“This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle,” said the detective. “You realize how serious?”
“Certainly I do.”
“That is well,” said Poirot. “Then you understand, Mademoiselle, that no time must be lost. You will, perhaps, accompany us immediately to the office of the Examining Magistrate.”
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen, she had no loophole for escape.
“Ver well,” she muttered, “I will fetch a coat.”
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton exchanged glances.
“It is necessary to act while—how do you say it?—the iron is hot,” murmured Poirot. “She is temperamental; in an hour’s time, maybe, she will repent, and she will wish to draw back. We must prevent that at all costs.”
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sand-coloured velvet wrap trimmed with leopard skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and dangerous. Her eyes still flashed with anger and determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate together. A few brief introductory words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle Mirelle was courteously entreated to tell her tale. This she did in much the same words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more soberness of manner.
“This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle,” said M. Carrège slowly. He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked keenly and searchingly at the dancer through them.
“You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually boasted of the crime to you beforehand?”
“Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said. If she were to die it must be an accident—he would arrange it all.”
“You are aware, Mademoiselle,” said M. Carrège sternly, “that you are making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?”
“Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I take that statement seriously. Ah no indeed! I know men, Monsieur; they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one were to take all they said au pied de la lettre.”
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.
“We are to take it, then, that you regarded M. Kettering’s threats as mere idle words? May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up your engagements in London and come out to the Riviera?”
Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
“I wished to be with the man I loved,” she said simply. “Was it so unnatural?”
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
“Was it, then, at M. Kettering’s wish that you accompanied him to Nice?”
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a haughty indifference of manner.
“In such matters I please myself, Monsieur,” she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men. They said nothing.
“When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?”
“As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife’s compartment just before the train drew in to Lyons. There was a look on his face—ah! at the moment I could not understand it—a look haunted and terrible. I shall never forget it.”
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant gesture.
“Quite so,” said M. Carrège.
“Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons, then—then I knew!”
“And still—you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle,” said the Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in the rôle she was playing.
“Shall I betray my lover?” she asked. “Ah no; do not ask a woman to do that.”
“Yet now—” hinted M. Caux.
“Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in silence? . . .”
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
“Quite so, quite so,” he murmured soothingly. “And now, Mademoiselle, perhaps you will read over the statement of what you have told us, see that it is correct, and sign it.”
Mirelle wasted no time on the document.
“Yes, yes,” she said, “it is correct.” She rose to her feet. “You require me no longer, Messieurs?”
“At present, no, Mademoiselle.”
“And Dereek will be arrested?”
“At once, Mademoiselle.”
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.
“He should have thought of this before he insulted me,” she cried.
“There is one little matter”—Poirot coughed apologetically—“just a matter of detail.”
“Yes?”
“What makes you think that Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons?”
Mirelle stared.
“But she was dead.”
“Was she?”
“Yes, of course. I—”
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was regarding her intently, and he saw the wary look that came into her eyes.
“I have been told so. Everybody says so.”
“Oh,” said Poirot, “I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned outside the Examining Magistrate’s office.”
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
“One hears those things,” she said vaguely; “they get about. Somebody told me. I can’t remember who it was.”
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang forward to open it for her, and as he did so, Poirot’s voice rose gently once more.
“And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle. Can you tell me anything about those?”
“The jewels? What jewels?”
“The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since you hear so much, you must have heard of them.”
“I know nothing about any jewels,” said Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her. M. Caux came back to his chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.
“What a fury!” he said, “but diablement chic. I wonder if she is telling the truth? I think so.”
“There is some truth in her story, certainly,” said Poirot. “We have confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor a short time before the train reached Lyons, and she saw M. Kettering go into his wife’s compartment.”
“The case against him seems quite clear,” said the Commissary, sighing: “it is a thousand pities,” he murmured.
“How do you mean?” asked Poirot.
“It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche by the heels. This time, ma foi, I thought we had got him. This other—it is not nearly so satisfactory.”
M. Carrège rubbed his nose.
“If anything goes wrong,” he observed cautiously, “it will be most awkward. M. Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get into the newspapers. If we have made a mistake—” He shrugged his shoulders forebodingly.
“The jewels now,” said the Commissary, “what do you think he has done with them?”
“He took them for a plant, of course,” said M. Carrège; “they must have been a great inconvenience to him and very awkward to dispose of.”
Poirot smiled.
“I have an idea of my own about the jewels. Tell me, Messieurs, what do you know of a man called the Marquis?”
The Commissary leant forward excitedly.
“The Marquis,” he said, “the Marquis? Do you think he is mixed up in this affair, M. Poirot?”
“I ask you what you know of him.”
The Commissary made an expressive grimace.
“Not as much as we should like to,” he observed ruefully. “He works behind the scenes, you understand. He has underlings who do his dirty work for him. But he is someone high up. That we are sure of. He does not come from the criminal classes.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Y-es. At least we believe so. But we are not sure. He has worked in France
, in England, in America. There was a series of robberies in Switzerland last autumn which were laid at his door. By all accounts he is a grand seigneur, speaking French and English with equal perfection, and his origin is a mystery.”
Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.
“Can you tell us nothing more, M. Poirot?” urged the Commissary.
“At present, no,” said Poirot, “but I may have news awaiting me at my hotel.”
M. Carrège looked uncomfortable. “If the Marquis is concerned in this—” he began, and then stopped.