“Only twice, sir.”
“And was that near to, or far away?”
“Well once, sir, he came to Curzon Street. I was upstairs, and I looked over the banisters and saw him in the hall below. I was a bit curious like, you understand, knowing the way things—er—were.” Mason finished up with her discreet cough.
“And the other time?”
“I was in the Park, sir, with Annie—one of the housemaids, sir, and she pointed out the master to me walking with a foreign lady.”
Again Poirot nodded.
“Now listen, Mason, this man whom you saw in the carriage talking to your mistress at the Gare de Lyon, how do you know it was not your master?”
“The master, sir? Oh, I don’t think it could have been.”
“But you are not sure,” Poirot persisted.
“Well—I never thought of it, sir.”
Mason was clearly upset at the idea.
“You have heard that your master was also on the train. What more natural than that it should be he who came along the corridor?”
“But the gentleman who was talking to the mistress must have come from outside, sir. He was dressed for the street. In an overcoat and soft hat.”
“Just so, Mademoiselle, but reflect a minute. The train has just arrived at the Gare de Lyon. Many of the passengers promenade themselves upon the quay. Your mistress was about to do so, and for that purpose had doubtless put on her fur coat, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Mason.
“Your master, then, does the same. The train is heated, but outside in the station it is cold. He puts on his overcoat and his hat and he walks along beside the train, and looking up at the lighted windows he suddenly sees Madame Kettering. Until then he has had no idea that she was on the train. Naturally, he mounts the carriage and goes to her compartment. She gives an exclamation of surprise at seeing him and quickly shuts the door between the two compartments since it is possible that their conversation may be of a private nature.”
He leaned back in his chair and watched the suggestion slowly take effect. No one knew better than Hercule Poirot that the class to which Mason belongs cannot be hurried. He must give her time to get rid of her own preconceived ideas. At the end of three minutes she spoke:
“Well, of course, sir, it might be so. I never thought of it that way. The master is tall and dark, and just about that build. It was seeing the hat and coat that made me say it was a gentleman from outside. Yes, it might have been the master. I would not like to say either way I’m sure.”
“Thank you very much, Mademoiselle. I shall not require you any further. Ah, just one thing more.” He took from his pocket the cigarette case he had already shown to Katherine. “Is that your mistress’s case?” he said to Mason.
“No, sir, it is not the mistress’s—at least—”
She looked suddenly startled. An idea was clearly working its way to the forefront of her mind.
“Yes?” said Poirot encouragingly.
“I think, sir—I can’t be sure, but I think—it is a case that the mistress bought to give to the master.”
“Ah,” said Poirot in a noncommittal manner.
“But whether she ever did give it to him or not, I can’t say, of course.”
“Precisely,” said Poirot, “precisely. That is all, I think, Mademoiselle. I wish you good afternoon.”
Ada Mason retired discreetly, closing the door noiselessly behind her.
Poirot looked across at Van Aldin, a faint smile upon his face. The millionaire looked thunderstruck.
“You think—you think it was Derek?” he queried, “but—everything points the other way. Why, the Count has actually been caught red-handed with the jewels on him.”
“No.”
“But you told me—”
“What did I tell you?”
“That story about the jewels. You showed them to me.”
“No.”
Van Aldin stared at him.
“You mean to say you didn’t show them to me?”
“No.”
“Yesterday—at the tennis?”
“No.”
“Are you crazy, M. Poirot, or am I?”
“Neither of us is crazy,” said the detective. “You ask me a question; I answer it. You say have I not shown you the jewels yesterday? I reply—no. What I showed you, M. Van Aldin, was a first-class imitation, hardly to be distinguished except by an expert from the real ones.”
Twenty-four
POIROT GIVES ADVICE
It took the millionaire some few minutes to take the thing in. He stared at Poirot as though dumbfounded. The little Belgian nodded at him gently.
“Yes,” he said, “it alters the position, does it not?”
“Imitation!”
He leaned forward.
“All along, M. Poirot, you have had this idea? All along this is what you have been driving at? You never believed that the Comte de la Roche was the murderer?”
“I have had doubts,” said Poirot quietly. “I said as much to you. Robbery with violence and murder”—he shook his head energetically—“no, it is difficult to picture. It does not harmonize with the personality of the Comte de la Roche.”
“But you believe that he meant to steal the rubies?”
“Certainly. There is no doubt as to that. See, I will recount to you the affair as I see it. The Comte knew of the rubies and he laid his plans accordingly. He made up a romantic story of a book he was writing, so as to induce your daughter to bring them with her. He provided himself with an exact duplicate. It is clear, is it not, that substitution is what he was after. Madame, your daughter, was not an expert on jewels. It would probably be a long time before she discovered what had occurred. When she did so—well—I do not think she would prosecute the Comte. Too much would come out. He would have in his possession various letters of hers. Oh yes, a very safe scheme from the Comte’s point of view—one that he has probably carried out before.”
“It seems clear enough, yes,” said Van Aldin musingly.
“It accords with the personality of the Comte de la Roche,” said Poirot.
“Yes, but now—” Van Aldin looked searchingly at the other. “What actually happened? Tell me that, M. Poirot.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“It is quite simple,” he said; “someone stepped in ahead of the Comte.”
There was a long pause.
Van Aldin seemed to be turning things over in his mind. When he spoke it was without beating about the bush.
“How long have you suspected my son-in-law, M. Poirot?”
“From the very first. He had the motive and the opportunity. Everyone took for granted that the man in Madame’s compartment in Paris was the Comte de la Roche. I thought so, too. Then you happened to mention that you had once mistaken the Comte for your son-in-law. That told me that they were of the same height and build, and alike in colouring. It put some curious ideas in my head. The maid had only been with your daughter a short time. It was unlikely that she would know Mr. Kettering well by sight, since he had not been living in Curzon Street; also the man was careful to keep his face turned away.”
“You believe he—murdered her?” said Van Aldin hoarsely.
Poirot raised a hand quickly.
“No, no, I did not say that—but it is a possibility—a very strong possibility. He was in a tight corner, a very t
ight corner, threatened with ruin. This was the one way out.”
“But why take the jewels?”
“To make the crime appear an ordinary one committed by train robbers. Otherwise suspicion might have fallen on him straight away.”
“If that is so, what has he done with the rubies?”
“That remains to be seen. There are several possibilities. There is a man in Nice who may be able to help, the man I pointed out at the tennis.”
He rose to his feet and Van Aldin rose also and laid his hand on the little man’s shoulder. His voice when he spoke was harsh with emotion.
“Find Ruth’s murderer for me,” he said, “that is all I ask.”
Poirot drew himself up.
“Leave it in the hands of Hercule Poirot,” he said superbly; “have no fears. I will discover the truth.”
He brushed a speck of fluff from his hat, smiled reassuringly at the millionaire, and left the room. Nevertheless, as he went down the stairs some of the confidence faded from his face.
“It is all very well,” he murmured to himself, “but there are difficulties. Yes, there are great difficulties.” As he was passing out of the hotel he came to a sudden halt. A car had drawn up in front of the door. In it was Katherine Grey, and Derek Kettering was standing beside it talking to her earnestly. A minute or two later the car drove off and Derek remained standing on the pavement looking after it. The expression on his face was an odd one. He gave a sudden impatient gesture of the shoulders, sighed deeply, and turned to find Hercule Poirot standing at his elbow. In spite of himself he started. The two men looked at each other. Poirot steadily and unwaveringly and Derek with a kind of lighthearted defiance. There was a sneer behind the easy mockery of his tone when he spoke, raising his eyebrows slightly as he did so.
“Rather a dear, isn’t she?” he asked easily.
His manner was perfectly natural.
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “that describes Mademoiselle Katherine very well. It is very English, that phrase there, and Mademoiselle Katherine, she also is very English.”
Derek remained perfectly still without answering.
“And yet she is sympathique, is it not so?”