The Mystery of the Blue Train (16 page)

Twenty-six

A W
ARNING

“
A
nd 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 someone 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 only see the back of her head. I could have woken 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 daresay 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 someone was standing beside her, and that that someone 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?

Twenty-seven

I
NTERVIEW WITH
M
IRELLE

W
hen 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 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.

“Ver 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 in to 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 that 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.