The Mystery of the Blue Train

  “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 leant across to the Comte, speaking in a low voice that vibrated with anger and excitement. “It was her husband who killed her.”

  The Comte leaned 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 faraway 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 businesslike 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 Hipolyte 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 pigeonholes. 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 reentered 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. Hipolyte 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.”

  Twenty

  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 manoeuvres, 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 sidetracked.

  “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 to cultivate 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 anyone 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.”

  “Daydreaming, 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.”

  Twenty-one

  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.