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 leaned 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 significance. 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 already 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.”
The other bowed.
“You flatter me.”
“It is a great thing, discretion,” mused Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting smile which passed across the Greek’s face. “I, too, can be discreet.”
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly, and obviously picking his words with care.
“I say to myself, this: if these jewels have changed hands in Nice, M. Papopolous would have heard of it. He has knowledge of all that passes in the jewel world.”
“Ah!” said M. Papopolous, and helped himself to a croissant.
“The police, you understand,” said M. Poirot, “do not enter into the matter. It is a personal affair.”
“One hears rumours,” admitted M. Papopolous cautiously.
“Such as?” prompted Poirot.
“Is there any reason why I should pass them on?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I think there is. You may remember, M. Papopolous, that seventeen years ago there was a certain article in your hands, left there as security by a very—er—Prominent Person. It was in your keeping and it unaccountably disappeared. You were, if I may use the English expression, in the soup.”
His eyes came gently round to the girl. She had pushed her cup and plate aside, and with both elbows on the table and her chin resting on her hands, was listening eagerly. Still keeping an eye on her he went on:
“I am in Paris at the time. You send for me. You place yourself in my hands. If I restore to you that—article, you say I shall earn your undying gratitude. Eh bien! I did restore it to you.”
A long sigh came from M. Papopolous.
“It was the most unpleasant moment of my career,” he murmured.
“Seventeen years is a long time,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “but I believe that I am right in saying, Monsieur, that your race does not forget.”
“A Greek?” murmured Papopolous, with an ironical smile.
“It was not as a Greek I meant,” said Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man drew himself up proudly.
“You are right, M. Poirot,” he said quietly. “I am a Jew. And, as you say, our race does not forget.”
“You will aid me then?”
“As regards the jewels, Monsieur, I can do nothing.”
The old man, as Poirot had done just now, picked his words carefully.
“I know nothing. I have heard nothing. But I can perhaps do you a good turn—that is, if you are interested in racing.”
“Under certain circumstances I might be,” said Poirot, eyeing him steadily.
“There is a horse running at Longchamps that would, I think, repay attention. I cannot say for certain, you understand; this news passed through so many hands.”
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eyes, as though to make sure that the latter was comprehending him.
“Perfectly, perfectly,” said Poirot, nodding.
“The name of the horse,” said M. Papopolous, leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together, “is the Marquis. I think, but I am not sure, that it is an English horse, eh, Zia?”
“I think so too,” said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.
“I thank you, Monsieur,” he said. “It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir, Monsieur, and many thanks.”
He turned to the girl.
“Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems to me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris. One would say that two years had passed at most.”
“There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three,” said Zia ruefully.
“Not in your case,” declared Poirot gallantly. “You and your father will perhaps dine with me one night.”
“We shall be delighted,” replied Zia.
“Then we will arrange it,” declared Poirot, “and now—je me sauve.”
Poirot walked along the street humming a little tune to himself. He twirled his stick with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to himself quietly. He turned into the first Bureau de Poste he came to and sent off a telegram. He took some time in wording it, but it was in code and he had to call upon his memory. It purported to deal with a missing scarfpin, and was addressed to Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard.
Decoded, it was short and to the point. “Wire me everything known about man whose soubriquet is the Marquis.”
Twenty-three
A NEW THEORY
It was exactly eleven o’clock when Poirot presented himself at Van Aldin’s hotel. He found the millionaire alone.
“You are punctual, M. Poirot,” he said, with a smile, as he rose to greet the detective.
“I am always punctual,” said Poirot. “The exactitude—always do I observe it. Without order and method—”
He broke off. “Ah, but it is possible that I have said these things to you before. Let us come at once to the object of my visit.”
“Your little idea?”
“Yes, my little idea.” Poirot smiled.
“First of all, Monsieur, I should like to interview once more the maid, Ada Mason. She is here?”
“Yes, she’s here.”
“Ah!”
Van Aldin looked at him curiously. He rang the bell, and a messenger was despatched to find Mason.
Poirot greeted her with his usual politeness, which was never without effect on that particular class.
“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle,” he said cheerfully. “Be seated, will you not, if Monsieur permits.”
“Yes, yes, sit down, my girl,” said Van Aldin.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mason primly, and she sat down on the extreme edge of a chair. She looked bonier and more acid than ever.
“I have come to ask you yet more questions,” said
Poirot. “We must get to the bottom of this affair. Always I return to the question of the man in the train. You have been shown the Comte de la Roche. You say that it is possible he was the man, but you are not sure.”
“As I told you, sir, I never saw the gentleman’s face. That is what makes it so difficult.”
Poirot beamed and nodded.
“Precisely, exactly. I comprehend well the difficulty. Now, Mademoiselle, you have been in the service of Madame Kettering two months, you say. During that time, how often did you see your master?”
Mason reflected a minute or two, and then said: