, is it not?"

Van Aldin looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"I moralize," said Poirot."I reflect, I speak the philosophy.But to return to where we were.Surely M.Kettering did not propose to allow himself to be divorced without making a fight for it?"

Van Aldin did not answer for a minute or two, then he said:

"I don't exactly know what his intentions were."

"Did you hold any further communications with him?"

Again a slight pause, then Van Aldin said:

"No."

Poirot stopped dead, took off his hat, and held out his hand.

"I must wish you good-day, Monsieur.I can do nothing for you."

"What are you getting at?"demanded Van Aldin angrily.

"If you do not tell me the truth, I can do nothing."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do.You may rest assured, M.Van Aldin, that I know how to be discreet."

"Very well, then," said the millionaire. "I'll admit that I was not speaking the truth just now. I did have further communication with my son-in-law."

"Yes?"

"To be exact, I sent my secretary, Major Knighton, to see him, with instructions to offer him the sum of one hundred thousand pounds in cash if the divorce went through undefended."

"A pretty sum of money," said Poirot appreciatively; "and the answer of Monsieur your son-in-law?"

"He sent back word that I could go to hell," replied the millionaire succinctly.

"Ah!"said Poirot.

He betrayed no emotion of any kind.At the moment he was engaged in methodically recording facts.

"Monsieur Kettering has told the police that he neither saw nor spoke to his wife on the journey from England.Are you inclined to believe that statement, Monsieur?"

"Yes, I am," said Van Aldin."He would take particular pains to keep out of her way, I should say."

"Why?"

"Because he had got that woman with him."

"Mirelle?"

"Yes."

"How did you come to know that fact?"

"A man of mine, whom I had put on to watch him, reported to me that they had both left by that train."

"I see," said Poirot."In that case, as you said before, he would not be likely to attempt to hold any communication with Madame Kettering."

The little man fell silent for some time.Van Aldin did not interrupt his meditation.

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17.An Aristocratic Gentleman

"You have been to the Riviera before, Georges?"said Poirot to his valet the following morning.

George was an intensely English, rather wooden-faced individual.

"Yes, sir.I was here two years ago when I was in the service of Lord Edward Frampton."

"And to-day," murmured his master, "you are here with Hercule Poirot.How one mounts in the world!"

The valet made no reply to this observation.After a suitable pause he asked:

"The brown lounge suit, sir?The wind is somewhat chilly to-day."

"There is a grease spot on the waistcoat," objected Poirot. "A morceau of filet de sole à la Jeannette alighted there when I was lunching at the Ritz last Tuesday."

"There is no spot there now, sir," said George reproachfully."I have removed it."

"Très bien!" said Poirot."I am pleased with you, Georges."

"Thank you, sir."

There was a pause, and then Poirot murmured dreamily:

"Supposing, my good Georges, that you had been born in the same social sphere as your late master, Lord Edward Frampton—that, penniless yourself, you had married an extremely wealthy wife, but that that wife proposed to divorce you, with excellent reasons, what would you do about it?"

"I should endeavour, sir," replied George, "to make her change her mind."

"By peaceful or by forcible methods?"

George looked shocked.

"You will excuse me, sir," he said, "but a gentleman of the aristocracy would not behave like a Whitechapel coster.He would not do anything low."

"Would he not, Georges?I wonder now.Well, perhaps you are right."

There was a knock on the door.George went to it and opened it a discreet inch or two.A low murmured colloquy went on, and then the valet returned to Poirot.

"A note, sir."

Poirot took it.It was from M.Caux, the Commissary of Police.

"We are about to interrogate the Comte de la Roche.The Juge d'Instruction begs that you will be present."

"Quickly, my suit, Georges!I must hasten myself."

A quarter of an hour later, spick and span in his brown suit, Poirot entered the Examining Magistrate's room. M. Caux was already there, and both he and M. Carrège greeted Poirot with polite empressement

"The affair is somewhat discouraging," murmured M.Caux.

"It appears that the Comte arrived in Nice the day before the murder."

"If that is true, it will settle your affair nicely for you," responded Poirot.

M.Carrège cleared his throat.

"We must not accept this alibi without very cautious inquiry," he declared.He struck the bell upon the table with his hand.

In another minute a tall dark man, exquisitely dressed, with a somewhat haughty cast of countenance, entered the room.So very aristocratic-looking was the Count, that it would have seemed sheer heresy even to whisper that his father had been an obscure corn-chandler in Nantes—which, as a matter of fact, was the case.Looking at him, one would have been prepared to swear that innumerable ancestors of his must have perished by the guillotine in the French Revolution.

"I am here, gentlemen," said the Count haughtily."May I ask why you wish to see me?"

"Pray be seated, Monsieur le Comte," said the Examining Magistrate politely."It is the affair of the death of Madame Kettering that we are investigating."

"The death of Madame Kettering?I do not understand."

"You were—ahem!—acquainted with the lady, I believe, Monsieur le Comte?"

"Certainly I was acquainted with her.What has that to do with the matter?"

Sticking an eyeglass in his eye, he looked coldly round the room, his glance resting longest on Poirot, who was gazing at him with a kind of simple, innocent admiration which was most pleasing to the Count's vanity.M.Carrège leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.

"You do not perhaps know, Monsieur le Comte"—he paused—"that Madame Kettering was murdered?"

"Murdered? Mon Dieu, how terrible!"

The surprise and the sorrow were excellently done—so well done, indeed, as to seem wholly natural.

"Madame Kettering was strangled between Paris and Lyons," continued M.Carrège, "and her jewels were stolen."

"It is iniquitous!"cried the Count warmly; "the police should do something about these train bandits.Nowadays no one is safe."

"In Madame's handbag," continued the Judge, "we found a letter to her from you.She had, it seemed, arranged to meet you?"

The Count shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands.

"Of what use are concealments," he said frankly."We are all men of the world.Privately and between ourselves, I admit the affair."

"You met her in Paris and travelled down with her, I believe?"said M.Carrège.

"That was the original arrangement, but by Madame's wish it was changed.I was to meet her at Hyères."

"You did not meet her on the train at the Gare de Lyon on the evening of the 14th?"

"On the contrary, I arrived in Nice on the morning of that day, so what you suggest is impossible."

"Quite so, quite so," said M.Carrège."As a matter of form, you would perhaps give me an account of your movements during the evening and night of the 14th."

The Count reflected for a minute.

"I dined in Monte Carlo at the Café de Paris.Afterwards I went to the Le Sporting.I won a few thousand francs," he shrugged his shoulders."I returned home at perhaps one o'clock."

"Pardon me, Monsieur, but how did you return home?"

"In my own two-seater car."

"No one was with you?"

"No one."

"You could produce witnesses in support of this statement?"

"Doubtless many of my friends saw me there that evening.I dined alone."

"Your servant admitted you on your return to your villa?"

"I let myself in with my own latch-key."

"Ah!"murmured the Magistrate.

Again he struck the bell on the table with his hand.The door opened, and a messenger appeared.

"Bring in the maid, Mason," said M.Carrège.

"Very good, Monsieur le Juge."

Ada Mason was brought in.

"Will you be so good, Mademoiselle, as to look at this gentleman.To the best of your ability was it he who entered your mistress's compartment in Paris?"

The woman looked long and searchingly at the Count, who was, Poirot fancied, rather uneasy under this scrutiny.

"I could not say, sir, I am sure," said Mason at last. "It might be and again it might not. Seeing as how I only saw his back, it's hard to say. I rather think it was the gentleman."

"But you are not sure?"

"No—o," said Mason unwillingly; "n—no, I am not sure."

"You have seen this gentleman before in Curzon Street?"

Mason shook her head.

"I should not be likely to see any visitors that come to Curzon Street," she explained, "unless they were staying in the house."

"Very well, that will do," said the Examining Magistrate sharply.

Evidently he was disappointed.

"One moment," said Poirot."There is a question I would like to put to Mademoiselle, if I may?"

"Certainly, M.Poirot—certainly, by all means."

Poirot addressed himself to the maid.

"What happened to the tickets?"

"The tickets, sir?"

"Yes; the tickets from London to Nice.Did you or your mistress have them?"

"The mistress had her own Pullman ticket, sir; the others were in my charge."

"What happened to them?"

"I gave them to the conductor on the French train, sir; he said it was usual.I hope I did right, sir?"

"Oh, quite right, quite right.A mere matter of detail."

Both M.Caux and the Examining Magistrate looked at him curiously.Mason stood uncertainly for a minute or two, and then the Magistrate gave her a brief nod of dismissal, and she went out.Poirot scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it across to M.Carrège.The latter read it and his brow cleared.

"Well, gentlemen," demanded the Count haughtily, "am I to be detained further?"

"Assuredly not, assuredly not," M.Carrège hastened to say, with a great deal of amiability."Everything is now cleared up as regards your own position in this affair.Naturally, in view of Madame's letter, we were bound to question you."

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 was non-existent."

"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 some one dull of intellect.

"That is what you say, yes," murmured M.Carrège.A frown suffused Derek's face.

"I should like to know what you're 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!"

---

18.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 passers-by mechanically—a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw anything worth while 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 you say it?—given them the chuck!"

"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 extremely 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 inoui!"

"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 deceive 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 some one 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."

---

19.An Unexpected Visitor

The Comte de la Roche had just finished déjeuner, consisting of an omelette fines herbes, an entrecôte Béarnaise, 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 were part of the Comte's mise en scèneThey were, he would explain to his fair visitors, heirlooms in his family.Passing through on to the terrace, the Comte looked out on 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 Hippolyte, his man-servant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs.The Comte selected some very fine old brandy.

As the man-servant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight gesture.Hippolyte 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."

Hippolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation.

The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hippolyte.

"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, Hippolyte, 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 Hippolyte 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 Hippolyte 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, Hippolyte," he commanded.

A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out on 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 forward a chair.

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 level-headed 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 to-day 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 streets.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 every where.The Prefect himself—" She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.

"Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?"murmured the Count politely.

"The police believe that you killed Madame Kettering.But they are wrong."

"Certainly they are wrong," agreed the Comte easily.

"You say that, but you do not know the truth.I do."

The Comte looked at her curiously.

"You know who killed Madame Kettering?Is that what you would say, Mademoiselle?"

Mirelle nodded vehemently.

"Yes."

"Who was it?"asked the Comte sharply.

"Her husband."She bent nearer to the Comte, speaking in a low voice that vibrated with anger and excitement."It was her husband who killed her."

The Comte leant back in his chair.His face was a mask.

"Let me ask you, Mademoiselle—how do you know this?"

"How do I know it?"Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh."He boasted of it beforehand.He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured.Only the death of his wife could save him.He told me so.He travelled on the same train—but she was not to know it.Why was that, I ask you?So that he might creep upon her in the night—Ah!"—she shut her eyes—"I can see it happening...."

The Count coughed.

"Perhaps—perhaps," he murmured."But surely, Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?"

"The jewels!"breathed Mirelle."The jewels.Ah!Those rubies...."

Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in them.The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of precious stones on the female sex.He recalled her to practical matters.

"What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle?"

Mirelle became alert and business-like once more.

"Surely it is simple.You will go to the police.You will say to them that M.Kettering committed this crime."

"And if they do not believe me?If they ask for proof?"He was eyeing her closely.

Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round her.

"Send them to me, Monsieur le Comte," she said softly; "I will give them the proof they want."

Upon that she was gone, an impetuous whirlwind, her errand accomplished.

The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows delicately raised.

"She is in a fury," he murmured."What has happened now to upset her?But she shows her hand too plainly.Does she really believe that Mr. Kettering killed his wife?She would like me to believe it.She would even like the police to believe it."

He smiled to himself.He had no intention whatsoever of going to the police.He saw various other possibilities, to judge by his smile, an agreeable vista of them.

Presently, however, his brow clouded.According to Mirelle, he was suspected by the police.That might be true or it might not.An angry woman of the type of the dancer was not likely to bother about the strict veracity of her statements.On the other hand, she might easily have obtained—inside information.In that case—his mouth set grimly—in that case he must take certain precautions.

He went into the house and questioned Hippolyte closely once more as to whether any strangers had been to the house.The valet was positive in his assurances that this was not the case.The Comte went up to his bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau that stood against the wall.He let down the lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought for a spring at the back of one of the pigeon-holes.A secret drawer flew out; in it was a small brown paper package.The Comte took this out and weighed it in his hand carefully for a minute or two.Raising his hand to his head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a single hair.This he placed on the lip of the drawer and shut it carefully.Still carrying the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs and out of the house to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car.Ten minutes later he had taken the road for Monte Carlo.

He spent a few hours at the Casino, then sauntered out into the town.Presently he re-entered the car and drove off in the direction of Mentone.Earlier in the afternoon he had noticed an inconspicuous grey car some little distance behind him.He noticed it again now.He smiled to himself.The road was climbing steadily upwards.The Comte's foot pressed hard on the accelerator.The little red car had been specially built to the Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than would have been suspected from its appearance.It shot ahead.

Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following behind.Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road.It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver.Now they were going down hill, twisting and curving unceasingly.Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to a standstill before a Bureau de Poste.The Comte jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest, extracted the small brown paper parcel and hurried into the post office.Two minutes later he was driving once more in the direction of Mentone.When the grey car arrived there, the Comte was drinking English five o'clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels.

Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once more at eleven o'clock.Hippolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed face.

"Ah!Monsieur le Comte has arrived.Monsieur le Comte did not telephone me, by any chance?"

The Comte shook his head.

"And yet at three o'clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte, to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco."

"Really," said the Comte; "and you went?"

"Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur le Comte.He had not been there."

"Ah," said the Comte, "doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her afternoon marketing?"

"That is so, Monsieur le Comte."

"Ah, well," said the Comte, "it is of no importance.A mistake."

He went upstairs, smiling to himself.

Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round.Everything seemed as usual.He opened various drawers and cupboards.Then he nodded to himself.Things had been replaced almost exactly as he had left them, but not quite.It was evident that a very thorough search had been made.

He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring.The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it.He nodded his head several times.

"They are excellent, our French police," he murmured to himself—"excellent.Nothing escapes them."

---

20.Katherine Makes a Friend

On the following morning Katherine and Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa Marguerite.Something in the nature of a friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age.But for Lenox, Katherine would have found life at the Villa Marguerite quite intolerable.The Kettering case was the topic of the moment.Lady Tamplin frankly exploited her guest's connection with the affair for all it was worth.The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine could administer quite failed to pierce Lady Tamplin's self-esteem.Lenox adopted a detached attitude, seemingly amused at her mother's manœuvres, and yet with a sympathetic understanding of Katherine's feelings.The situation was not helped by Chubby, whose naïve delight was unquenchable, and who introduced Katherine to all and sundry as:

"This is Miss Grey.You know that Blue Train business?She was in it up to the ears!Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few hours before the murder!Bit of luck for her, eh?"

A few remarks of this kind had provoked Katherine that morning to an unusually tart rejoinder, and when they were alone together Lenox observed in her slow drawl:

"Not used to exploitation, are you?You have a lot to learn, Katherine."

"I am sorry I lost my temper.I don't, as a rule."

"It is about time you learnt to blow off steam.Chubby is only an ass; there is no harm in him.Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper with her until Kingdom come, and it won't make any impression.She will open large, sad blue eyes at you and not care a bit."

Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:

"I am rather like Chubby.I delight in a good murder, and besides—well, knowing Derek makes a difference."

Katherine nodded.

"So you lunched with him yesterday," pursued Lenox reflectively."Do you like him, Katherine?"

Katherine considered for a minute or two.

"I don't know," she said very slowly.

"He is very attractive."

"Yes, he is attractive."

"What don't you like about him?"

Katherine did not reply to the question, or at any rate not directly."He spoke of his wife's death," she said."He said he would not pretend that it had been anything but a bit of most marvellous luck for him."

"And that shocked you, I suppose," said Lenox.She paused, and then added in rather a queer tone of voice: "He likes you, Katherine."

"He gave me a very good lunch," said Katherine, smiling.

Lenox refused to be side-tracked.

"I saw it the night he came here," she said thoughtfully."The way he looked at you; and you are not his usual type—just the opposite.Well, I suppose it is like religion—you get it at a certain age."

"Mademoiselle is wanted at the telephone," said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon."M.Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her."

"More blood and thunder.Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective."

M.Hercule Poirot's voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine's ear.

"That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks? Bon. Mademoiselle, I have a word for you from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or at his hotel, whichever you prefer."

Katherine reflected for a moment, but she decided that for Van Aldin to come to the Villa Marguerite would be both painful and unnecessary.Lady Tamplin would have hailed his advent with far too much delight.She never lost a chance of cultivating millionaires.She told Poirot that she would much rather come to Nice.

"Excellent, Mademoiselle.I will call for you myself in an auto.Shall we say in about three-quarters of an hour?"

Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared.Katherine was waiting for him, and they drove off at once.

"Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?"

She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was confirmed in her first impression that there was something very attractive about M.Hercule Poirot.

"This is our own Roman Policier, is it not?"said Poirot."I made you the promise that we should study it together.And me, I always keep my promises."

"You are too kind," murmured Katherine.

"Ah, you mock yourself at me; but do you want to hear the developments of the case, or do you not?"

Katherine admitted that she did, and Poirot proceeded to sketch for her a thumbnail portrait of the Comte de la Roche.

"You think he killed her," said Katherine thoughtfully.

"That is the theory," said Poirot guardedly.

"Do you yourself believe that?"

"I did not say so.And you, Mademoiselle, what do you think?"

Katherine shook her head.

"How should I know?I don't know anything about those things, but I should say that—"

"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.

"Well—from what you say the Count does not sound the kind of man who would actually kill anybody."

"Ah!Very good," cried Poirot, "you agree with me; that is just what I have said."He looked at her sharply."But tell me, you have met Mr. Derek Kettering?"

"I met him at Lady Tamplin's, and I lunched with him yesterday."

"A mauvais sujet," said Poirot, shaking his head; "but les femmes—they like that, eh?"

He twinkled at Katherine and she laughed.

"He is the kind of man one would notice anywhere," continued Poirot."Doubtless you observed him on the Blue Train?"

"Yes, I noticed him."

"In the restaurant car?"

"No.I didn't notice him at meals at all.I only saw him once—going into his wife's compartment."

Poirot nodded."A strange business," he murmured."I believe you said you were awake, Mademoiselle, and looked out of your window at Lyons?You saw no tall dark man such as the Comte de la Roche leave the train?"

Katherine shook her head."I don't think I saw any one at all," she said."There was a youngish lad in a cap and overcoat who got out, but I don't think he was leaving the train, only walking up and down the platform.There was a fat Frenchman with a beard, in pyjamas and an overcoat, who wanted a cup of coffee.Otherwise, I think there were only the train attendants."

Poirot nodded his head several times."It is like this, you see," he confided, "the Comte de la Roche has an alibi.An alibi, it is a very pestilential thing, and always open to the gravest suspicion.But here we are!"

They went straight up to Van Aldin's suite, where they found Knighton.Poirot introduced him to Katherine.After a few commonplaces had been exchanged, Knighton said, "I will tell Mr. Van Aldin that Miss Grey is here."

He went through a second door into an adjoining room.There was a low murmur of voices, and then Van Aldin came into the room and advanced towards Katherine with outstretched hand, giving her at the same time a shrewd and penetrating glance.

"I am pleased to meet you, Miss Grey," he said simply."I have been wanting very badly to hear what you can tell me about Ruth."

The quiet simplicity of the millionaire's manner appealed to Katherine strongly.She felt herself in the presence of a very genuine grief, the more real for its absence of outward sign.

He drew forward a chair.

"Sit here, will you, and just tell me all about it."

Poirot and Knighton retired discreetly into the other room, and Katherine and Van Aldin were left alone together.She found no difficulty in her task.Quite simply and naturally she related her conversation with Ruth Kettering, word for word as nearly as she could.He listened in silence, leaning back in his chair, with one hand shading his eyes.When she had finished he said quietly:

"Thank you, my dear."

They both sat silent for a minute or two.Katherine felt that words of sympathy would be out of place.When the millionaire spoke, it was in a different tone:

"I am very grateful to you, Miss Grey.I think you did something to ease my poor Ruth's mind in the last hours of her life.Now I want to ask you something.You know—M.Poirot will have told you—about the scoundrel that my poor girl had got herself mixed up with.He was the man of whom she spoke to you—the man she was going to meet.In your judgment do you think she might have changed her mind after her conversation with you?Do you think she meant to go back on her word?"

"I can't honestly tell you.She had certainly come to some decision, and seemed more cheerful in consequence of it."

"She gave you no idea where she intended to meet the skunk—whether in Paris or at Hyères?"

Katherine shook her head.

"She said nothing as to that."

"Ah!"said Van Aldin thoughtfully, "and that is the important point.Well, time will show."

He got up and opened the door of the adjoining room.Poirot and Knighton came back.

Katherine declined the millionaire's invitation to lunch, and Knighton went down with her and saw her into the waiting car.He returned to find Poirot and Van Aldin deep in conversation.

"If we only knew," said the millionaire thoughtfully, "what decision Ruth came to.It might have been any of half a dozen.She might have meant to leave the train at Paris and cable to me.She may have meant to have gone on to the south of France and have an explanation with the Count there.We are in the dark—absolutely in the dark.But we have the maid's word for it that she was both startled and dismayed at the Count's appearance at the station in Paris.That was clearly not part of the preconceived plan.You agree with me, Knighton?"

The secretary started."I beg your pardon, Mr. Van Aldin.I was not listening."

"Day-dreaming, eh?"said Van Aldin."That's not like you.I believe that girl has bowled you over."

Knighton blushed.

"She is a remarkably nice girl," said Van Aldin thoughtfully, "very nice.Did you happen to notice her eyes?"

"Any man," said Knighton, "would be bound to notice her eyes."

---

21.At the Tennis

Several days had elapsed.Katherine had been for a walk by herself one morning, and came back to find Lenox grinning at her expectantly.

"Your young man has been ringing you up, Katherine!"

"Who do you call my young man?"

"A new one—Rufus Van Aldin's secretary.You seem to have made rather an impression there.You are becoming a serious breaker of hearts, Katherine.First Derek Kettering, and now this young Knighton.The funny thing is, that I remember him quite well.He was in Mother's War Hospital that she ran out here.I was only a kid of about eight at the time."

"Was he badly wounded?"

"Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly—rather a nasty business.I think the doctors messed it up a bit.They said he wouldn't limp or anything, but when he left here he was still completely dot and go one."

Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.

"Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?"she asked."Such a dear fellow!Just at first I didn't remember him—one had so many—but now it all comes back."

"He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered before," said Lenox."Now that he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very different matter."

"Darling!"said Lady Tamplin in her vague reproachful voice.

"What did Major Knighton ring up about?"inquired Katherine.

"He asked if you would like to go to the tennis this afternoon. If so, he would call for you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you with empressementWhilst you dally with a millionaire's secretary, you might give me a chance with the millionaire, Katherine.He is about sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet young thing like me."

"I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin," said Lady Tamplin earnestly; "one has heard so much of him.Those fine rugged figures of the Western world"—she broke off—"so fascinating," she murmured.

"Major Knighton was very particular to say it was Mr. Van Aldin's invitation," said Lenox."He said it so often that I began to smell a rat.You and Knighton would make a very nice pair, Katherine.Bless you, my children!"

Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to change her clothes.

Knighton arrived soon after lunch and endured manfully Lady Tamplin's transports of recognition.

When they were driving together towards Cannes he remarked to Katherine: "Lady Tamplin has changed wonderfully little."

"In manner or appearance?"

"Both.She must be, I suppose, well over forty, but she is a remarkably beautiful woman still."

"She is," agreed Katherine.

"I am very glad that you could come to-day," went on Knighton."M.Poirot is going to be there also.What an extraordinary little man he is.Do you know him well, Miss Grey?"

Katherine shook her head."I met him on the train on the way here.I was reading a detective novel, and I happened to say something about such things not happening in real life.Of course, I had no idea of who he was."

"He is a very remarkable person," said Knighton slowly, "and has done some very remarkable things.He has a kind of genius for going to the root of the matter, and right up to the end no one has any idea of what he is really thinking.I remember I was staying at a house in Yorkshire, and Lady Clanravon's jewels were stolen.It seemed at first to be a simple robbery, but it completely baffled the local police.I wanted them to call in Hercule Poirot, and said he was the only man who could help them, but they pinned their faith to Scotland Yard."

"And what happened?"said Katherine curiously.

"The jewels were never recovered," said Knighton drily.

"You really do believe in him?"

"I do indeed.The Comte de la Roche is a pretty wily customer.He has wriggled out of most things.But I think he has met his match in Hercule Poirot."

"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine thoughtfully; "so you really think he did it?"

"Of course."Knighton looked at her in astonishment."Don't you?"

"Oh yes," said Katherine hastily; "that is, I mean, if it was not just an ordinary train robbery."

"It might be, of course," agreed the other, "but it seems to me that the Comte de la Roche fits into this business particularly well."

"And yet he has an alibi."

"Oh, alibis!"Knighton laughed, his face broke into his attractive boyish smile.

"You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey.You must know that any one who has a perfect alibi is always open to grave suspicion."

"Do you think that real life is like that?"asked Katherine, smiling.

"Why not?Fiction is founded on fact."

"But is rather superior to it," suggested Katherine.

"Perhaps.Anyway, if I was a criminal I should not like to have Hercule Poirot on my track."

"No more should I," said Katherine, and laughed.

They were met on arrival by Poirot.As the day was warm he was attired in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle," said Poirot."I look very English, do I not?"

"You look wonderful," said Katherine tactfully.

"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot genially, "but no matter.Papa Poirot, he always laughs the last."

"Where is Mr. Van Aldin?"asked Knighton.

"He will meet us at our seats.To tell you the truth, my friend, he is not too well pleased with me.Oh, those Americans—the repose, the calm, they know it not!Mr. Van Aldin, he would that I fly myself in the pursuit of criminals through all the byways of Nice."

"I should have thought myself that it would not have been a bad plan," observed Knighton.

"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these matters one needs not energy but finesse.At the tennis one meets every one.That is so important.Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."

Derek came abruptly up to them.He looked reckless and angry, as though something had arisen to upset him.He and Knighton greeted each other with some frigidity.Poirot alone seemed unconscious of any sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly in a laudable attempt to put every one at his ease.He paid little compliments.

"It is amazing, M.Kettering, how well you speak the French," he observed—"so well that you could be taken for a Frenchman if you chose.That is a very rare accomplishment among Englishmen."

"I wish I did," said Katherine."I am only too well aware that my French is of a painfully British order."

They reached their seats and sat down, and almost immediately Knighton perceived his employer signaling to him from the other end of the court, and went off to speak to him.

"Me, I approve of that young man," said Poirot, sending a beaming smile after the departing secretary; "and you, Mademoiselle?"

"I like him very much."

"And you, M.Kettering?"

Some quick rejoinder was springing to Derek's lips, but he checked it as though something in the little Belgian's twinkling eyes had made him suddenly alert.He spoke carefully, choosing his words.

"Knighton is a very good fellow," he said.

Just for a moment Katherine fancied that Poirot looked disappointed.

"He is a great admirer of yours, M.Poirot," she said, and she related some of the things that Knighton had said.It amused her to see the little man plume himself like a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming an air of mock modesty that would have deceived no one.

"That reminds me, Mademoiselle," he said suddenly, "I have a little matter of business I have to speak to you about.When you were sitting talking to that poor lady in the train, I think you must have dropped a cigarette case."

Katherine looked rather astonished."I don't think so," she said.Poirot drew from his pocket a cigarette case of soft blue leather, with the initial "K" on it in gold.

"No, that is not mine," Katherine said.

"Ah, a thousand apologies.It was doubtless Madame's own.'K,' of course, stands for Kettering.We were doubtful, because she had another cigarette case in her bag, and it seemed odd that she should have two."He turned to Derek suddenly."You do not know, I suppose, whether this was your wife's case or not?"

Derek seemed momentarily taken aback.He stammered a little in his reply: "I—I don't know.I suppose so."

"It is not yours by any chance?"

"Certainly not.If it were mine it would hardly have been in my wife's possession."

Poirot looked more ingenuous and childlike than ever.

"I thought perhaps you might have dropped it when you were in your wife's compartment," he explained guilelessly.

"I never was there.I have already told the police that a dozen times."

"A thousand pardons," said Poirot, with his most apologetic air."It was Mademoiselle here who mentioned having seen you going in."

He stopped with an air of embarrassment.

Katherine looked at Derek.His face had gone rather white, but perhaps that was her fancy.His laugh, when it came, was natural enough.

"You made a mistake, Miss Grey," he said easily."From what the police have told me, I gather that my own compartment was only a door or two away from that of my wife's—though I never suspected the fact at the time.You must have seen me going into my own compartment."He got up quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.

"I'm going to leave you now," he announced."I can't stand my father-in-law at any price."

Van Aldin greeted Katherine very courteously, but was clearly in a bad humour.

"You seem fond of watching tennis, M.Poirot," he growled.

"It is a pleasure to me, yes," cried Poirot placidly.

"It is as well you are in France," said Van Aldin."We are made of sterner stuff in the States.Business comes before pleasure there."

Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he smiled gently and confidingly at the irate millionaire.

"Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you.Every one has his own methods.Me, I have always found it a delightful and pleasing idea to combine business and pleasure together."

He glanced at the other two.They were deep in conversation, absorbed in each other.Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction, and then leant towards the millionaire, lowering his voice as he did so.

"It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M.Van Aldin.Observe just opposite us that tall old man—the one with the yellow face and the venerable beard."

"Well, what of him?"

"That," Poirot said, "is M.Papopolous."

"A Greek, eh?"

"As you say—a Greek.He is a dealer in antiques of world-wide reputation.He has a small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by the police of being something more."

"What?"

"A receiver of stolen goods, especially jewels.There is nothing as to the re-cutting and re-setting of gems that he does not know.He deals with the highest in Europe and with the lowest of the riff-raff of the underworld."

Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly awakened attention.

"Well?"he demanded, a new note in his voice.

"I ask myself," said Poirot, "I, Hercule Poirot"—he thumped himself dramatically on the chest—"ask myself why is M.Papopolous suddenly come to Nice?"

Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment he had doubted Poirot and suspected the little man of being past his job, a poseur only. Now, in a moment, he switched back to his original opinion. He looked straight at the little detective.

"I must apologize to you, M.Poirot."

Poirot waved the apology aside with an extravagant gesture.

"Bah!"he cried, "all that is of no importance.Now listen, M.Van Aldin; I have news for you."

The millionaire looked sharply at him, all his interest aroused.

Poirot nodded.

"It is as I say.You will be interested.As you know, M.Van Aldin, the Comte de la Roche has been under surveillance ever since his interview with the Juge d'Instruction.The day after that, during his absence, the Villa Marina was searched by the police."

"Well," said Van Aldin, "did they find anything?I bet they didn't."

Poirot made him a little bow.

"Your acumen is not at fault, M.Van Aldin.They found nothing of an incriminating nature.It was not to be expected that they would.The Comte de la Roche, as your expressive idiom has it, was not born on the preceding day.He is an astute gentleman with great experience."

"Well, go on," growled Van Aldin.

"It may be, of course, that the Comte had nothing of a compromising nature to conceal.But we must not neglect the possibility.If, then, he has something to conceal, where is it?Not in his house—the police searched thoroughly.Not on his person, for he knows that he is liable to arrest at any minute.There remains—his car.As I say, he was under surveillance.He was followed on that day to Monte Carlo.From there he went by road to Mentone, driving himself.His car is a very powerful one, it outdistanced his pursuers, and for about a quarter of an hour they completely lost sight of him."

"And during that time you think he concealed something by the roadside?"asked Van Aldin, keenly interested.

"By the roadside, no. Ça n'est pas pratique. But listen now—me, I have made a little suggestion to M. Carrège. He is graciously pleased to approve of it. In each Bureau de Poste in the neighbourhood it has been seen to that there is some one who knows the Comte de la Roche by sight. Because, you see, Monsieur, the best way of hiding a thing is by sending it away by the post."

"Well?"demanded Van Aldin; his face was keenly alight with interest and expectation.

"Well—voilà!" With a dramatic flourish Poirot drew out from his pocket a loosely wrapped brown paper package from which the string had been removed.

"During that quarter of an hour's interval, our good gentleman mailed this."

"The address?"asked the other sharply.

Poirot nodded his head.

"Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not.The package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a small commission."

"Yes, but what is inside?"demanded Van Aldin impatiently.

Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box.He looked round him.

"It is a good moment," he said quietly."All eyes are on the tennis.Look, Monsieur!"

He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction of a second.An exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire.His face turned as white as chalk.

"My God!"he breathed, "the rubies."

He sat for a minute as though dazed.Poirot restored the box to his pocket and beamed placidly.Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand so heartily that the little man winced with pain.

"This is great," said Van Aldin."Great!You are the goods, M.Poirot.Once and for all, you are the goods."

"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly."Order, method, being prepared for eventualities beforehand—that is all there is to it."

"And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?"continued Van Aldin eagerly.

"No," said Poirot.

A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin's face.

"But why?What more do you want?"

"The Comte's alibi is still unshaken."

"But that is nonsense."

"Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately we have to prove it so."

"In the meantime he will slip through your fingers."

Poirot shook his head very energetically.

"No," he said, "he will not do that.The one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice is his social position.At all costs he must stop and brazen it out."

Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.

"But I don't see—"

Poirot raised a hand."Grant me a little moment, Monsieur.Me, I have a little idea.Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of Hercule Poirot—and they have been wrong."

"Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead.What is this little idea?"

Poirot paused for a moment and then he said:

"I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.Until then, say nothing to any one."

---

22.M.Papopolous Breakfasts

M.Papopolous was at breakfast.Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia.

There was a knock at the sitting-room door, and a chasseur entered with a card which he brought to Mr. Papopolous.The latter scrutinized it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.

"Ah!"said M.Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully, "Hercule Poirot.I wonder now."

Father and daughter looked at each other.

"I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said M.Papopolous."Zia, I hardly like this."

"He was very useful to you once," his daughter reminded him.

"That is true," acknowledged M.Papopolous; "also he has retired from active work, so I hear."

These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own language.Now M.Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French:

"Faites monter ce monsieur."

A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a cane with a jaunty air, entered the room.

"My dear M.Papopolous."

"My dear M.Poirot."

"And Mademoiselle Zia."Poirot swept her a low bow.

"You will excuse us going on with our breakfast," said M.Papopolous, pouring himself out another cup of coffee."Your call is—ahem!—a little early."

"It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but see you, I am pressed."

"Ah!"murmured M.Papopolous, "you are on an affair then?"

"A very serious affair," said Poirot: "the death of Madame Kettering."

"Let me see," M.Papopolous looked innocently up at the ceiling, "that was the lady who died on the Blue Train, was it not?I saw a mention of it in the papers, but there was no suggestion of foul play."

"In the interests of justice," said Poirot, "it was thought best to suppress that fact."

There was a pause.

"And in what way can I assist you, M.Poirot?"asked the dealer politely.

"Voilà," said Poirot, "I shall come to the point."He took from his pocket the same box that he had displayed at Cannes, and opening it, he took out the rubies and pushed them across the table to Papopolous.

Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old man's face moved.He took up the jewels and examined them with a kind of detached interest, then he looked across at the detective inquiringly:

"Superb, are they not?"asked Poirot.

"Quite excellent," said M.Papopolous.

"How much should you say they are worth?"

The Greek's face quivered a little.

"Is it really necessary to tell you, M.Poirot?"he asked.

"You are shrewd, M.Papopolous.No, it is not.They are not, for instance, worth five hundred thousand dollars."

Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined with him.

"As an imitation," said Papopolous, handing them back to Poirot, "they are, as I said, quite excellent.Would it be indiscreet to ask, M.Poirot, where you came across them?"

"Not at all," said Poirot; "I have no objection to telling an old friend like yourself.They were in the possession of the Comte de la Roche."

M.Papopolous' eyebrows lifted themselves eloquently.

"In-deed," he murmured.

Poirot leant forward and assumed his most innocent and beguiling air.

"M. Papopolous," he said, "I am going to lay my cards upon the table. The original of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering on the Blue Train. Now I will say to you first this: I am not concerned with the recovery of these jewels.That is the affair of the police. I am working not for the police but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands on the man who killed Madame Kettering. I am interested in the jewels only in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?"

The last two words were uttered with great significance.M.Papopolous, his face quite unmoved, said quietly:

"Go on."

"It seems to me probable, Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands in Nice—may already have done so."

"Ah!"said M.Papopolous.

He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and patriarchal than usual.

"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with animation, "what good fortune!My old friend, M.Papopolous, is in Nice.He will aid me."

"And how do you think I can aid you?"inquired M.Papopolous coldly.

"I said to myself, without doubt M.Papopolous is in Nice on business."

"Not at all," said M.Papopolous, "I am here for my health—by the doctor's orders."

He coughed hollowly.

"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere sympathy."But to continue.When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family jewels—to whom do they go?To M.Papopolous, is it not?He who is famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges these things."

The other bowed.

"You flatter me."

"It is a great thing, discretion," mused Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting smile which passed across the Greek's face."I, too, can be discreet."

The eyes of the two men met.

Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly, and obviously picking his words with care.

"I say to myself, this: if these jewels have changed hands in Nice, M.Papopolous would have heard of it.He has knowledge of all that passes in the jewel world."

"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, and helped himself to a croissant

"The police, you understand," said M.Poirot, "do not enter into the matter.It is a personal affair."

"One hears rumours," admitted M.Papopolous cautiously.

"Such as?"prompted Poirot.

"Is there any reason why I should pass them on?"

"Yes," said Poirot, "I think there is.You may remember, M.Papopolous, that seventeen years ago there was a certain article in your hands, left there as security by a very—er—Prominent Person.It was in your keeping and it unaccountably disappeared.You were, if I may use the English expression, in the soup."

His eyes came gently round to the girl.She had pushed her cup and plate aside, and with both elbows on the table and her chin resting on her hands was listening eagerly.Still keeping an eye on her he went on:

"I am in Paris at the time. You send for me. You place yourself in my hands. If I restore to you that—article, you say I shall earn your undying gratitude. Eh bien! I did restore it to you."

A long sigh came from M.Papopolous.

"It was the most unpleasant moment of my career," he murmured.

"Seventeen years is a long time," said Poirot thoughtfully, "but I believe that I am right in saying, Monsieur, that your race does not forget."

"A Greek?"murmured Papopolous, with an ironical smile.

"It was not as a Greek I meant," said Poirot.

There was a silence, and then the old man drew himself up proudly.

"You are right, M.Poirot," he said quietly."I am a Jew.And, as you say, our race does not forget."

"You will aid me then?"

"As regards the jewels, Monsieur, I can do nothing."

The old man, as Poirot had done just now, picked his words carefully.

"I know nothing.I have heard nothing.But I can perhaps do you a good turn—that is, if you are interested in racing."

"Under certain circumstances I might be," said Poirot, eyeing him steadily.

"There is a horse running at Longchamps that would, I think, repay attention.I cannot say for certain, you understand; this news passed through so many hands."

He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as though to make sure that the latter was comprehending him.

"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot, nodding.

"The name of the horse," said M.Papopolous, leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together, "is the Marquis.I think, but I am not sure, that it is an English horse, eh, Zia?"

"I think so too," said the girl.

Poirot got up briskly.

"I thank you, Monsieur," he said."It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable.Au revoir, Monsieur, and many thanks."

He turned to the girl.

"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia.It seems to me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris.One would say that two years had passed at most."

"There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three," said Zia ruefully.

"Not in your case," declared Poirot gallantly."You and your father will perhaps dine with me one night."

"We shall be delighted," replied Zia.

"Then we will arrange it," declared Poirot, "and now—je me sauve."

Poirot walked along the street humming a little tune to himself.He twirled his stick with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to himself quietly.He turned into the first Bureau de Poste he came to and sent off a telegram.He took some time in wording it, but it was in code and he had to call upon his memory.It purported to deal with a missing scarf-pin, and was addressed to Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard.

Decoded, it was short and to the point."Wire me everything known about man whose soubriquet is the Marquis."

---

23.A New Theory

It was exactly eleven o'clock when Poirot presented himself at Van Aldin's hotel.He found the millionaire alone.

"You are punctual, M.Poirot," he said, with a smile, as he rose to greet the detective.

"I am always punctual," said Poirot."The exactitude—always do I observe it.Without order and method—"

He broke off."Ah, but it is possible that I have said these things to you before.Let us come at once to the object of my visit."

"Your little idea?"

"Yes, my little idea."Poirot smiled.

"First of all, Monsieur.I should like to interview once more the maid, Ada Mason.She is here?"

"Yes, she's here."

"Ah!"

Van Aldin looked at him curiously.He rang the bell, and a messenger was dispatched to find Mason.

Poirot greeted her with his usual politeness, which was never without effect on that particular class.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle," he said cheerfully."Be seated, will you not, if Monsieur permits."

"Yes, yes, sit down, my girl," said Van Aldin.

"Thank you, sir," said Mason primly, and she sat down on the extreme edge of a chair.She looked bonier and more acid than ever.

"I have come to ask you yet more questions," said Poirot."We must get to the bottom of this affair.Always I return to the question of the man in the train.You have been shown the Comte de la Roche.You say that it is possible he was the man, but you are not sure."

"As I told you, sir, I never saw the gentleman's face.That is what makes it so difficult."

Poirot beamed and nodded.

"Precisely, exactly.I comprehend well the difficulty.Now, Mademoiselle, you have been in the service of Madame Kettering two months, you say.During that time, how often did you see your master?"

Mason reflected a minute or two, and then said:

"Only twice, sir."

"And was that near to, or far away?"

"Well once, sir, he came to Curzon Street.I was upstairs, and I looked over the banisters and saw him in the hall below.I was a bit curious like, you understand, knowing the way things—er—were."Mason finished up with her discreet cough.

"And the other time?"

"I was in the Park, sir, with Annie—one of the housemaids, sir, and she pointed out the master to me walking with a foreign lady."

Again Poirot nodded.

"Now listen, Mason, this man whom you saw in the carriage talking to your mistress at the Gare de Lyon, how do you know it was not your master?"

"The master, sir?Oh, I don't think it could have been."

"But you are not sure," Poirot persisted.

"Well—I never thought of it, sir."

Mason was clearly upset at the idea.

"You have heard that your master was also on the train.What more natural than that it should be he who came along the corridor."

"But the gentleman who was talking to the mistress must have come from outside, sir.He was dressed for the street.In an overcoat and soft hat."

"Just so, Mademoiselle, but reflect a minute.The train has just arrived at the Gare de Lyon.Many of the passengers promenade themselves upon the quay.Your mistress was about to do so, and for that purpose had doubtless put on her fur coat, eh?"

"Yes, sir," agreed Mason.

"Your master, then, does the same.The train is heated, but outside in the station it is cold.He puts on his overcoat and his hat and he walks along beside the train, and looking up at the lighted windows he suddenly sees Madame Kettering.Until then he has had no idea that she was on the train.Naturally, he mounts the carriage and goes to her compartment.She gives an exclamation of surprise at seeing him and quickly shuts the door between the two compartments since it is possible that their conversation may be of a private nature."

He leaned back in his chair and watched the suggestion slowly take effect.No one knew better than Hercule Poirot that the class to which Mason belongs cannot be hurried.He must give her time to get rid of her own preconceived ideas.At the end of three minutes she spoke:

"Well, of course, sir, it might be so.I never thought of it that way.The master is tall and dark, and just about that build.It was seeing the hat and coat that made me say it was a gentleman from outside.Yes, it might have been the master.I would not like to say either way, I am sure."

"Thank you very much, Mademoiselle.I shall not require you any further.Ah, just one thing more."He took from his pocket the cigarette case he had already shown to Katherine."Is that your mistress's case?"he said to Mason.

"No, sir, it is not the mistress's—at least—"

She looked suddenly startled.An idea was clearly working its way to the forefront of her mind.

"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.

"I think, sir—I can't be sure, but I think—it is a case that the mistress bought to give to the master."

"Ah," said Poirot in a non-committal manner.

"But whether she ever did give it to him or not, I can't say, of course."

"Precisely," said Poirot, "precisely.That is all, I think, Mademoiselle.I wish you good afternoon."

Ada Mason retired discreetly, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Poirot looked across at Van Aldin, a faint smile upon his face.The millionaire looked thunderstruck.

"You think—you think it was Derek?"he queried, "but—everything points the other way.Why, the Count has actually been caught redhanded with the jewels on him."

"No."

"But you told me—"

"What did I tell you?"

"That story about the jewels.You showed them to me."

"No."

Van Aldin stared at him.

"You mean to say you didn't show them to me."

"No."

"Yesterday—at the tennis?"

"No."

"Are you crazy, M.Poirot, or am I?"

"Neither of us is crazy," said the detective."You ask me a question; I answer it.You say have I not shown you the jewels yesterday?I reply—no.What I showed you, M.Van Aldin, was a first-class imitation, hardly to be distinguished except by an expert from the real ones."

---

24.Poirot Gives Advice

It took the millionaire some few minutes to take the thing in.He stared at Poirot as though dumbfounded.The little Belgian nodded at him gently.

"Yes," he said, "it alters the position, does it not?"

"Imitation!"

He leaned forward.

"All along, M.Poirot, you have had this idea?All along this is what you have been driving at?You never believed that the Comte de la Roche was the murderer?"

"I have had doubts," said Poirot quietly."I said as much to you.Robbery with violence and murder"—he shook his head energetically—"no, it is difficult to picture.It does not harmonize with the personality of the Comte de la Roche."

"But you believe that he meant to steal the rubies?"

"Certainly.There is no doubt as to that.See, I will recount to you the affair as I see it.The Comte knew of the rubies and he laid his plans accordingly.He made up a romantic story of a book he was writing, so as to induce your daughter to bring them with her.He provided himself with an exact duplicate.It is clear, is it not, that substitution is what he was after.Madame, your daughter, was not an expert on jewels.It would probably be a long time before she discovered what had occurred.When she did so—well—I do not think she would prosecute the Comte.Too much would come out.He would have in his possession various letters of hers.Oh yes, a very safe scheme from the Comte's point of view—one that he has probably carried out before."

"It seems clear enough, yes," said Van Aldin musingly.

"It accords with the personality of the Comte de la Roche," said Poirot.

"Yes, but now—" Van Aldin looked searchingly at the other."What actually happened?Tell me that, M.Poirot."

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"It is quite simple," he said; "some one stepped in ahead of the Comte."

There was a long pause.

Van Aldin seemed to be turning things over in his mind.When he spoke it was without beating about the bush.

"How long have you suspected my son-in-law, M.Poirot?"

"From the very first.He had the motive and the opportunity.Every one took for granted that the man in Madame's compartment in Paris was the Comte de la Roche.I thought so, too.Then you happened to mention that you had once mistaken the Comte for your son-in-law.That told me that they were of the same height and build, and alike in colouring.It put some curious ideas in my head.The maid had only been with your daughter a short time.It was unlikely that she would know Mr. Kettering well by sight, since he had not been living in Curzon Street; also the man was careful to keep his face turned away."

"You believe he—murdered her," said Van Aldin hoarsely.

Poirot raised a hand quickly.

"No, no, I did not say that—but it is a possibility—a very strong possibility.He was in a tight corner, a very tight corner, threatened with ruin.This was the one way out."

"But why take the jewels?"

"To make the crime appear an ordinary one committed by train robbers.Otherwise suspicion might have fallen on him straight away."

"If that is so, what has he done with the rubies?"

"That remains to be seen.There are several possibilities.There is a man in Nice who may be able to help, the man I pointed out at the tennis."

He rose to his feet and Van Aldin rose also and laid his hand on the little man's shoulder.His voice when he spoke was harsh with emotion.

"Find Ruth's murderer for me," he said, "that is all I ask."

Poirot drew himself up.

"Leave it in the hands of Hercule Poirot," he said superbly; "have no fears.I will discover the truth."

He brushed a speck of fluff from his hat, smiled reassuringly at the millionaire, and left the room.Nevertheless, as he went down the stairs some of the confidence faded from his face.

"It is all very well," he murmured to himself, "but there are difficulties.Yes, there are great difficulties."As he was passing out of the hotel he came to a sudden halt.A car had drawn up in front of the door.In it was Katherine Grey, and Derek Kettering was standing beside it talking to her earnestly.A minute or two later the car drove off and Derek remained standing on the pavement looking after it.The expression on his face was an odd one.He gave a sudden impatient gesture of the shoulders, sighed deeply, and turned to find Hercule Poirot standing at his elbow.In spite of himself he started.The two men looked at each other.Poirot steadily and unwaveringly and Derek with a kind of light-hearted defiance.There was a sneer behind the easy mockery of his tone when he spoke, raising his eyebrows slightly as he did so.

"Rather a dear, isn't she?"he asked easily.

His manner was perfectly natural.

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "that describes Mademoiselle Katherine very well.It is very English, that phrase there, and Mademoiselle Katherine, she also is very English."

Derek remained perfectly still without answering.

"And yet she is sympathique, is it not so?"

"Yes," said Derek; "there are not many like her."

He spoke softly, almost as though to himself.Poirot nodded significantly.Then he leant towards the other and spoke in a different tone, a quiet, grave tone that was new to Derek Kettering.

"You will pardon an old man, Monsieur, if he says to you something that you may consider impertinent.There is one of your English proverbs that I would quote to you.It says that 'it is well to be off with the old love, before being on with the new.'"

Kettering turned on him angrily.

"What the devil do you mean?"

"You enrage yourself at me," said Poirot placidly."I expected as much.As to what I mean—I mean, Monsieur, that there is a second car with a lady in it.If you turn your head you will see her."

Derek spun round.His face darkened with anger.

"Mirelle, damn her!"he muttered."I will soon—"

Poirot arrested the movement he was about to make.

"Is it wise what you are about to do there?"he asked warningly.His eyes shone softly with a green light in them.But Derek was past noticing the warning signs.In his anger he was completely off his guard.

"I have broken with her utterly, and she knows it," cried Derek angrily.

"You have broken with her, yes, but has she broken with you?"

Derek gave a sudden harsh laugh.

"She won't break with two million pounds if she can help it," he murmured brutally; "trust Mirelle for that."

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

"You have the outlook cynical," he murmured.

"Have I?"There was no mirth in his sudden wide smile."I have lived in the world long enough, M.Poirot, to know that all women are pretty much alike."His face softened suddenly."All save one."

He met Poirot's gaze defiantly.A look of alertness crept into his eyes, then faded again."That one," he said, and jerked his head in the direction of Cap Martin.

"Ah!"said Poirot.

This quiescence was well calculated to provoke the impetuous temperament of the other.

"I know what you are going to say," said Derek rapidly, "the kind of life I have led, the fact that I am not worthy of her.You will say that I have no right to think even of such a thing.You will say that it is not a case of giving a dog a bad name—I know that it is not decent to be speaking like this with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered at that."

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.

"Ça 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 that 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 tisaneThe expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it always causes me emotion."

---

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 seen the Comte de la Roche only 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 restrained him.He marvelled anew that Ruth could 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 different nature.I am, as I said, extremely short of money, and my conscience might impel me 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.

"Dereek—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 làI 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 repeated 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.

---

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 things 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."

Katherine 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."

Katherine looked up sharply.

"When you say ruined—"

"I mean from his point of view.One must be wholehearted in crime as in everything else."

"You are trying to warn me," said Katherine in a low voice."Against whom?"

"I cannot look into your heart, Mademoiselle; I do not think you would let me if I could.I will just say this.There are men who have a strange fascination for women."

"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine, with a smile.

"There are others—more dangerous than the Comte de la Roche.They have qualities that appeal—recklessness, daring, audacity.You are fascinated, Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more than that.I hope so.This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels is genuine enough, but all the same—"

"Yes?"

He got up and stood looking down at her.Then he spoke, in a low, distinct voice:

"You could, perhaps, love a thief, Mademoiselle, but not a murderer."

He wheeled sharply away on that and left her sitting there.

He heard the little gasp she gave and paid no attention.He had said what he meant to say.He left her there to digest that last unmistakable phrase.

Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino into the sunshine, saw her sitting alone on the bench and joined her.

"I have been gambling," he said, with a light laugh, "gambling unsuccessfully.I have lost everything—everything, that is, that I have with me."

Katherine looked at him with a troubled face.She was aware at once of something new in his manner, some hidden excitement that betrayed itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.

"I should think you were always a gambler.The spirit of gambling appeals to you."

"Every day and in every way a gambler? You are about right. Don't you find something stimulating in it? To risk all on one throw—there is nothing like it."

Calm and stolid as she believed herself to be, Katherine felt a faint answering thrill.

"I want to talk to you," went on Derek, "and who knows when I may have another opportunity? There is an idea going about that I murdered my wife—no, please don't interrupt. It is absurd, of course." He paused for a minute or two, then went on, speaking more deliberately. "In dealing with the police and Local Authorities here I have had to pretend to—well—a certain decency. I prefer not to pretend with you. I meant to marry money. I was on the lookout for money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin. She had the look of a slim Madonna about her, and I—well—I made all sorts of good resolutions—and was bitterly disillusioned. My wife was in love with another man when she married me. She never cared for me in the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the thing was a perfectly respectable bargain. She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money. The trouble arose simply through Ruth's American blood. Without caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually dancing attendance. Time and again she as good as told me that she had bought me and that I belonged to her. The result was that I behaved abominably to her. My father-in-law will tell you that, and he is quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I was faced with absolute disaster." He laughed suddenly. "One is faced with absolute disaster when one is up against a man like Rufus Van Aldin."

"And then?"asked Katherine in a low voice.

"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered—very providentially."

He laughed, and the sound of his laugh hurt Katherine.She winced.

"Yes," said Derek, "that wasn't in very good taste.But it is quite true.Now I am going to tell you something more.From the very first moment I saw you I knew you were the only woman in the world for me.I was—afraid of you.I thought you might bring me bad luck."

"Bad luck?"said Katherine sharply.

He stared at her."Why do you repeat it like that?What have you got in your mind?"

"I was thinking of things that people have said to me."

Derek grinned suddenly."They will say a lot to you about me, my dear, and most of it will be true.Yes, and worse things too—things that I shall never tell you.I have been a gambler always—and I have taken some long odds.I shan't confess to you now or at any other time.The past is done with.There is one thing I do wish you to believe.I swear to you solemnly that I did not kill my wife."

He said the words earnestly enough, yet there was somehow a theatrical touch about them.He met her troubled gaze and went on:

"I know. I lied the other day. It was my wife's compartment I went into."

"Ah," said Katherine.

"It's difficult to explain just why I went in, but I'll try.I did it on an impulse.You see, I was more or less spying on my wife.I kept out of sight on the train.Mirelle had told me that my wife was meeting the Comte de la Roche in Paris.Well, as far as I had seen, that was not so.I felt ashamed, and I thought suddenly that it would be a good thing to have it out with her once and for all, so I pushed open the door and went in."

He paused.

"Yes," said Katherine gently.

"Ruth was lying on the bunk asleep—her face was turned away from me—I could see only the back of her head.I could have waked her up, of course.But suddenly I felt a reaction.What, after all, was there to say that we hadn't both of us said a hundred times before?She looked so peaceful lying there.I left the compartment as quietly as I could."

"Why lie about it to the police?"asked Katherine.

"Because I'm not a complete fool.I've realized from the beginning that, from the point of view of motive, I'm the ideal murderer.If I once admitted that I had been in her compartment just before she was murdered, I'd do for myself once and for all."

"I see."

Did she see?She could not have told herself.She was feeling the magnetic attraction of Derek's personality, but there was something in her that resisted, that held back....

"Katherine—"

"I—"

"You know that I care for you.Do—do you care for me?"

"I—I don't know."

Weakness there.Either she knew or she did not know.If—if only—

She cast a look round desperately as though seeking something that would help her.A soft colour rose in her cheeks as a tall fair man with a limp came hurrying along the path towards them—Major Knighton.

There was relief and an unexpected warmth in her voice as she greeted him.

Derek stood up scowling, his face black as a thundercloud.

"Lady Tamplin having a flutter?"he said easily."I must join her and give her the benefit of my system."

He swung round on his heel and left them together.Katherine sat down again.Her heart was beating rapidly and unevenly, but as she sat there talking commonplaces to the quiet, rather shy man beside her, her self-command came back.

Then she realized with a shock that Knighton also was laying bare his heart, much as Derek had done, but in a very different manner.

He was shy and stammering.The words came haltingly with no eloquence to back them.

"From the first moment I saw you—I—I ought not to have spoken so soon—but Mr. Van Aldin may leave here any day, and I might not have another chance.I know you can't care for me so soon—that is impossible.I dare say it is presumption anyway on my part.I have private means, but not very much—no, please don't answer now.I know what your answer would be.But in case I went away suddenly I just wanted you to know—that I care."

She was shaken—touched.His manner was so gentle and appealing.

"There's one thing more.I just wanted to say that if—if you are ever in trouble, anything that I can do—"

He took her hand in his, held it tightly for a minute, then dropped it and walked rapidly away towards the Casino without looking back.

Katherine sat perfectly still, looking after him.Derek Kettering—Richard Knighton—two men so different—so very different.There was something kind about Knighton, kind and trustworthy.As to Derek—

Then suddenly Katherine had a very curious sensation.She felt that she was no longer sitting alone on the seat in the Casino gardens, but that some one was standing beside her, and that that some one was the dead woman, Ruth Kettering.She had a further impression that Ruth wanted—badly—to tell her something.The impression was so curious, so vivid, that it could not be driven away.She felt absolutely certain that the spirit of Ruth Kettering was trying to convey something of vital importance to her.The impression faded.Katherine got up, trembling a little.What was it that Ruth Kettering had wanted so badly to say?

---

27.Interview with Mirelle

When Knighton left Katherine he went in search of Hercule Poirot, whom he found in the Rooms, jauntily placing the minimum stake on the even numbers.As Knighton joined him, the number thirty-three turned up, and Poirot's stake was swept away.

"Bad luck!"said Knighton; "are you going to stake again?"

Poirot shook his head.

"Not at present."

"Do you feel the fascination of gambling?"asked Knighton curiously.

"Not at roulette."

Knighton shot a swift glance at him.His own face became troubled.He spoke haltingly, with a touch of deference.

"I wonder, are you busy, M.Poirot?There is something I would like to ask you about."

"I am at your disposal.Shall we go outside?It is pleasant in the sunshine."

They strolled out together, and Knighton drew a deep breath.

"I love the Riviera," he said."I came here first twelve years ago, during the War, when I was sent to Lady Tamplin's Hospital.It was like Paradise, coming from Flanders to this."

"It must have been," said Poirot.

"How long ago the War seems now!"mused Knighton.

They walked on in silence for some little way.

"You have something on your mind?"said Poirot.

Knighton looked at him in some surprise.

"You are quite right," he confessed."I don't know how you knew it, though."

"It showed itself only too plainly," said Poirot drily.

"I did not know that I was so transparent."

"It is my business to observe the physiognomy," the little man explained, with dignity.

"I will tell you, M.Poirot.You have heard of this dancer woman—Mirelle?"

"She who is the chère amie of M. Derek Kettering?"

"Yes, that is the one; and, knowing this, you will understand that Mr. Van Aldin is naturally prejudiced against her.She wrote to him, asking for an interview.He told me to dictate a curt refusal, which of course I did.This morning she came to the hotel and sent up her card, saying that it was urgent and vital that she should see Mr. Van Aldin at once."

"You interest me," said Poirot.

"Mr. Van Aldin was furious.He told me what message to send down to her.I ventured to disagree with him.It seemed to me both likely and probable that this woman Mirelle might give us valuable information.We know that she was on the Blue Train, and she may have seen or heard something that it might be vital for us to know.Don't you agree with me, M.Poirot?"

"I do," said Poirot drily."M.Van Aldin, if I may say so, behaved exceedingly foolishly."

"I am glad you take that view of the matter," said the secretary."Now I am going to tell you something, M.Poirot.So strongly did I feel the unwisdom of Mr. Van Aldin's attitude that I went down privately and had an interview with the lady."

"Eh bien?"

"The difficulty was that she insisted on seeing Mr. Van Aldin himself.I softened his message as much as I possibly could.In fact—to be candid—I gave it in a very different form.I said that Mr. Van Aldin was too busy to see her at present, but that she might make any communication she wished to me.That, however, she could not bring herself to do, and she left without saying anything further.But I have a strong impression, M.Poirot, that that woman knows something."

"This is serious," said Poirot quietly."You know where she is staying?"

"Yes."Knighton mentioned the name of the hotel.

"Good," said Poirot; "we will go there immediately."

The secretary looked doubtful.

"And Mr. Van Aldin?"he queried doubtfully.

"M.Van Aldin is an obstinate man," said Poirot drily."I do not argue with obstinate men.I act in spite of them.We will go and see the lady immediately.I will tell her that you are empowered by M.Van Aldin to act for him, and you will guard yourself well from contradicting me."

Knighton still looked slightly doubtful, but Poirot took no notice of his hesitation.

At the hotel, they were told that Mademoiselle was in, and Poirot sent up both his and Knighton's cards, with "From Mr. Van Aldin" pencilled upon them.

Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle would receive them.

When they were ushered into the dancer's apartments, Poirot immediately took the lead.

"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing very low, "we are here on behalf of M.Van Aldin."

"Ah!And why did he not come himself?"

"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously; "the Riviera throat, it has him in its grip, but me, I am empowered to act for him, as is Major Knighton, his secretary.Unless, of course, Mademoiselle would prefer to wait a fortnight or so."

If there was one thing of which Poirot was tolerably certain, it was that to a temperament such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait" was anathema.

"Eh bien, I will speak, Messieurs," she cried."I have been patient.I have held my hand.And for what?That I should be insulted!Yes, insulted!Ah!Does he think to treat Mirelle like that?To throw her off like an old glove.I tell you never has a man tired of me.Always it is I who tire of them."

She paced up and down the room, her slender body trembling with rage.A small table impeded her free passage and she flung it from her into a corner, where it splintered against the wall.

"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"

Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies she flung it into the grate, where it smashed into a hundred pieces.

Knighton was looking at her with cold British disapproval.He felt embarrassed and ill at ease.Poirot, on the other hand, with twinkling eyes was thoroughly enjoying the scene.

"Ah, it is magnificent!"he cried."It can be seen—Madame has a temperament."

"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist has a temperament.I told Dereek to beware, and he would not listen."She whirled round on Poirot suddenly."It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that English miss?"

Poirot coughed.

"On m'a dit," he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."

Mirelle came towards them.

"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There—now you have it! He told me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an impasse—zut!he took the easiest way out."

"You say that M.Kettering murdered his wife."

"Yes, yes, yes.Have I not told you so?"

"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that—er—statement."

"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the train."

"When?"asked Poirot sharply.

"Just before the train reached Lyons."

"You will swear to that, Mademoiselle?"

It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.

"Yes."

There was a moment's silence.Mirelle was panting, and her eyes, half defiant, half frightened, went from the face of one man to the other.

"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle," said the detective."You realize how serious?"

"Certainly I do."

"That is well," said Poirot."Then you understand, Mademoiselle, that no time must be lost.You will, perhaps, accompany us immediately to the office of the Examining Magistrate."

Mirelle was taken aback.She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen, she had no loophole for escape.

"Very well," she muttered."I will fetch a coat."

Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton exchanged glances.

"It is necessary to act while—how do you say it?—the iron is hot," murmured Poirot."She is temperamental; in an hour's time, maybe, she will repent, and she will wish to draw back.We must prevent that at all costs."

Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sand-coloured velvet wrap trimmed with leopard skin.She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and dangerous.Her eyes still flashed with anger and determination.

They found M.Caux and the Examining Magistrate together.A few brief introductory words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle Mirelle was courteously entreated to tell her tale.This she did in much the same words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more soberness of manner.

"This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle," said M.Carrège slowly.He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked keenly and searchingly at the dancer through them.

"You wish us to believe M.Kettering actually boasted of the crime to you beforehand?"

"Yes, yes.She was too healthy, he said.If she were to die it must be an accident—he would arrange it all."

"You are aware, Mademoiselle," said M.Carrège sternly, "that you are making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?"

"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I take that statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know men, Monsieur; they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one were to take all they said au pied de la lettre."

The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.

"We are to take it, then, that you regarded M.Kettering's threats as mere idle words?May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up your engagements in London and come out to the Riviera?"

Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.

"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply."Was it so unnatural?"

Poirot interpolated a question gently.

"Was it, then, at M.Kettering's wish that you accompanied him to Nice?"

Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this.She hesitated perceptibly before she spoke.When she did, it was with a haughty indifference of manner.

"In such matters I please myself, Monsieur," she said.

That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men.They said nothing.

"When were you first convinced that M.Kettering had murdered his wife?"

"As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M.Kettering come out of his wife's compartment just before the train drew into Lyons.There was a look on his face—ah!at the moment I could not understand it—a look haunted and terrible.I shall never forget it."

Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant gesture.

"Quite so," said M.Carrège.

"Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons, then—then I knew!"

"And still—you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the Commissary mildly.

Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in the rôle she was playing.

"Shall I betray my lover?"she asked."Ah no; do not ask a woman to do that."

"Yet now—" hinted M.Caux.

"Now it is different.He has betrayed me!Shall I suffer that in silence...?"

The Examining Magistrate checked her.

"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly."And now, Mademoiselle, perhaps you will read over the statement of what you have told us, see that it is correct, and sign it."

Mirelle wasted no time on the document.

"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct."She rose to her feet."You require me no longer, Messieurs?"

"At present, no, Mademoiselle."

"And Dereek will be arrested?"

"At once, Mademoiselle."

Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.

"He should have thought of this before he insulted me," she cried.

"There is one little matter"—Poirot coughed apologetically—"just a matter of detail."

"Yes?"

"What makes you think Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons?"

Mirelle stared.

"But she was dead."

"Was she?"

"Yes, of course.I—"

She came to an abrupt stop.Poirot was regarding her intently, and he saw the wary look that came into her eyes.

"I have been told so.Everybody says so."

"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned outside the Examining Magistrate's office."

Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.

"One hears those things," she said vaguely; "they get about.Somebody told me.I can't remember who it was."

She moved to the door.M.Caux sprang forward to open it for her, and as he did so, Poirot's voice rose gently once more.

"And the jewels?Pardon, Mademoiselle.Can you tell me anything about those?"

"The jewels?What jewels?"

"The rubies of Catherine the Great.Since you hear so much, you must have heard of them."

"I know nothing about any jewels," said Mirelle sharply.

She went out, closing the door behind her.M.Caux came back to his chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.

"What a fury!" he said, "but diablement chic, I wonder if she is telling the truth?I think so."

"There is some truth in her story, certainly," said Poirot. "We have confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor a short time before the train reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go into his wife's compartment."

"The case against him seems quite clear," said the Commissary, sighing; "it is a thousand pities," he murmured.

"How do you mean?"asked Poirot.

"It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche by the heels. This time, ma foi, I thought we had got him.This other—it is not nearly so satisfactory."

M.Carrège rubbed his nose.

"If anything goes wrong," he observed cautiously, "it will be most awkward.M.Kettering is of the aristocracy.It will get into the newspapers.If we have made a mistake—" He shrugged his shoulders forebodingly.

"The jewels now," said the Commissary, "what do you think he has done with them?"

"He took them for a plant, of course," said M.Carrège; "they must have been a great inconvenience to him and very awkward to dispose of."

Poirot smiled.

"I have an idea of my own about the jewels.Tell me, Messieurs, what do you know of a man called the Marquis?"

The Commissary leant forward excitedly.

"The Marquis," he said, "the Marquis?Do you think he is mixed up in this affair, M.Poirot?"

"I ask you what you know of him."

The Commissary made an expressive grimace.

"Not as much as we should like to," he observed ruefully."He works behind the scenes, you understand.He has underlings who do his dirty work for him.But he is some one high up.That we are sure of.He does not come from the criminal classes."

"A Frenchman?"

"Y—es. At least we believe so. But we are not sure. He has worked in France, in England, in America. There was a series of robberies in Switzerland last autumn which were laid at his door. By all accounts he is a grand seigneur, speaking French and English with equal perfection and his origin is a mystery."

Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.

"Can you tell us nothing more, M.Poirot," urged the Commissary.

"At present, no," said Poirot, "but I may have news awaiting me at my hotel."

M.Carrège looked uncomfortable."If the Marquis is concerned in this—" he began, and then stopped.

"It upsets our ideas," complained M.Caux.

"It does not upset mine," said Poirot."On the contrary, I think it agrees with them very well.Au revoir, Messieurs; if news of any importance comes to me I will communicate it to you immediately."

He walked back to his hotel with a grave face.In his absence a telegram had come to him.Taking a paper-cutter from his pocket, he slit it open.It was a long telegram, and he read it over twice before slowly putting it in his pocket.Upstairs, George was awaiting his master.

"I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued.Will you order for me a small pot of chocolate?"

The chocolate was duly ordered and brought, and George set it at the little table at his master's elbow.As he was preparing to retire, Poirot spoke:

"I believe, Georges, that you have a good knowledge of the English aristocracy?"murmured Poirot.

George smiled apologetically.

"I think that I might say that I have, sir," he replied.

"I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are invariably drawn from the lower orders."

"Not always, sir.There was great trouble with one of the Duke of Devize's younger sons.He left Eton under a cloud, and after that he caused great anxiety on several occasions.The police would not accept the view that it was kleptomania.A very clever young gentleman, sir, but vicious through and through, if you take my meaning.His Grace shipped him to Australia, and I hear he was convicted out there under another name.Very odd, sir, but there it is.The young gentleman, I need hardly say, was not in want financially."

Poirot nodded his head slowly.

"Love of excitement," he murmured, "and a little kink in the brain somewhere.I wonder now—"

He drew out the telegram from his pocket and read it again.

"Then there was Lady Mary Fox's daughter," continued the valet in a mood of reminiscence."Swindled tradespeople something shocking, she did.Very worrying to the best families, if I may say so, and there are many other queer cases I could mention."

"You have a wide experience, Georges," murmured Poirot."I often wonder having lived so exclusively with titled families that you demean yourself by coming as a valet to me.I put it down to love of excitement on your part."

"Not exactly, sir," said George. "I happened to see in Society Snippets that you had been received at Buckingham Palace. That was just when I was looking for a new situation. His Majesty, so it said, had been most gracious and friendly and thought very highly of your abilities."

"Ah," said Poirot, "one always likes to know the reason for things."

He remained in thought for a few moments and then said:

"You rang up Mademoiselle Papopolous?"

"Yes, sir; she and her father will be pleased to dine with you to-night."

"Ah," said Poirot thoughtfully.He drank off his chocolate, set the cup and saucer neatly in the middle of the tray, and spoke gently, more to himself than to the valet.

"The squirrel, my good Georges, collects nuts.He stores them up in the autumn so that they may be of advantage to him later.To make a success of humanity, Georges, we must profit by the lessons of those below us in the animal kingdom.I have always done so.I have been the cat, watching at the mouse hole.I have been the good dog following up the scent, and not taking my nose from the trail.And also, my good Georges, I have been the squirrel.I have stored away the little fact here, the little fact there.I go now to my store and I take out one particular nut, a nut that I stored away—let me see, seventeen years ago.You follow me, Georges?"

"I should hardly have thought, sir," said George, "that nuts would have kept so long as that, though I know one can do wonders with preserving bottles."

Poirot looked at him and smiled.

---

28.Poirot Plays the Squirrel

Poirot started to keep his dinner appointment with a margin of three-quarters of an hour to spare.He had an object in this.The car took him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin's house at Cap Martin, where he asked for Miss Grey.The ladies were dressing and Poirot was shown into a small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse of three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin came to him.

"Katherine is not quite ready yet," she said."Can I give her a message, or would you rather wait until she comes down?"

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.He was a minute or two in replying, as though something of great weight hung upon his decision.Apparently the answer to such a simple question mattered.

"No," he said at last, "no, I do not think it is necessary that I should wait to see Mademoiselle Katherine.I think, perhaps, that it is better that I should not.These things are sometimes difficult."

Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows slightly raised.

"I have a piece of news," continued Poirot."You will, perhaps, tell your friend.M.Kettering was arrested to-night for the murder of his wife."

"You want me to tell Katherine that?"asked Lenox.She breathed rather hard, as though she had been running; her face, Poirot thought, looked white and strained—rather noticeably so.

"If you please, Mademoiselle."

"Why?"said Lenox."Do you think Katherine will be upset?Do you think she cares?"

"I don't know, Mademoiselle," said Poirot."See, I admit it frankly.As a rule I know everything, but in this case, I—well, I do not.You, perhaps, know better than I do."

"Yes," said Lenox, "I know—but I am not going to tell you all the same."

She paused for a minute or two, her dark brows drawn together in a frown.

"You believe he did it?"she said abruptly.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"The police say so."

"Ah," said Lenox, "hedging, are you?So there is something to hedge about."

Again she was silent, frowning.Poirot said gently:

"You have known Derek Kettering a long time, have you not?"

"Off and on ever since I was a kid," said Lenox gruffly.

Poirot nodded his head several times without speaking.

With one of her brusque movements Lenox drew forward a chair and sat down on it, her elbows on the table and her face supported by her hands.Sitting thus, she looked directly across the table at Poirot.

"What have they got to go on?"she demanded."Motive, I suppose.Probably came into money at her death."

"He came into two million."

"And if she had not died he would have been ruined?"

"Yes."

"But there must have been more than that," persisted Lenox."He travelled by the same train, I know, but—that would not be enough to go on by itself."

"A cigarette case with the letter 'K' on it which did not belong to Mrs. Kettering was found in her carriage, and he was seen by two people entering and leaving the compartment just before the train got into Lyons."

"What two people?"

"Your friend Miss Grey was one of them.The other was Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer."

"And he, Derek, what has he got to say about it?"demanded Lenox sharply.

"He denies having entered his wife's compartment at all," said Poirot.

"Fool!"said Lenox crisply, frowning."Just before Lyons, you say?Does nobody know when—when she died?"

"The doctors' evidence necessarily cannot be very definite," said Poirot; "they are inclined to think that death was unlikely to have occurred after leaving Lyons.And we know this much, that a few moments after leaving Lyons Mrs. Kettering was dead."

"How do you know that?"

Poirot was smiling rather oddly to himself.

"Some one else went into her compartment and found her dead."

"And they did not rouse the train?"

"No."

"Why was that?"

"Doubtless they had their reasons."

Lenox looked at him sharply.

"Do you know the reason?"

"I think so—yes."

Lenox sat still turning things over in her mind.Poirot watched her in silence.At last she looked up.A soft colour had come into her cheeks and her eyes were shining.

"You think some one on the train must have killed her, but that need not be so at all.What is to stop any one swinging themselves on to the train when it stopped at Lyons?They could go straight to her compartment, strangle her, and take the rubies and drop off the train again without any one being the wiser.She may have been actually killed while the train was in Lyons station.Then she would have been alive when Derek went in, and dead when the other person found her."

Poirot leant back in his chair.He drew a deep breath.He looked across at the girl and nodded his head three times, then he heaved a sigh.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "what you have said there is very just—very true.I was struggling in darkness, and you have shown me a light.There was a point that puzzled me and you have made it plain."

He got up.

"And Derek?"said Lenox.

"Who knows?"said Poirot, with a shrug of his shoulders."But I will tell you this, Mademoiselle.I am not satisfied; no, I, Hercule Poirot, am not yet satisfied.It may be that this very night I shall learn something more.At least, I go to try."

"You are meeting some one?"

"Yes."

"Some one who knows something?"

"Some one who might know something.In these matters one must leave no stone unturned.Au revoir, Mademoiselle."

Lenox accompanied him to the door.

"Have I—helped?"she asked.

Poirot's face softened as he looked up at her standing on the doorstep above him.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, you have helped.If things are very dark, always remember that."

When the car had driven off he relapsed into a frowning absorption, but in his eyes was that faint green light which was always the precursor of the triumph to be.

He was a few minutes late at the rendezvous, and found that M.Papopolous and his daughter had arrived before him.His apologies were abject, and he outdid himself in politeness and small attentions.The Greek was looking particularly benign and noble this evening, a sorrowful patriarch of blameless life.Zia was looking handsome and good humoured.The dinner was a pleasant one.Poirot was his best and most sparkling self.He told anecdotes, he made jokes, he paid graceful compliments to Zia Papopolous, and he told many interesting incidents of his career.The menu was a carefully selected one, and the wine was excellent.

At the close of dinner M.Papopolous inquired politely:

"And the tip I gave you?You have had your little flutter on the horse?"

"I am in communication with—er—my bookmaker," replied Poirot.

The eyes of the two men met.

"A well-known horse, eh?"

"No," said Poirot; "it is what our friends, the English, call a dark horse."

"Ah!"said M.Papopolous thoughtfully.

"Now we must step across to the Casino and have our little flutter at the roulette table," cried Poirot gaily.

At the Casino the party separated, Poirot devoting himself solely to Zia, whilst Papopolous himself drifted away.

Poirot was not fortunate, but Zia had a run of good luck, and had soon won a few thousand francs.

"It would be as well," she observed drily to Poirot, "if I stopped now."

Poirot's eyes twinkled.

"Superb!"he exclaimed."You are the daughter of your father, Mademoiselle Zia.To know when to stop.Ah!that is the art."

He looked round the rooms.

"I cannot see your father anywhere about," he remarked carelessly."I will fetch your cloak for you, Mademoiselle, and we will go out in the gardens."

He did not, however, go straight to the cloak-room.His sharp eyes had seen but a little while before the departure of M.Papopolous.He was anxious to know what had become of the wily Greek.He ran him to earth unexpectedly in the big entrance hall.He was standing by one of the pillars, talking to a lady who had just arrived.The lady was Mirelle.

Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the room.He arrived at the other side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking together in an animated fashion—or rather, that is to say, the dancer was talking, Papopolous contributing an occasional monosyllable and a good many expressive gestures.

"I tell you I must have time," the dancer was saying."If you give me time I will get the money."

"To wait"—the Greek shrugged his shoulders—"it is awkward."

"Only a very little while," pleaded the other."Ah!but you must!A week—ten days—that is all I ask.You can be sure of your affair.The money will be forthcoming."

Papopolous shifted a little and looked round him uneasily—to find Poirot almost at his elbow with a beaming innocent face.

"Ah!vous voilà, M.Papopolous.I have been looking for you.It is permitted that I take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the gardens?Good evening, Mademoiselle."He bowed very low to Mirelle."A thousand pardons that I did not see you immediately."

The dancer accepted his greetings rather impatiently. She was clearly annoyed at the interruption of her tête-à-têtePoirot was quick to take the hint.Papopolous had already murmured: "Certainly—but certainly," and Poirot withdrew forthwith.

He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they strolled out into the gardens.

"This is where the suicides take place," said Zia.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is said. Men are foolish, are they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air, it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave all that simply because one has no money—or because the heart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?"

Zia laughed.

"You should not laugh at love, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, shaking an energetic forefinger at her."You who are young and beautiful."

"Hardly that," said Zia; "you forget that I am thirty-three, M.Poirot.I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise.As you told my father, it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris that time."

"When I look at you, it seems much less," said Poirot gallantly. "You were then very much as you are now, Mademoiselle, a little thinner, a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension. Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not quite a woman.You were very delicious, very charming, Mademoiselle Zia; others thought so too, without doubt."

"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and a little fool."

"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that well may be.At sixteen one is credulous, is one not?One believes what one is told."

If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have done so.He continued dreamily: "It was a curious affair that, altogether.Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true inwardness of it."

"No?"

"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: 'Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost.You must ask no questions.'Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I said these things?"

"I have no idea," said the girl coldly.

"It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious."

"I don't understand what you are talking about," cried Zia angrily.

"Do you not, Mademoiselle?Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?"

He heard the quick intake of her breath—almost a gasp.

"He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he have got hold of what he wanted.An assistant can lift his eyes to his master's daughter, can he not?If he is young and handsome with a glib tongue.And since they cannot make love all the time, they must occasionally talk of things that interest them both—such as that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M.Papopolous' possession.And since, as you say, Mademoiselle, the young are foolish and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept.And afterwards when it is gone—when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened.Alas!the poor little pensionnaire.What a terrible position she is in.She is frightened, the poor little one.To speak or not to speak?And then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot.Almost a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves.The priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions."

Zia turned on him fiercely.

"You have known all the time?Who told you?Was it—was it Antonio?"

Poirot shook his head.

"No one told me," he said quietly."I guessed.It was a good guess, was it not, Mademoiselle?You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective."

The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence.Then she said in a hard voice:

"Well, what are you going to do about it, are you going to tell my father?"

"No," said Poirot sharply."Certainly not."

She looked at him curiously.

"You want something from me?"

"I want your help, Mademoiselle."

"What makes you think that I can help you?"

"I do not think so.I only hope so."

"And if I do not help you, then—you will tell my father?"

"But no, but no!Debarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle.I am not a blackmailer.I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it."

"If I refuse to help you—" began the girl slowly.

"Then you refuse, and that is that."

"Then why—" she stopped.

"Listen, and I will tell you why.Women, Mademoiselle, are generous.If they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them, they will do it.I was generous once to you, Mademoiselle.When I might have spoken, I held my tongue."

There was another silence; then the girl said, "My father gave you a hint the other day."

"It was very kind of him."

"I do not think," said Zia slowly, "that there is anything that I can add to that."

If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it.Not a muscle of his face changed.

"Eh bien!" he said cheerfully, "then we must talk of other things."

And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was distraite, however, and her answers were mechanical and not always to the point.It was when they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a decision.

"M.Poirot?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle?"

"I—I should like to help you if I could."

"You are very amiable, Mademoiselle—very amiable."

Again there was a pause.Poirot did not press her.He was quite content to wait and let her take her own time.

"Ah bah," said Zia, "after all, why should I not tell you?My father is cautious—always cautious in everything he says.But I know that with you it is not necessary.You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels.I believe you.You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies.They have been handed over here according to plan.My father has them now.He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was."

"The Marquis?"murmured Poirot softly.

"Yes, the Marquis."

"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?"

"Once," said the girl."But not very well," she added."It was through a keyhole."

"That always presents difficulties," said Poirot sympathetically, "but all the same you saw him.You would know him again?"

Zia shook her head.

"He wore a mask," she explained.

"Young or old?"

"He had white hair.It may have been a wig, it may not.It fitted very well.But I do not think he was old.His walk was young, and so was his voice."

"His voice?"said Poirot thoughtfully."Ah, his voice!Would you know it again, Mademoiselle Zia?"

"I might," said the girl.

"You were interested in him, eh?It was that that took you to the keyhole."

Zia nodded.

"Yes, yes.I was curious.One had heard so much—he is not the ordinary thief—he is more like a figure of history or romance."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes; perhaps so."

"But it is not this that I meant to tell you," said Zia."It was just one other little fact that I thought might be—well—useful to you."

"Yes?"said Poirot encouragingly.

"The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice.I did not see the person who handed them over, but—"

"Yes?"

"I know one thing. It was a woman."

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29.A Letter From Home