The Mystery of the Blue Train hp-6 Read online

  He was anxious to know what had become of the wily Greek. He ran him to earth unexpectedly in the big entrance hall.

  He was standing by one of the pillars, talking to a lady who had just arrived. The lady was Mirelle.

  Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the room. He arrived at the other side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking together in an animated fashion – or rather, that is to say, the dancer was talking, Papopolous contributing an occasional monosyllable and a good many expressive gestures.

  “I tell you I must have time,” the dancer was saying, “If you give me time I will get the money.”

  “To wait” – the Greek shrugged his shoulders – “it is awkward.”

  “Only a very little while,” pleaded the other. “Ah! but you must! A week – ten days – that is all I ask. You can be sure of your affair. The money will be forthcoming.”

  Papopolous shifted a little and looked round him uneasily – to find Poirot almost at his elbow with a beaming innocent face.

  “Ah! vous voilà, M. Papopolous. I have been looking for you. It is permitted that I take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the gardens? Good evening. Mademoiselle.” He bowed very low to Mirelle. “A thousand pardons that I did not see you immediately.”

  The dancer accepted his greetings rather impatiently. She was clearly annoyed at the interruption of her tête-à-tête. Poirot was quick to take the hint. Papopolous had already murmured: “Certainly – but certainly,” and Poirot withdrew forthwith.

  He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they strolled out into the gardens.

  “This is where the suicides take place,” said Zia.

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “So it is said. Men are foolish, are they not. Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air, it is a very pleasant thing. Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave all that simply because one has no money – or because the heart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?”

  Zia laughed.

  “You should not laugh at love. Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, shaking an energetic forefinger at her. “You who are young and beautiful.”

  “Hardly that,” said Zia; “you forget that I am thirty-three, M. Poirot. I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise. As you told my father, it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris that time.”

  “When I look at you, it seems much less,” said Poirot gallantly. “You were then very much as you are now. Mademoiselle, a little thinner, a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension. Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not quite a woman. You were very delicious, very charming. Mademoiselle Zia; others thought so too, without doubt.”

  “At sixteen,” said Zia, “one is simple and a little fool.”

  “That may be,” said Poirot, “yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told.”

  If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily: “It was a curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true inwardness of it.”

  “No?”

  “When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: 'Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost. You must ask no questions.' Do you know. Mademoiselle, why I said these things?”

  “I have no idea,” said the girl coldly.

  “It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious.”

  “I don't understand what you are talking about,” cried Zia angrily.

  “Do you not. Mademoiselle? Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?” He heard the quick intake of her breath – almost a gasp.

  “He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he have got hold of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his eyes to his master's daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they must occasionally talk of things that interest them both – such as that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous' possession. And since, as you say. Mademoiselle, the young are foolish and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards when it is gone – when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas! the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions.”

  Zia turned on him fiercely.

  “You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it – was it Antonio?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “No one told me,” he said quietly. “I guessed. It was a good guess, was it not, I Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”

  The girl walked along beside him for some ninutes in silence. Then she said in a hard roice:

  “Well, what are you going to do about it, are you going to tell my father?”

  “No,” said Poirot sharply. “Certainly not.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “You want something from me?”

  “I want your help. Mademoiselle.”

  “What makes you think that I can help you?”

  “I do not think so. I only hope so.”

  “And if I do not help you, then – you will tell my father?”

  “But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea. Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it.”

  “If I refuse to help you-” began the girl slowly.

  “Then you refuse, and that is that.”

  “Then why-” she stopped.

  “Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them, they will do it. I was generous once to you. Mademoiselle. When I might have spoken, I held my tongue.”

  There was another silence; then the girl said, “My father gave you a hint the other day.”

  “It was very kind of him.”

  “I do not think,” said Zia slowly, “that there is anything that I can add to that.”

  If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it. Not a muscle of his face changed.

  “Eh bien!” he said cheerfully, “then we must talk of other things.”

  And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was distraite, however, and her answers were mechanical and not always to the point. It was when they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a decision.

  “M. Poirot?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle?”

  “I – I should like to help you if I could.”

  “You are very amiable. Mademoiselle – very amiable.”

  Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content to wait and let her take her own time.

  “Ah bah,” said Zia, “after all, why should I not tell you? My father is cautious – very cautious in everything he says. But I know that with you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you. You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was.”

  “The Marquis?” murmured Poirot softly.

  “Yes, the Marquis.”

  “Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?”

  “Once,” said the girl. “But not very well,” she added. “It was through a keyhole.”

  “That always presents difficulties,” said Poirot sympathetically, “but all the same you saw h
im. You would know him again?”

  Zia shook her head.

  “He wore a mask,” she explained.

  “Young or old?”

  “He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, I and so was his voice.”

  “His voice?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Ah, his voice! Would you know it again Mademoiselle Zia?”

  “I might,” said the girl.

  “You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole.”

  Zia nodded.

  “Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much – he is not the ordinary thief – he is more like a figure of history or romance.”

  “Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “yes; perhaps so.”

  “But it is not this that I meant to tell you,” said Zia. “It was just one other little fact that I thought might be – well – useful to you.”

  “Yes?” said Poirot encouragingly.

  “The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I did not see the person who handed them over, but-”

  “Yes?”

  “I know one thing. It was a woman.”

  Chapter 29. A Letter from Home

  Dear Katherine, Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose.

  Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is – all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Anne was no good – skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist – a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman. Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there – there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if things should go ill with you – and that is always possible, I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plainspoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too.

  Your affectionate old friend,

  Amelia Viner.

  P.S. – I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin, Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings. I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and vainglory.

  Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the I blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things – and yet – home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.

  Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.

  “Hello, Katherine,” said Lenox. “I say – what is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her handbag.

  “You looked rather queer,” said Lenox. “I say – I hope you don't mind – I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me.”

  “Did you want to see him then?” asked Katherine.

  “Yes,” said Lenox. “I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's.”

  “All right,” said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint.

  “I have ordered the car,” said Lenox, “and I have told Mother some lie or other – unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot.”

  The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.

  He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughLer; yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, md Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting 3n the terrace sipping their coffee she sudienly attacked Poirot bluntly.

  “How are things going? You know what I mean?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “They take their course,” he said.

  “And you are just letting them take their course?”

  He looked at Lenox a little sadly.

  “You are young. Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried – le bon Dieu, Nature, and old people.”

  “Nonsense!” said Lenox. “You are not old.”

  “Ah, it is pretty what you say there.”

  “Here is Major Knighton,” said Lenox.

  Katherine looked round quickly and then turned back again.

  “He is with Mr. Van Aldin,” continued Lenox. “There is something I want to ask Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute.”

  Left alone together, Poirot bent forward and murmured to Katherine:

  “You are distraite, Mademoiselle; your thoughts, they are far away, are they not?”

  “Just as far as England, no farther.”

  Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the letter she had received that morning and handed it across to him to read.

  “That is the first word that has come to me from my old life; somehow or other – it hurts.”

  He read it through and then handed it back to her.

  “So you are going back to St. Mary Mead?” he said slowly.

  “No, I am not,” said Katherine; “why should I?”

  “Ah,” said Poirot, “it is my mistake. You, will excuse me one little minute.”

  He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation.

  As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside.

  “M. Van Aldin looks ill,” he said.

  “Do you wonder?” asked Knighton. “The scandal of Derek Kettering's arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth.”

  “He should go back to England,” said Poirot.

  “We are going the day after tomorrow.”

  “That is good news,” said Poirot.

  He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting.

  “I wish,” he murmured, “that you could tell Miss Grey that.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That you – I mean that M. Van Aldin is returning to England.”

  Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he readi
ly crossed the terrace and joined Katherine.

  Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of the head, and then joined Lenox and the American. After a minute or two they joined the others. Conversation was general for a few minutes, then the millionaire and his secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to take his departure.

  “A thousand thanks for your hospitality, Mesdemoiselles,” he cried; “it has been a I most charming luncheon. Ma foi, I needed it!” He swelled out his chest and thumped it. “I am now a lion – a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle Katherine, you have not seen me as I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to strike terror into the hearts of those who listen to me.”

  He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her underlip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth had a suspicious twitch.

  “And I shall do it,” he said gravely. “Oh yes, I shall succeed.”

  He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's voice made him turn.

  “M. Poirot, I – I want to tell you. I think you were right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately.”

  Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.

  “I see,” he said gravely.

  “I don't believe you do,” said Katherine.

  “I know more than you think. Mademoiselle,” he said quietly.

  He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes.

  Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. Chancing to look out of the window, Hipolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to ie hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hippolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he called ce type là.

  “It is not the police again?” said Marie anxiously.

  “Look for yourself,” said Hippolyte.

  Marie looked.