The Mystery of the Blue Train hp-6 Read online

  “And what happened?” said Katherine curiously.

  “The jewels were never recovered,” said

  Knighton drily.

  “You really do believe in him?”

  “I do indeed. The Comte de la Roche is a pretty wily customer. He has wriggled out of most things. But I think he has met his match in Hercule Poirot.”

  “The Comte de la Roche,” said Katherine thoughtfully, “so you really think he did it?”

  “Of course.” Knighton looked at her in astonishment. “Don't you?”

  “Oh yes,” said Katherine hastily; “that is, I mean, if it was not just an ordinary train robbery.”

  “It might be, of course,” agreed the other “but it seems to me that the Comte de la Roche fits into this business particularly well.”

  “And yet he has an alibi.”

  “Oh, alibis!” Knighton laughed, his face broke into his attractive boyish smile.

  “You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know that any one who has a perfect alibi is always open to grave suspicion.”

  “Do you think that real life is like that?” asked Katherine, smiling.

  “Why not? Fiction is founded on fact.”

  “But is rather superior to it,” suggested Katherine.

  “Perhaps. Anyway, if I was a criminal I should not like to have Hercule Poirot on my track.”

  “No more should I,” said Katherine, and laughed.

  They were met on arrival by Poirot. As the day was warm he was attired in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “I look very English, do I not?” “You look wonderful,” said Katherine tactfully.

  “You mock yourself at me,” said Poirot genially, “but no matter. Papa Poirot, he always laughs the last.”

  “Where is Mr. Van Aldin?” asked Knighton.

  “He will meet us at our seats. To tell you the truth, my friend, he is not too well pleased with me. Oh, those Americans – the repose, the calm, they know it not! Mr. Van Aldin, he would that I fly myself in the pursuit of criminals through all the byways of Nice.”

  “I should have thought myself that it would not have been a bad plan,” observed Knighton.

  “You are wrong,” said Poirot; “in these matters one needs not energy but finesse. At the tennis one meets every one. That is so important. Ah, there is Mr. Kettering.”

  Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though something had arisen to upset him. He and Kmghton greeted each other with some frigidity. Poirot alone seemed unconscious of the sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly in a laudable attempt to put every one at their ease. He paid little compliments.

  “It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well you speak the French,” he observed – “so well that you could be taken for a Frenchman if you chose. That is a very rare accomplishment among Englishmen.”

  “I wish I did,” said Katherine. “I am only too well aware that my French is of a painfully British order.”

  They reached their seats and sat down, and almost immediately Knighton perceived his employer signalling to him from the other end of the court, and went off to speak to him.

  “Me, I approve of that young man,” said Poirot, sending a beaming smile after the departing secretary, “and you, Mademoiselle?”

  “I like him very much.”

  “And you, M. Kettering?”

  Some quick rejoinder was springing to Derek's lips, but he checked it as though something in the little Belgian's twinkling eyes had made him suddenly alert. He spoke carefully, choosing his words.

  “Knighton is a very good fellow,” he said.

  Just for a moment Katherine fancied that Poirot looked disappointed.

  “He is a great admirer of yours, M. Poirot,” she said, and she related some of the things that Knighton had said. It amused her to see the little man plume himself like a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming an air of mock modesty that would have deceived no one.

  “That reminds me. Mademoiselle,” he said suddenly, “I have a little matter of business I have to speak to you about. When you were sitting talking to that poor lady in the train, I think you must have dropped a cigarette case.”

  Katherine looked rather astonished. “I don't think so,” she said. Poirot drew from his pocket a cigarette case of soft blue leather, with the initial “K” on it in gold.

  “No, that is not mine,” Katherine said.

  “Ah, a thousand apologies. It was doubtless Madame's own. 'K', of course, stands for Kettering. We were doubtful, because she had another cigarette case in her bag, and it seemed odd that she should have two.” He turned to Derek suddenly. “You do not know, I suppose, whether this was your wife's case or not?”

  Derek seemed momentarily taken aback. He stammered a little in his reply: “I – I don't know. I suppose so.”

  “It is not yours by any chance?”

  “Certainly not. If it were mine it would hardly have been in my wife's possession.”

  Poirot looked more ingenuous and childlike than ever.

  “I thought perhaps you might have dropped it when you were in your wife's compartment,” he explained guilelessly.

  “I never was there. I have already told the police that a dozen times.”

  “A thousand pardons,” said Poirot, with his most apologetic air. “It was Mademoiselle here who mentioned having seen you going in.”

  He stopped with an air of embarrassment.

  Katherine looked at Derek. His face had gone rather white, but perhaps that was her fancy. His laugh, when it came, was natural enough.

  “You made a mistake. Miss Grey,” he said easily. “From what the police have told me, I gather that my own compartment was only a door or two away from that of my wife's – though I never suspected the fact at the time. You must have seen me going into my own compartment.” He got up quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.

  “I'm going to leave you now,” he announced. “I can't stand my father-in-law at any price.”

  Van Aldin greeted Kathenne very courteously, but was clearly in a bad humour.

  “You seem fond of watching tennis, M. Poirot,” he growled.

  “It is a pleasure to me, yes,” cried Poirot placidly.

  “It is as well you are in France,” said Van Aldin. “We are made of sterner stuff in the States. Business comes before pleasure there.”

  Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he smiled gently and confidingly at the irate millionaire.

  “Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you. Every one his own methods. Me, I have always found it a delightful and pleasing idea to combine business and pleasure together.”

  He glanced at the other two. They were deep in conversation, absorbed in each other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction, and then leant towards the millionaire, lowing his voice as he did so.

  “It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M. Van Aldin. Observe just opposite us that the old man – the one with the yellow face and the venerable beard.”

  “Well, what of him?”

  “That,” Poirot said, “is M. Papopolous”

  “A Greek, eh?”

  “As you say – a Greek. He is a dealer in antiques of world-wide reputation. He has a small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by the police of being something more.”

  “What?”

  “A receiver of stolen goods, especially jewels. There is nothing as to the re-cutting and re-setting of gems that he does not know. He deals with the highest in Europe and with the lowest of the riff-raff of the underworld.”

  Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly awakened attention.

  “Well?” he demanded, a new note in his voice.

  “I ask myself,” said Poirot, “I, Hercule Poirot” – he thumped himself dramatically on the chest – “ask myself why is M. Papopolous suddenly come to Nice?”

  Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment he had d
oubted Poirot and suspected the little man of being past his job, a poseur only. Now, in a moment, he switched back to his original opinion. He looked straight at the little detective.

  “I must apologize to you, M. Poirot.”

  Poirot waved the apology aside with an extravagant gesture.

  “Bah!” he cried, “all that is of no importance. Now listen, M. Van Aldin; I have news for you.”

  The millionaire looked sharply at him, all his interest aroused.

  Poirot nodded.

  “It is as I say. You will be interested. As you know, M. Van Aldin, the Comte de la Roche has been under surveillance ever since his interview with the Juge d'Instruction. The day after that, during his absence, the Villa Marina was searched by the police.”

  “Well,” said Van Aldin, “did they find anything? I bet they didn't.”

  Poirot made him a little bow.

  “Your acumen is not at fault, M. Van Aldin. They found nothing of an incriminating nature. It was not to be expected that they would. The Comte de la Roche, as your expressive idiom has it, was not born on the preceding day. He is an astute gentleman with great experience.”

  “Well, go on,” growled Van Aldin.

  “It may be, of course, that the Comte had nothing of a compromising nature to conceal. But we must not neglect the possibility. lf then, he has something to conceal, where is it? Not in his house – the police searched it thoroughly. Not on his person, for he knows that he is liable to arrest at any minute. There remains – his car. As I say, he was under surveillance. He was followed on that day to Monte Carlo. From there he went by road to Mentone, driving himself. His car is a very powerful one, it outdistanced his pursuers and for about a quarter of an hour they completely lost sight of him.”

  “And during that time you think he concealed something by the roadside?” asked Van Aldin, keenly interested.

  “By the roadside, no. Ca n'est pas pratique. But listen now – me, I have made a little suggestion to M. Carrège. He is graciously pleased to approve of it. In each Bureau de Poste in the neighbourhood it has been seen to that there is some one who knows the Comte de la Roche by sight. Because, you see. Messieurs, the best way of hiding a thing is by sending it away by the post.”

  “Well?” demanded Van Aldin; his face was keenly alight with interest and expectation.

  “Well – voilà!” With a dramatic flourish Poirot drew out from his pocket a loosely wrapped brown paper package from which the string had been removed.

  “During that quarter of an hour's interval, our good gentleman mailed this.”

  “The address?” asked the other sharply.

  Poirot nodded his head.

  “Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not. The package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a small commission.”

  “Yes, but what is inside?” demanded Van Aldin impatiently.

  Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box. He looked round him.

  “It is a good moment,” he said quietly. “All eyes are on the tennis. Look, Monsieur!”

  He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction of a second. An exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face turned as white as chalk.

  “My God!” he breathed, “the rubies.”

  He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and Gained placidly. Then suddenly the milonaire seemed to come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand so heartily that the little man winced with pain.

  “This is great,” said Van Aldin. “Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for all, you are the goods.”

  “It is nothing,” said Poirot modestly.

  “Order, method, being prepared for eventualities beforehand – that is all there is to it.”

  “And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?” continued Van Aldin eagerly.

  “No,” said Poirot.

  A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin's face.

  “But why? What more do you want?”

  “The Comte's alibi is still unshaken.”

  “But that is nonsense.”

  “Yes,” said Poirot; “I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately we have to prove it so.”

  “In the meantime he will slip through your fingers.”

  Poirot shook his head very energetically.

  “No,” he said, “he will not do that. The one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice is his social position. At all costs he must stop and brazen it out.”

  Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.

  “But I don't see-”

  Poirot raised a hand. “Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of Hercule Poirot – and they have been wrong.”

  “Well,” said Van Aldin, “go ahead. What is this little idea?”

  Poirot paused for a moment and then he said:

  “I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. Until then, say nothing to any one.”

  Chapter 22. M. Papopolous Breakfasts

  M. Papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia.

  There was a knock at the sitting-room door and a chasseur entered with a card which he brought to Mr. Papopolous. The latter scrutinized it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.

  “Ah!” said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully, “Hercule Poirot. I wonder now.”

  Father and daughter looked at each other.

  “I saw him yesterday at the tennis,” said M. Papopolous. “Zia, I hardly like this.”

  “He was very useful to you once,” his daughter reminded him.

  “That is true,” acknowledged M. Papopolous; “also he has retired from active work, so I hear.”

  These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own language. Then M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French:

  “Faîtes monter ce monsieur.”

  A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a cane with a jaunty air, entered the room.

  “My dear M. Papopolous.”

  “My dear M. Poirot.”

  “And Mademoiselle Zia.” Poirot swept her a low bow.

  “You will excuse us going on with our breakfast,” said M. Papopolous, pouring himself out another cup of coffee. “Your call is – ahem! – a little early.”

  “It is scandalous,” said Poirot, “but see you, I am pressed.”

  “Ah!” murmured M. Papopolous, “you are on an affair then?”

  “A very serious affair,” said Poirot: “the death of Madame Kettering.”

  “Let me see,” M. Papopolous looked innocently up at the ceiling, “that was the lady who died on the Blue Train, was it not? I saw a mention of it in the papers, but there is no suggestion of foul play.”

  “In the interests of justice,” said Poirot, “It was thought best to suppress that fact.”

  There was a pause.

  “And in what way can I assist you, M. Poirot?” asked the dealer politely.

  “Voilà,” said Poirot, “I shall come to the point.” He took from his pocket the same box that he had displayed at Cannes, and opening it, he took out the rubies and pushed them across the table to Papopolous.

  Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old man's face moved. He took up the jewels and examined them with a kind of detached interest, then he looked across at the detective inquiringly:

  “Superb, are they not?” asked Poirot.

  “Quite excellent,” said M. Papopolous.

  “How much should you say they are worth?”

  The Greek's face quivered a little.

  “Is it really necessary to tell you, M. Poirot?” he asked.

  “You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it is not. Th
ey are not, for instance, worth five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined with him.

  “As an imitation,” said Papopolous, handing them back to Poirot, “they are, as I said, quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to ask, M. Poirot, where you came across them?”

  “Not at all,” said Poirot; “I have no objection to telling an old friend like yourself. They were in the possession of the Comte de la Roche.”

  M. Papopolous' eyebrows lifted themselves eloquently.

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  Poirot leant forward and assumed his most innocent and beguiling air.

  “M. Papopolous,” he said, “I am going to lay my cards upon the table. The original of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering on the Blue Train. Now I will say to you first this: I am not concerned with the recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of the police. I am working not for the police but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands on the man who killed Madame Kettering. I am interested in the jewels only in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?”

  The last two words were uttered with great signiflcance. M. Papopolous, his face quite unmoved, said quietly:

  “Go on.”

  “It seems to me probable. Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands in Nice – may you have done so.”

  “Ah!” said M. Papopolous.

  He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and patriarchal than usual.

  “I say to myself,” continued Poirot, with animation, “what good fortune! My old friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will aid me.”

  “And how do you think I can aid you?” inquired M. Papopolous coldly.

  “I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous is in Nice on business.”

  “Not at all,” said M. Papopolous, “I am here for my health – by the doctor's orders.”

  He coughed hollowly.

  “I am desolated to hear it,” replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere sympathy. “But to continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family jewels – to whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it not? He who is famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges these things.”