The Mystery of the Blue Train (12 page)

“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!”

Eighteen

D
EREK
L
UNCHES

D
erek 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
passersby
mechanically—a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw anything worthwhile 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 exceedingly 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 inouï!
”

“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 decieve 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 someone 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.”

Nineteen

A
N
U
NEXPECTED
V
ISITOR

T
he Comte de la Roche had just finished
déjeuner,
consisting of an
omelette fines herbes,
an
entrecôte Bearnaise,
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 that were part of the Comte's
mise en scène.
They were, he would explain to his fair visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing through on to the terrace the Comte looked out on to 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 Hipolyte, his manservant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs. The Comte selected some very fine old brandy.

As the manservant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight gesture. Hipolyte 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.”

Hipolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation.

The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hipolyte.

“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, Hipolyte, 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 Hipolyte 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 Hipolyte 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, Hipolyte,” he commanded.

A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out in 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 levelheaded 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 today 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 street. 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 everywhere. 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 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.”