The Mystery of the Blue Train (20 page)

Thirty-one

M
R
. A
ARONS
L
UNCHES

“
A
h!” said Mr. Joseph Aarons appreciatively.

He took a long draught from his tankard, set it down with a sigh, wiped the froth from his lips, and beamed across the table at his host, Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

“Give me,” said Mr. Aarons, “a good Porterhouse steak and a tankard of something worth drinking, and anyone can have your French fallals and whatnots, your ordoovres and your omelettes and your little bits of quail. Give me,” he reiterated, “a Porterhouse steak.”

Poirot, who had just complied with this request, smiled sympathetically.

“Not that there is much wrong with a steak and kidney pudding,” continued Mr. Aarons. “Apple tart? Yes, I will take apple tart, thank you, Miss, and a jug of cream.”

The meal proceeded. Finally, with a long sigh, Mr. Aarons laid down his spoon and fork preparatory to toying with some cheese before turning his mind to other matters.

“There was a little matter of business I think you said, Monsieur Poirot,” he remarked. “Anything I can do to help you I am sure I shall be most happy.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Poirot. “I said to myself, ‘If you want to know anything about the dramatic profession there is one person who knows all that is to be known and that is my old friend, Mr. Joseph Aarons.' ”

“And you don't say far wrong,” said Mr. Aarons complacently; “whether it is past, present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to come to.”

“
Précisément.
Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know about a young woman called Kidd.”

“Kidd? Kitty Kidd?”

“Kitty Kidd.”

“Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator, song and a dance—That one?”

“That is the one.”

“
Very
smart, she was. Made a good income. Never out of an engagement. Male impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of fact, you could not touch her as a character actress.”

“So I have heard,” said Poirot; “but she has not been appearing lately, has she?”

“No. Dropped right out of things. Went over to France and took up with some swell nobleman there. She quitted the stage then for good and all, I guess.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Let me see. Three years ago. And she has been a loss—let me tell you that.”

“She was clever?”

“Clever as a cartload of monkeys.”

“You don't know the name of the man she became friends with in Paris?”

“He was a swell, I know that. A Count—or was it a Marquis? Now I come to think of it, I believe it was a Marquis.”

“And you know nothing about her since?”

“Nothing. Never even run across her accidentally like. I bet she is tooling it round some of these foreign resorts. Being a Marquise to the life. You couldn't put one over on Kitty. She would give as good as she got any day.”

“I see,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

“I am sorry I can't tell you more, Monsieur Poirot,” said the other. “I would like to be of use to you if I could. You did me a good turn once.”

“Ah, but we are quits on that; you, too, did me a good turn.”

“One good turn deserves another. Ha, ha!” said Mr. Aarons.

“Your profession must be a very interesting one,” said Poirot.

“So-so,” said Mr. Aarons noncommittally. “Taking the rough with the smooth, it is all right. I don't do so badly at it, all things considered, but you have to keep your eyes skinned. Never know what the public will jump for next.”

“Dancing has come very much to the fore in the last few years,” murmured Poirot reflectively.

“
I
never saw anything in this Russian ballet, but people like it. Too highbrow for me.”

“I met one dancer out on the Riviera—Mademoiselle Mirelle.”

“Mirelle? She is hot stuff, by all accounts. There is always money going to back her—though, so far as that goes, the girl can dance; I have seen her, and I know what I am talking about. I never had much to do with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to deal with. Tempers and tantrums all the time.”

“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully; “yes, so I should imagine.”

“Temperament!” said Mr. Aarons, “temperament! That is what they call it themselves. My missus was a dancer before she married me, but I am thankful to say she never had any temperament. You don't want temperament in the home, Monsieur Poirot.”

“I agree with you, my friend; it is out of place there.”

“A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook,” said Mr. Aarons.

“Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?” asked Poirot.

“About two and a half years, that is all,” said Mr. Aarons. “Some French duke started her. I hear now that she has taken up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece. These are the chaps who manage to put money away quietly.”

“That is news to me,” said Poirot.

“Oh, she's not one to let the grass grow under her feet. They say that young Kettering murdered his wife on her account. I don't know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in prison, and she had to look round for herself, and pretty smart she has been about it. They say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg—not that I have ever seen a pigeon's egg myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction.”

“A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!” said Poirot. His eyes were green and catlike. “How interesting!”

“I had it from a friend of mine,” said Mr. Aarons. “But for all I know, it may be coloured glass. They are all the same, these women—they never stop telling tall stories about their jewels. Mirelle goes about bragging that it has got a curse on it. ‘Heart of Fire,' I think she calls it.”

“But if I remember rightly,” said Poirot, “the ruby that is named ‘Heart of Fire' is the centre stone in a necklace.”

“There you are! Didn't I tell you there is no end to the lies women will tell about their jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said before, ten to one it is a bit of coloured glass.”

“No,” said Poirot gently; “no—somehow I do not think it is coloured glass.”

Thirty-two

K
ATHERINE AND
P
OIROT
C
OMPARE
N
OTES

“
Y
ou have changed, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot suddenly. He and Katherine were seated opposite each other at a small table at the Savoy.

“Yes, you have changed,” he continued.

“In what way?”

“Mademoiselle, these
nuances
are difficult to express.”

“I am older.”

“Yes, you are older. And by that I do not mean that the wrinkles and the crows' feet are coming. When I first saw you, Mademoiselle, you were a looker-on at life. You had the quiet, amused look of one who sits back in the stalls and watches the play.”

“And now?”

“Now you no longer watch. It is an absurd thing, perhaps, that I say here, but you have the wary look of a fighter who is playing a difficult game.”

“My old lady is difficult sometimes,” said Katherine, with a smile; “but I can assure you that I don't engage in deadly contests with her. You must go down and see her some day, Monsieur Poirot. I think you are one of the people who would appreciate her pluck and her spirit.”

There was a silence while the waiter deftly served them with chicken
en casserole.
When he had departed, Poirot said: “You have heard me speak of my friend Hastings?—he who said that I was a human oyster.
Eh bien,
Mademoiselle, I have met my match in you. You, far more than I, play a lone hand.”

“Nonsense,” said Katherine lightly.

“Never does Hercule Poirot talk nonsense. It is as I say.”

Again there was a silence. Poirot broke it by inquiring:

“Have you seen any of our Riviera friends since you have been back, Mademoiselle?”

“I have seen something of Major Knighton.”

“A-ha. Is that so?”

Something in Poirot's twinkling eyes made Katherine lower hers.

“So Mr. Van Aldin remains in London?”

“Yes.”

“I must try to see him tomorrow or the next day.”

“You have news for him?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I—wondered, that is all.”

Poirot looked across at her with twinkling eyes.

“And now, Mademoiselle, there is much that you wish to ask me, I can see that. And why not? Is not the affair of the Blue Train our own ‘
roman policier?
' ”

“Yes, there are things I should like to ask you.”

“Eh bien?”

Katherine looked up with a sudden air of resolution.

“What were you doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot?”

Poirot smiled slightly.

“I made a call at the Russian Embassy.”

“Oh.”

“I see that that tells you nothing. But I will not be a human oyster. No, I will lay my cards on the table, which is assuredly a thing that oysters never do. You suspect, do you not, that I am not satisfied with the case against Derek Kettering?”

“That is what I have been wondering. I thought, in Nice, that you had finished with the case.”

“You do not say all that you mean, Mademoiselle. But I admit everything. It was I—my researches—which placed Derek Kettering where he now is. But for me the Examining Magistrate would still be vainly trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de la Roche.
Eh bien,
Mademoiselle, what I have done I do not regret. I have only one duty—to discover the truth, and that way led straight to Mr. Kettering. But did it end there? The police say yes, but I, Hercule Poirot, am not satisfied.”

He broke off suddenly. “Tell me, Mademoiselle, have you heard from Mademoiselle Lenox lately?”

“One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I think, annoyed with me for coming back to England.”

Poirot nodded.

“I had an interview with her the night that Monsieur Kettering was arrested. It was an interesting interview in more ways than one.”

Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not interrupt his train of thought. “Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I am now on delicate ground, yet I will say this to you. There is, I think, someone who loves Monsieur Kettering—correct me if I am wrong—and for her sake—well—for her sake I hope that I am right and the police are wrong. You know who that someone is?”

There was a pause, then Katherine said:

“Yes—I think I know.”

Poirot leant across the table towards her.

“I am not satisfied, Mademoiselle; no, I am not satisfied. The facts, the main facts, led straight to Monsieur Kettering. But there is one thing that has been left out of account.”

“And what is that?”

“The disfigured face of the victim. I have asked myself, Mademoiselle, a hundred times, ‘Was Derek Kettering the kind of man who would deal that smashing blow after having committed the murder?' What end would it serve? What purpose would it accomplish? Was it a likely action for one of Monsieur Kettering's temperament? And, Mademoiselle, the answer to these questions is profoundly unsatisfactory. Again and again I go back to that one point—‘why?' And the only things I have to help me to a solution of the problem are these.”

He whipped out his pocketbook and extracted something from it which he held between his finger and thumb.

“Do you remember, Mademoiselle? You saw me take these hairs from the rug in the railway carriage.”

Katherine leant forward, scrutinizing the hairs keenly.

Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.

“They suggest nothing to you, I see that, Mademoiselle. And yet—I think somehow that you see a good deal.”

“I have had ideas,” said Katherine slowly, “curious ideas. That is why I ask you what you were doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot.”

“When I wrote to you—”

“From the Ritz?”

A curious smile came over Poirot's face.

“Yes, as you say, from the Ritz. I am a luxurious person sometimes—when a millionaire pays.”

“The Russian Embassy,” said Katherine, frowning. “No, I don't see where that comes in.”

“It does not come in directly, Mademoiselle. I went there to get certain information. I saw a particular personage and I threatened him—yes, Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him.”

“With the police?”

“No,” said Poirot drily, “with the Press—a much more deadly weapon.”

He looked at Katherine and she smiled at him, just shaking her head.

“Are you not just turning back into an oyster again, Monsieur Poirot?”

“No, no; I do not wish to make mysteries. See, I will tell you everything. I suspect this man of being the active party in the sale of the jewels of Monsieur Van Aldin. I tax him with it, and in the end I get the whole story out of him. I learn where the jewels were handed over, and I learn, too, of the man who paced up and down outside in the street—a man with a venerable head of white hair, but who walked with the light, springy step of a young man—and I give that man a name in my own mind—the name of ‘Monsieur le Marquis.' ”

“And now you have come to London to see Mr. Van Aldin?”

“Not entirely for that reason. I had other work to do. Since I have been in London I have seen two more people—a theatrical agent and a Harley Street doctor. From each of them I have got certain information. Put these things together, Mademoiselle, and see if you can make of them the same as I do.”

“I?”

“Yes, you. I will tell you one thing, Mademoiselle. There has been a doubt all along in my mind as to whether the robbery and the murder were done by the same person. For a long time I was not sure—”

“And now?”

“And now I
know.
”

There was a silence. Then Katherine lifted her head. Her eyes were shining.

“I am not clever like you, Monsieur Poirot. Half the things that you have been telling me don't seem to me to point anywhere at all. The ideas that came to me came from such an entirely different angle—”

“Ah, but that is always so,” said Poirot quietly. “A mirror shows the truth, but everyone stands in a different place for looking into the mirror.”

“My ideas may be absurd—they may be entirely different from yours, but—”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, does this help you at all?”

He took a newspaper cutting from her outstretched hand. He read it and, looking up, he nodded gravely.

“As I told you, Mademoiselle, one stands at a different angle for looking into the mirror, but it is the same mirror and the same things are reflected there.”

Katherine got up. “I must rush,” she said. “I have only just time to catch my train. Monsieur Poirot—”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

“It—it mustn't be much longer, you understand. I—I can't go on much longer.”

There was a break in her voice.

He patted her hand reassuringly.

“Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not fail now; the end is very near.”