The Mystery of the Blue Train Read online

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 33

  A New Theory

  ‘Monsieur Poirot wants to see you, sir.’

  ‘Damn the fellow!’ said Van Aldin.

  Knighton remained sympathetically silent.

  Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced up and down.

  ‘I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers this morning?’

  ‘I have glanced at them, sir.’

  ‘Still at it hammer and tongs?’

  ‘I am afraid so, sir.’

  The millionaire sat down again and pressed his hand to his forehead.

  ‘If I had had an idea of this,’ he groaned. ‘I wish to God I had never got that little Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth’s murderer–that was all I thought about.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have liked your son-in-law to go scot free?’

  Van Aldin sighed.

  ‘I would have preferred to take the law into my own hands.’

  ‘I don’t think that would have been a very wise proceeding, sir.’

  ‘All the same–are you sure the fellow wants to see me?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Van Aldin. He is very urgent about it.’

  ‘Then I suppose he will have to. He can come along this morning if he likes.’

  It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot who was ushered in. He did not seem to see any lack of cordiality in the millionaire’s manner, and chatted pleasantly about various trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name of an eminent surgeon.

  ‘No, no, pas la guerre–a memory of my days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally apache.’

  He touched his left shoulder and winced realistically.

  ‘I always consider you a lucky man, Monsieur Van Aldin; you are not like our popular idea of American millionaires, martyrs to dyspepsia.’

  ‘I am pretty tough,’ said Van Aldin. ‘I lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare and not too much of it.’

  ‘You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?’ inquired Poirot, innocently turning to the secretary.

  ‘I–yes; once or twice,’ said Knighton.

  He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed in surprise:

  ‘Funny you never mentioned to me that you had seen her, Knighton.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would be interested, sir.’

  ‘I like that girl very much,’ said Van Aldin.

  ‘It is a thousand pities that she should have buried herself once more in St Mary Mead,’ said Poirot.

  ‘It is very fine of her,’ said Knighton hotly. ‘There are very few people who would bury themselves down there to look after a cantankerous old woman who has no earthly claim on her.’

  ‘I am silent,’ said Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little; ‘but all the same I say it is a pity. And now, Messieurs, let us come to business.’

  Both the other men looked at him in some surprise.

  ‘You must not be shocked or alarmed at what I am about to say. Supposing, Monsieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur Derek Kettering did not murder his wife?’

  ‘What?’

  Both men stared at him in blank surprise.

  ‘Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Kettering did not murder his wife?’

  ‘Are you mad, Monsieur Poirot?’

  It was Van Aldin who spoke.

  ‘No,’ said Poirot, ‘I am not mad. I am eccentric, perhaps–at least certain people say so; but as regards my profession, I am very much, as one says, “all there”. I ask you, Monsieur Van Aldin, whether you would be glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the case?’

  Van Aldin stared at him.

  ‘Naturally I should be glad,’ he said at last. ‘Is this an exercise in suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts behind it?’

  Poirot looked at the ceiling.

  ‘There is an off-chance,’ he said quietly, ‘that it might be the Comte de la Roche after all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting his alibi.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.

  ‘I have my own methods. The exercise of a little tact, a little cleverness–and the thing is done.’

  ‘But the rubies,’ said Van Al
din, ‘these rubies that the Count had in his possession were false.’

  ‘And clearly he would not have committed the crime except for the rubies. But you are overlooking one point, Monsieur Van Aldin. Where the rubies were concerned, someone might have been before him.’

  ‘But this is an entirely new theory,’ cried Knighton.

  ‘Do you really believe all this rigmarole, Monsieur Poirot?’ demanded the millionaire.

  ‘The thing is not proved,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘It is as yet only a theory, but I tell you this, Monsieur Van Aldin, the facts are worth investigating. You must come out with me to the south of France and go into the case on the spot.’

  ‘You really think this is necessary–that I should go, I mean?’

  ‘I thought it would be what you yourself would wish,’ said Poirot.

  There was a hint of reproach in his tone which was not lost upon the other.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘When do you wish to start, Monsieur Poirot?’

  ‘You are very busy at present, sir,’ murmured Knighton.

  But the millionaire had now made up his mind, and he waved the other’s objections aside.

  ‘I guess this business comes first,’ he said. ‘All right, Monsieur Poirot, tomorrow. What train?’

  ‘We will go, I think, by the Blue Train,’ said Poirot, and he smiled.

  Chapter 34

  The Blue Train Again

  ‘The Millionaires’ Train’, as it is sometimes called, swung round a curve of line at what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin, Knighton, and Poirot sat together in silence. Knighton and Van Aldin had two compartments connecting with each other, as Ruth Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful journey. Poirot’s own compartment was farther along the coach.

  The journey was a painful one for Van Aldin, recalling as it did the most agonizing memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed occasionally in low tones without disturbing him.

  When, however, the train had completed its slow journey round the ceinture and reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became suddenly galvanized into activity. Van Aldin realized that part of his object in travelling by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime. Poirot himself acted every part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly shut into her own compartment, Mrs Kettering, recognizing her husband with surprise and a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering discovering that his wife was travelling on the train. He tested various possibilities, such as the best way for a person to conceal himself in the second compartment.

  Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He clutched at Van Aldin’s arm.

  ‘Mon Dieu, but that is something I have not thought of ! We must break our journey in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once.’

  Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the train. Van Aldin and Knighton, bewildered but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having once more formed his opinion of Poirot’s ability was slow to depart from it. At the barrier they were held up. Their tickets were in the charge of the conductor of the train, a fact which all three of them had forgotten.

  Poirot’s explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they produced no effect upon the stolid-faced official.

  ‘Let us get quit of this,’ said Van Aldin abruptly. ‘I gather you are in a hurry, Monsieur Poirot. For God’s sake pay the fares from Calais and let us get right on with whatever you have got on your mind.’

  But Poirot’s flood of language had suddenly stopped dead, and he had the appearance of a man turned to stone. His arm, still outflung in an impassioned gesture, remained there as though stricken with paralysis.

  ‘I have been an imbecile,’ he said simply. ‘Ma foi, I lose my head nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With reasonable luck the train will not have have gone.’

  They were only just in time, the train moving off as Knighton, the last of the three, swung himself and his suit-case on board.

  The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly and assisted them to carry their luggage back to their compartments. Van Aldin said nothing, but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot’s extraordinary conduct. Alone with Knighton for a moment, or two, he remarked:

  ‘This is a wild-goose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He has got brains up to a point, but any man who loses his head and scuttles round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly darned good.’

  Poirot came to them in a moment or two, full of abject apologies and clearly so crestfallen that harsh words would have been superfluous. Van Aldin received his apologies gravely, but managed to restrain himself from making acid comments.

  They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the surprise of the other two, Poirot suggested that they should all three sit up in Van Aldin’s compartment.

  The millionaire looked at him curiously.

  ‘Is there anything that you are keeping back from us, Monsieur Poirot?’

  ‘I?’ Poirot opened his eyes in innocent surprise. ‘But what an idea.’

  Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not satisfied. The conductor was told that he need not make up the beds. Any surprise he might have felt was obliterated by the largeness of the tip which Van Aldin handed to him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot fidgeted and seemed restless. Presently he turned to the secretary.

  ‘Major Knighton, is the door of your compartment bolted? The door into the corridor, I mean.’

  ‘Yes; I bolted it myself just now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Poirot.

  ‘I will go and make sure, if you like,’ said Knighton, smiling.

  ‘No, no, do not derange yourself. I will see for myself.’

  He passed through the connecting door and returned in a second or two, nodding his head.

  ‘Yes, yes, it is as you said. You pardon an old man’s fussy ways.’ He closed the connecting door and resumed his place in the right-hand corner.

  The hours passed. The three men dozed fitfully, waking with uncomfortable starts. Probably never before had three people booked berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to avail themselves of the accommodation they had paid for. Every now and then Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head and composed himself to slumber once more. On one occasion he rose from his seat and opened the connecting door, peered sharply into the adjoining compartment, and then returned to his seat, shaking his head.

  ‘What is the matter?’ whispered Knighton. ‘You are expecting something to happen, aren’t you?’

  ‘I have the nerves,’ confessed Poirot. ‘I am like the cat upon the hot tiles. Every little noise it makes me jump.’

  Knighton yawned.

  ‘Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose you know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot.’

  He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Van Aldin had succumbed to slumber, when Poirot, glancing for the fourteenth time at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire on the shoulder.

  ‘Eh? What is it?’

  ‘In five or ten minutes, Monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyons.’

  ‘My God!’ Van Aldin’s face looked white and haggard in the dim light. ‘Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was killed.’

  He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little, his mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his life.

  There was the usual long screaming sigh of the brake, and the train slackened speed and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down the window and leant out.

  ‘If it wasn’t Derek–if your new theory is correct, it is here that the man left the train?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘no man left the train, but I think–yes, I think, a woman may have done so.’

  Knighton gave a gasp.

  ‘A woman?’ demanded Van Aldin sharply.

  ‘Yes, a woman,’ said Poirot, noddin
g his head. ‘You may not remember, Monsieur Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat descended on to the platform ostensibly to stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth was most probably a woman.’

  ‘But who was she?’

  Van Aldin’s face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously and categorically:

  ‘Her name–or the name under which she was known, for many years–is Kitty Kidd, but you, Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by another name–that of Ada Mason.’

  Knighton sprang to his feet.

  ‘What?’ he cried.

  Poirot swung round to him.

  ‘Ah!–before I forget it.’ He whipped something from a pocket and held it out.

  ‘Permit me to offer you a cigarette–out of your own cigarette-case. It was careless of you to drop it when you boarded the train on the ceinture at Paris.’

  Knighton stood staring at him as though stupefied. Then he made a movement, but Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.

  ‘No, don’t move,’ he said in a silky voice; ‘the door into the next compartment is open, and you are being covered from there this minute. I unbolted the door into the corridor when we left Paris, and our friends the police were told to take their places there. As I expect you know, the French police want you rather urgently, Major Knighton–or shall we say–Monsieur le Marquis?’

  Chapter 35

  Explanations

  ‘Explanations?’

  Poirot smiled. He was sitting opposite the millionaire at a luncheon table in the latter’s private suite at the Negresco. Facing him was a relieved but very puzzled man. Poirot leant back in his chair, lit one of his tiny cigarettes, and stared reflectively at the ceiling.

  ‘Yes, I will give you explanations. It began with the one point that puzzled me. You know what that point was? The disfigured face. It is not an uncommon thing to find when investigating a crime and it rouses an immediate question, the question of identity. That naturally was the first thing that occurred to me. Was the dead woman really Mrs Kettering? But that line led me nowhere, for Miss Grey’s evidence was positive and very reliable, so I put that idea aside. The dead woman was Ruth Kettering.’