The Mystery of the Blue Train hp-6 Page 8

  Katherine looked at him apprehensively.

  He spread out his hands apologetically.

  “I am going to ask you. Mademoiselle, to be so good as to accompany me to the next compartment.”

  “Must I?” asked Katherine in a low voice.

  “Some one must identify her,” said the Commissary, “and since the maid has disappeared” – he coughed significantly – “you appear to be the person who has seen most of her since she joined the train.”

  “Very well,” said Katherine quietly; “if it is necessary-”

  She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of approval.

  “Mademoiselle is sensible,” he said. “May I accompany you, M. Caux?”

  “Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot.”

  They went out into the corridor, and M. Caux unlocked the door of the dead woman's compartment. The blinds on the far side had been drawn half-way up to admit light. The dead woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have thought her asleep. The bedclothes were drawn up over her, and her head was turned to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand on her shoulder and turned the body back so that the face came into view. Katherine flinched a little and dug her nails into her palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the features almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.

  “When was that done, I wonder?” he demanded.

  “Before death or after?”

  “The doctor says after,” said M. Caux.

  “Strange,” said Poirot, drawing his brows together. He turned to Katherine. “Be brave, Mademoiselle, look at her well. Are you sure that this is the woman you talked to in the train yesterday?”

  Katherine had good nerves. She steeled herself to look long and earnestly at the recumbent figure. Then she leaned forward and took up the dead woman's hand.

  “I am quite sure,” she replied at length. “The face is too disfigured to recognize, but the build and carriage and hair are exact, and besides I noticed this” – she pointed to a tiny mole on the dead woman's wrist – “while I was talking to her.”

  “Bon,” approved Poirot. “You are an excellent witness. Mademoiselle. There is, then no question as to the identity, but it is strange, all the same.” He frowned down on the dead woman in perplexity.

  M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.

  “The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless,” he suggested.

  “If she had been struck down, it would have been comprehensible,” mused Poirot, “but the man who strangled her slipped up behind and caught her unawares. A little choke – a little gurgle – that is all that would be heard, and then afterwards – that smashing blow on her face. Now why? Did he hope that if the face were unrecognizable she might not be identified? Or did he hate her so much that he could not resist striking that blow even after she was dead?”

  Katherine shuddered, and he turned at once to her kindly.

  “You must not let me distress you. Mademoiselle,” he said. “To you this is all very new and terrible. To me, alas! it is an old story. One moment, I pray of you both.”

  They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the compartment. He noted the dead woman's clothes neatly folded on the end of the berth, the big fur coat that hung from a hook, and the little red lacquer hat tossed up on the rack. Then he passed through into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been made up. Three or four rugs were piled loosely on the seat; there was a hat-box and a couple of suit-cases. He turned suddenly to Katherine.

  “You were in here yesterday,” he said. “Do you see anything changed, anything missing?”

  Katherine looked carefully round both compartments.

  “Yes,” she said, “there is something missing – a scarlet morocco case. It had the initials 'R. V. K' on it. It might have been a small dressing-case or a big jewel-case. When I saw it, the maid was holding it.”

  “Ah!” said Poirot.

  “But, surely,” said Katherine. “I – of course, I don't know anything about such things, but surely it is plain enough, if the maid and the jewel-case are missing?”

  “You mean that it was the maid who was the thief? No, Mademoiselle; there is a very good reason against that.”

  “What?”

  “The maid was left behind in Paris.”

  He turned to Poirot. “I should like you to hear the conductor's story yourself,” he murmured confidentially. “It is very suggestive.”

  “Mademoiselle would doubtless like to hear it also,” said Poirot. “You do not object, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  “No,” said the Commissary, who clearly did object very much. “No, certainly, M. Poirot, if you say so. You have finished here?”

  “I think so. One little minute.”

  He had been turning over the rugs, and now he took one to the window and looked at it, picking something off it with his fingers.

  “What is it?” demanded M. Caux sharply.

  “Four auburn hairs.” He bent over the dead woman. “Yes, they are from the head of Madame.”

  “And what of it? Do you attach importance to them?”

  Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.

  “What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully.”

  They went back again into the first compartment, and in a minute or two the conductor of the carriage arrived to be questioned.

  “Your name is Pierre Michel?” said the Commissary.

  “Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

  “I should like you to repeat to this gentleman” – he indicated Poirot – “the story that you told me as to what happened in Paris.”

  “Very good, Monsieur le Commissaire. It was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I came along to make the beds, thinking that Madame would be at dinner, but she had a dinner-basket in her compartment. She said to me that she had been obliged to leave her maid behind in Paris, so that I only need make up one berth. She took her dinnerbasket into the adjoining compartment, and sat there while I made up the bed; then she told me that she did not wish to be wakened early in the morning, that she liked to sleep on. I told her I quite understood, and she wished me 'goodnight'.”

  “You yourself did not go into the adjoining compartment?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Then you did not happen to notice if a scarlet morocco case was amongst the luggage there?”

  “No, Monsieur, I did not.”

  “Would it have been possible for a man to have been concealed in the adjoining compartment?”

  The conductor reflected.

  “The door was half open,” he said. “If a man had stood behind that door I should not have been able to see him, but he would, of course, have been perfectly visible to Madame when she went in there.”

  “Quite so,” said Poirot, “Is there anything more you have to tell us?”

  “I think that is all, Monsieur. I can remember nothing else.”

  “And now this morning?” prompted Poirot.

  “As Madame had ordered, I did not disturb her. It was not until just before Cannes that I ventured to knock at the door. Getting no reply, I opened it. The lady appeared to be in her bed asleep. I took her by the shoulder to rouse her, and then-”

  “And then you saw what had happened,” volunteered Poirot. “Très bien. I think I now all I want to know.”

  “I hope. Monsieur le Commissaire, it is not that I have been guilty of any negligence,” said the man piteously. “Such an affair to happen on the Blue Train! It is horrible.”

  “Console yourself,” said the Commissary. “Everything will be done to keep the affair as quiet as possible, if only in the interests of justice. I cannot think you have been guilty of any negligence.”

  “And Monsieur le Commissaire will report as much to the Company?”

  “But certainly, but certainly,” said M. Ca
ux impatiently. “That will do now.”

  The conductor withdrew.

  “According to the medical evidence,” said the Commissary, “the lady was probably dead before the train reached Lyons. Who then was the murderer? From Mademoiselle's story, it seems clear that somewhere on her journey she was to meet this man of whom she spoke. Her action in getting rid of the maid seems significant. Did the man join the train at Paris, and did she conceal him in the adjoining compartment? If so, they may have quarrelled, and he may have killed her in a fit of rage. That is one possibility. The other, and the more likely to my mind, is that her assailant was a train robber travelling on the train, that he stole along the corridor unseen by the conductor, killed her, and went off with the red morocco case which doubtless contained jewels of some value. In all probability he left the train at Lyons, and we have already telegraphed to the station there for full particulars of any one seen leaving the train.”

  “Or he might have come on to Nice,” suggested Poirot.

  “He might,” agreed the Commissary, “but that would be a very bold course.”

  Poirot let a minute or two go by before speaking, and then he said:

  “In the latter case you think the man was an ordinary train robber?”

  The Commissary shrugged his shoulders.

  “It depends. We must get hold of the maid. It is possible that she has the red morocco case with her. If so, then the man of whom she spoke to Mademoiselle may be concerned in the case, and the affair is a crime of passion. I myself think the solution of a train robber is the more probable. These bandits have become very bold of late.”

  Poirot looked suddenly across to Katherine.

  “And you. Mademoiselle,” he said, “you heard and saw nothing during the night?”

  “Nothing,” said Katherine.

  Poirot turned to the Commissary.

  “We need detain Mademoiselle no longer, I think,” he suggested.

  The latter nodded.

  “She will leave us her address?” he said.

  Katherine gave him the name of Lady Tamplin's villa. Poirot made her a little bow.

  “You permit that I see you again, Mademoiselle?” he said. “Or have you so many friends that your time will be all taken up?”

  “On the contrary,” said Katherine, “I shall have plenty of leisure, and I shall be very pleased to see you again.”

  “Excellent,” said Poirot, and gave her a little friendly nod. “This shall be a 'roman policier' à nous. We will investigate this affair together.”

  Chapter 12. At the Villa Marguerite

  “Then you were really in the thick of it all!” said Lady Tamplin enviously. “My dear, how thrilling!” She opened her china blue eyes very wide and gave a little sigh.

  “A real murder,” said Mr. Evans gloatingly.

  “Of course Chubby had no idea of anything of the kind,” went on Lady Tamplin; “he simply could not imagine why the police wanted you. My dear, what an opportunity! I think, you know – yes, I certainly think something might be made out of this.”

  A calculating look rather marred the ingenuousness of the blue eyes.

  Katherine felt slightly uncomfortable. They were just finishing lunch, and she looked in turn at the three people sitting round the table. Lady Tamplin, full of practical schemes; Mr. Evans, beaming with naive appreciation, and Lenox with a queer crooked smile on her dark face.

  “Marvellous luck,” murmured Chubby “I wish I could have gone along with you – and seen – all the exhibits.” His tone was wistful and childlike.

  Katherine said nothing. The police had laid no injunctions of secrecy upon her, and it was clearly impossible to suppress the bare facts or try to keep them from her hostess. But she did rather wish it had been possible to do so.

  “Yes,” said Lady Tamplin, coming suddenly out of her reverie, “I do think something might be done. A little account, you know, cleverly written up. An eyewitness, a feminine touch: 'How I chatted with the dead woman, little thinking-' that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Rot!” said Lenox.

  “You have no idea,” said Lady Tamplin in a soft, wistful voice, “what newspapers will pay for a little titbit! Written, of course, by some one of really unimpeachable social position. You would not like to do it yourself, I dare say, Katherine dear, but just givme the bare bones of it, and I will manage the whole thing for you. Mr. de Haviland is a special friend of mine. We have a littis understanding together. A most delightful man – not at all reporterish. How does the idea strike you, Katherine?”

  “I would much prefer to do nothing of the kind,” said Katherine bluntly.

  Lady Tamplin was rather disconcerted at this uncompromising refusal. She sighed and turned to the elucidation of further details.

  “A very striking-looking woman, you said? I wonder now who she could have been. You didn't hear her name?”

  “It was mentioned,” Katherine admitted, “but I can't remember it. You see, I was rather upset.”

  “I should think so,” said Mr. Evans; “it must have been a beastly shock.”

  It is to be doubted whether, even if Katherine had remembered the name, she would have admitted the fact. Lady Tamplin's remorseless cross-examination was making her restive. Lenox, who was observant in her own way, noticed this, and offered to take Katherine upstairs to see her room. She left her there, remarking kindly before she went: “You mustn't mind Mother; she would make a few pennies' profit out of her dying grandmother if she could.”

  Lenox went down again to find her mother and her stepfather discussing the newcomer.

  “Presentable,” said Lady Tamplin “quite presentable. Her clothes are all right. That grey thing is the same model that Gladys Cooper wore in Palm Trees in Egypt.”

  “Have you noticed her eyes – what?” interposed Mr. Evans.

  “Never mind her eyes. Chubby,” said Lady Tamplin tartly; “we are discussing the things that really matter.”

  “Oh, quite,” said Mr. Evans, and retired into his shell.

  “She doesn't seem to me very – malleable,” said Lady Tamplin, rather hesitating to choose the right word.

  “She has all the instincts of a lady, as they say in books,” said Lenox, with a grin.

  “Narrow-minded,” murmured Lady Tamplin. “Inevitable under the circumstances, I suppose.”

  “I expect you will do your best to broaden her,” said Lenox, with a grin, “but you will have your work cut out. Just now, you noticed, she stuck down her fore feet and laid back her ears and refused to budge.”

  “Anyway,” said Lady Tamplin hopefully, “she doesn't look to me at all mean. Some people, when they come into money, seem to attach undue importance to it.”

  “Oh, you'll easily touch her for what you want,” said Lenox; “and, after all, that is all that matters, isn't it? That is what she is here for.”

  “She is my own cousin,” said Lady Tamplin, with dignity.

  “Cousin, eh?” said Mr. Evans, waking up again. “I suppose I call her Katherine, don't I?”

  “It is of no importance at all what you call her, Chubby,” said Lady Tamplin.

  “Good,” said Mr. Evans; “then I will. Do you suppose she plays tennis?” he added hopefully.

  “Of course not,” said Lady Tamplin. “She has been a companion, I tell you. Companions don't play tennis – or golf. They might possibly play golf-croquet, but I have always understood that they wind wool and wash dogs most of the day.”

  “O God!” said Mr. Evans; “do they really?”

  Lenox drifted upstairs again to Katherine's room. “Can I help you?” she asked rather perfunctorily.

  On Katherine's disclaimer, Lenox sat on the edge of the bed and stared thoughtfully at her guest.

  “Why did you come?” she said at last. “To us, I mean. We're not your sort.”

  “Oh, I am anxious to get into Society.”

  “Don't be an ass,” said Lenox promptly detecting the flicker of a smile. “You know w
hat I mean well enough. You are not a bit what I thought you would be. I say, you have got some decent clothes.” She sighed. “Clothes are no good to me. I was born awkward. It's a pity, because I love them.”

  “I love them too,” said Katherine, “but it has not been much use my loving them up to now. Do you think this is nice?”

  She and Lenox discussed several models with artistic fervour.

  “I like you,” said Lenox suddenly. “I came up to warn you not to be taken in by Mother, but I think now that there is no need to do that. You are frightfully sincere and upright and all those queer things, but you are not a fool. Oh hell! what is it now?”

  Lady Tamplin's voice was calling plaintively from the hall:

  “Lenox, Derek has just rung up. He wants to come to dinner to-night. Will it be all right? I mean, we haven't got anything awkward, like quails, have we?”

  Lenox reassured her and came back into Katherine's room. Her face looked brighter and less sullen.

  “I'm glad old Derek is coming,” she said; “you'll like him.”

  “Who is Derek?”

  “He is Lord Leconbury's son, married a rich American woman. Women are simply potty about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, the usual reason – very good-looking and a regular bad lot. Every one goes off their head about him.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sometimes I do,” said Lenox, “and sometimes I think I would like to marry a nice curate and live in the country and grow things in frames.” She paused a minute, and then added, “An Irish curate would be best, and then I should hunt.”

  After a minute or two she reverted to her former theme. “There is something queer about Derek. All that family are a bit potty – mad gamblers, you know. In the old days they used to gamble away their wives and their estates, and did most reckless things just for the love of it. Derek would have made a perfect highwayman – debonair and gay, just the right manner.” She moved to the door. “Well, come down when you'll like it.”

  Left alone, Katherine gave herself up to thought. Just at present she felt thoroughly ill at ease and jarred by her surroundings. The shock of the discovery in the train and the reception of the news by her new friends jarred upon her susceptibilities. She thought long and earnestly about the murdered woman. She had been sorry for Ruth, but she could not honestly say that she had liked her. She had divined only too well the ruthless egoism that was the keynote of her personality, and it repelled her.