“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 know 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. Caux, 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 anyone 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 plausible. These bandits have become very bold of late.”
Poirot looked suddenly across at 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.”
Twelve
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 naïve 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 someone of really unimpeachable social position. You would not like to do it yourself, I daresay, Katherine dear, but just give me 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 little 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 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 things that really matter.”
“Oh, quite,” said Mr. Evans, and retired into his shell.
“She doesn’t seem to me ve
ry—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 forefeet 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 what 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?”