The Mystery of the Blue Train (19 page)

“I have no patience with you,” cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hipolyte's face. “Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your lookout.
For the last time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa Marina—Tuesday morning or Wednesday morning?
”

“Wednesday,” gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.

Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.

“You are wise, my children,” he said quietly. “Very nearly you were in serious trouble.”

He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.

“One guess confirmed,” he murmured to himself. “Shall I take a chance on the other?”

It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle. She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room feverishly. She turned on him furiously.

“Well?” she cried. “Well? What is it now? Have you not tortured me enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What more do you want?”

“Just one little question, Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons, when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment—”

“What is that?”

Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again.

“I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment—”

“I never did.”

“And found her—”

“I never did.”

“
Ah, sacré!
”

He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back before him.

“Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though I had been there. You went into her compartment and you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful, Mademoiselle Mirelle.”

Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell.

“I—I didn't—” she began uncertainly, and stopped.

“There is only one thing about which I wonder,” said
Poirot
—“I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking for or whether—”

“Whether what?”

“Or whether someone else had been before you.”

“I will answer no more questions,” screamed the dancer. She tore herself away from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging herself down on the floor in a frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid came rushing in.

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the room.

But he seemed satisfied.

Thirty

M
ISS
V
INER
G
IVES
J
UDGMENT

K
atherine looked out of Miss Viner's bedroom window. It was raining, not violently, but with a quiet, well-bred persistence. The window looked out on a strip of front garden with a path down to the gate and neat little flower beds on either side, where later roses and pinks and blue hyacinths would bloom.

Miss Viner was lying in a large Victorian bedstead. A tray with the remains of breakfast had been pushed to one side and she was busy opening her correspondence and making various caustic comments upon it.

Katherine had an open letter in her hand and was reading it through for the second time. It was dated from the Ritz Hotel, Paris.

Chère Mademoiselle Katherine,
(It began)
—I trust that you are in good health and that the return to the English winter has not proved too depressing. Me, I prosecute my inquiries with the utmost diligence. Do not think that it is the holiday that I take here. Very shortly I shall be in England, and I hope then to have the pleasure of meeting you once more. It shall be so, shall it not? On arrival in London I shall write to you. You remember that we are the colleagues in this affair? But indeed I think you know that very well. Be assured, Mademoiselle, of my most respectful and devoted sentiments.

Hercule Poirot.

Katherine frowned slightly. It was as though something in the letter puzzled and intrigued her.

“A choirboys' picnic indeed,” came from Miss Viner, “Tommy Saunders and Albert Dykes ought to be left behind, and I shan't subscribe to it unless they are. What those two boys think they are doing in church on Sundays I don't know. Tommy sang, ‘O God, make speed to save us,' and never opened his lips again, and if Albert Dykes wasn't sucking a mint humbug, my nose is not what it is and always has been.”

“I know, they are awful,” agreed Katherine.

She opened her second letter, and a sudden flush came to her cheeks. Miss Viner's voice in the room seemed to recede into the far distance.

When she came back to a sense of her surroundings Miss Viner was bringing a long speech to a triumphant termination.

“And I said to her, ‘Not at all. As it happens, Miss Grey is Lady Tamplin's own cousin.' What do you think of that?”

“Were you fighting my battles for me? That was very sweet of you.”

“You can put it that way if you like. There is nothing to me in a title. Vicar's wife or no vicar's wife, that woman is a cat. Hinting you had bought your way into Society.”

“Perhaps she was not so very far wrong.”

“And look at you,” continued Miss Viner. “Have you come back a stuck-up fine lady, as well you might have done? No, there you are, as sensible as ever you were, with a pair of good Balbriggan stockings on and your sensible shoes. I spoke to Ellen about it only yesterday. ‘Ellen,' I said, ‘you look at Miss Grey. She has been hobnobbing with some of the greatest in the land, and does she go about as you do with skirts up to her knees and silk stockings that ladder when you look at them, and the most ridiculous shoes that ever I set eyes on?' ”

Katherine smiled a little to herself. It had apparently been worthwhile to conform to Miss Viner's prejudices. The old lady went on with increasing gusto.

“It has been a great relief to me that you have not had your head turned. Only the other day I was looking for my cuttings. I have several about Lady Tamplin and her War Hospital and whatnot, but I cannot lay my hand upon them. I wish you would look, my dear; your eyesight is better than mine. They are all in a box in the bureau drawer.”

Katherine glanced down at the letter in her hand and was about to speak, but checked herself, and going over to the bureau found the box of cuttings and began to look over them. Since her return to St. Mary Mead, her heart had gone out to Miss Viner in admiration of the old woman's stoicism and pluck. She felt that there was little she could do for her old friend, but she knew from experience how much those seemingly small trifles meant to old people.

“Here is one,” she said presently. “ ‘Viscountess Tamplin, who is running her villa at Nice as an Officers' Hospital, has just been the victim of a sensational robbery, her jewels having been stolen. Amongst them were some very famous emeralds, heirlooms of the Tamplin family.' ”

“Probably paste,” said Miss Viner; “a lot of these Society women's jewels are.”

“Here is another,” said Katherine. “A picture of her. ‘A charming camera study of Viscountess Tamplin with her little daughter Lenox.' ”

“Let me look,” said Miss Viner. “You can't see much of the child's face, can you? But I dare say that is just as well. Things go by contraries in this world and beautiful mothers have hideous children. I daresay the photographer realized that to take the back of the child's head was the best thing he could do for her.”

Katherine laughed.

“ ‘One of the smartest hostesses on the Riviera this season is Viscountess Tamplin, who has a villa at Cap Martin. Her cousin, Miss Grey, who recently inherited a vast fortune in a most romantic manner, is staying with her there.' ”

“That is the one I wanted,” said Miss Viner. “I expect there has been a picture of you in one of the papers that I have missed; you know the kind of thing. Mrs. Somebody or other Jones-
Williams
, at the something or other Point-to-Point, usually carrying a
shooting
stick and having one foot lifted up in the air. It must be a trial to some of them to see what they look like.”

Katherine did not answer. She was smoothing out the cutting with her finger, and her face had a puzzled, worried look. Then she drew the second letter out of its envelope and mastered its contents once more. She turned to her friend.

“Miss Viner? I wonder—there is a friend of mine, someone I met on the Riviera, who wants very much to come down and see me here.”

“A man?” said Miss Viner.

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“He is secretary to Mr. Van Aldin, the American millionaire.”

“What is his name?”

“Knighton. Major Knighton.”

“H'm—secretary to a millionaire. And wants to come down here. Now, Katherine, I am going to say something to you for your own good. You are a nice girl and a sensible girl, and though you have your head screwed on the right way about most things, every woman makes a fool of herself once in her life. Ten to one what this man is after is your money.”

With a gesture she arrested Katherine's reply. “I have been waiting for something of this kind. What is a secretary to a millionaire? Nine times out of ten it is a young man who likes living soft. A young man with nice manners and a taste for luxury and no brains and no enterprise, and if there is anything that is a softer job than being secretary to a millionaire it is marrying a rich woman for her money. I am not saying that you might not be some man's fancy. But you are not young, and though you have a very good complexion you are not a beauty, and what I say to you is, don't make a fool of yourself; but if you are determined to do so, do see that your money is properly tied up on yourself. There, now I have finished. What have you got to say?”

“Nothing,” said Katherine; “but would you mind if he did come down to see me?”

“I wash my hands of it,” said Miss Viner. “I have done my duty, and whatever happens now is on your own head. Would you like him to lunch or to dinner? I daresay Ellen could manage dinner—that is, if she didn't lose her head.”

“Lunch would be very nice,” said Katherine. “It is awfully kind of you, Miss Viner. He asked me to ring him up, so I will do so and say that we shall be pleased if he will lunch with us. He will motor down from town.”

“Ellen does a steak with grilled tomatoes pretty fairly,” said Miss Viner. “She doesn't do it well, but she does it better than anything else. It is no good having a tart because she is heavy-handed with pastry; but her little castle puddings are not bad, and I daresay you could find a nice piece of Stilton at Abbot's. I have always heard that gentlemen like a nice piece of Stilton, and there is a good deal of Father's wine left, a bottle of sparkling Moselle, perhaps.”

“Oh no, Miss Viner; that is really not necessary.”

“Nonsense, my child. No gentleman is happy unless he drinks something with his meal. There is some good prewar whisky if you think he would prefer that. Now do as I say and don't argue. The key of the wine cellar is in the third drawer down in the
dressing
table, in the second pair of stockings on the left-hand side.”

Katherine went obediently to the spot indicated.

“The second pair, now mind,” said Miss Viner. “The first pair has my diamond earrings and my filigree brooch in it.”

“Oh,” said Katherine, rather taken aback, “wouldn't you like them put in your jewel case?”

Miss Viner gave vent to a terrific and prolonged snort.

“No, indeed! I have much too much sense for that sort of thing, thank you. Dear, dear, I well remember how my poor father had a safe built in downstairs. Pleased as Punch he was with it, and he said to my mother, ‘Now, Mary, you bring me your jewels in their case every night and I will lock them away for you.' My mother was a very tactful woman, and she knew that gentlemen like having their own way, and she brought him the jewel case to be locked up just as he said.

“And one night burglars broke in, and of course—naturally—the first thing they went for was the safe! It would be, with my father talking up and down the village and bragging about it until you might have thought he kept all King Solomon's diamonds there. They made a clean sweep, got the tankards, the silver cups, and the presentation gold plate that my father had had presented to him,
and
the jewel case.”

She sighed reminiscently. “My father was in a great state over my mother's jewels. There was the Venetian set and some very fine cameos, and some pale pink corals, and two diamond rings with quite large stones in them. And then, of course, she had to tell him that, being a sensible woman, she had kept her jewellery rolled up in a pair of corsets, and there it was still as safe as anything.”

“And the jewel case had been quite empty?”

“Oh no, dear,” said Miss Viner, “it would have been too light a weight then. My mother was a very intelligent woman; she saw to that. She kept her buttons in the jewel case, and a very handy place it was. Boot buttons in the top tray, trouser buttons in the second tray, and assorted buttons below. Curiously enough, my father was quite annoyed with her. He said he didn't like deceit. But I mustn't go chattering on; you want to go and ring up your friend, and mind you choose a nice piece of steak, and tell Ellen she is not to have holes in her stockings when she waits at lunch.”

“Is her name Ellen or Helen, Miss Viner? I thought—”

Miss Viner closed her eyes.

“I can sound my h's, dear, as well as anyone, but Helen is
not
a suitable name for a servant. I don't know what the mothers in the lower classes are coming to nowadays.”

The rain had cleared away when Knighton arrived at the cottage. The pale fitful sunshine shone down on it and burnished Katherine's head as she stood in the doorway to welcome him. He came up to her quickly, almost boyishly.

“I say, I hope you don't mind. I simply had to see you again soon. I hope the friend you are staying with does not mind.”

“Come in and make friends with her,” said Katherine. “She can be most alarming, but you will soon find that she has the softest heart in the world.”

Miss Viner was enthroned majestically in the drawing room, wearing a complete set of the cameos which had been so providentially preserved in the family. She greeted Knighton with dignity and an austere politeness which would have damped many men. Knighton, however, had a charm of manner which was not easily set aside, and after about ten minutes Miss Viner thawed perceptibly. Luncheon was a merry meal, and Ellen, or Helen, in a new pair of silk stockings devoid of ladders, performed prodigies of waiting. Afterwards, Katherine and Knighton went for a walk, and they came back to have tea
tête-à-tête,
since Miss Viner had gone to lie down.

When the car had finally driven off Katherine went slowly upstairs. A voice called her and she went in to Miss Viner's bedroom.

“Friend gone?”

“Yes. Thank you so much for letting me ask him down.”

“No need to thank me. Do you think I am the sort of old curmudgeon who never will do anything for anybody?”

“I think you are a dear,” said Katherine affectionately.

“Humph,” said Miss Viner, mollified.

As Katherine was leaving the room she called her back.

“Katherine?”

“Yes.”

“I was wrong about that young man of yours. A man when he is making up to anybody can be cordial and gallant and full of little attentions and altogether charming. But when a man is really in love he can't help looking like a sheep. Now, whenever that young man looked at you he looked like a sheep. I take back all I said this morning. It is genuine.”