Katherine wakened the next morning to brilliant sunshine. She went along to breakfast early, but met none of her acquaintances of the day before. When she returned to her compartment it had just been restored to its daytime appearance by the conductor, a dark man with a drooping moustache and melancholy face.
“Madame is fortunate,” he said; “the sun shines. It is always a great disappointment to passengers when they arrive on a grey morning.”
“I should have been disappointed, certainly,” said Katherine.
The man prepared to depart.
“We are rather late, Madame,” he said. “I will let you know just before we get to Nice.”
Katherine nodded. She sat by the window, entranced by the sunlit panorama. The palm trees, the deep blue of the sea, the bright yellow mimosa came with all the charm of novelty to the woman who for fourteen years had known only the drab winters of England.
When they arrived at Cannes, Katherine got out and walked up and down the platform. She was curious about the lady in the mink coat, and looked up at the windows of her compartment. The blinds were still drawn down—the only ones to be so on the whole train. Katherine wondered a little, and when she reentered the train she passed along the corridor and noticed that these two compartments were still shuttered and closed. The lady of the mink coat was clearly no early riser.
Presently the conductor came to her and told her that in a few minutes the train would arrive at Nice. Katherine handed him a tip; the man thanked her, but still lingered. There was something odd about him. Katherine, who had at first wondered whether the tip had not been big enough, was now convinced that something far more serious was amiss. His face was of a sickly pallor, he was shaking all over, and looked as if he had been frightened out of his life. He was eyeing her in a curious manner. Presently he said abruptly: “Madame will excuse me, but is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice?”
“Probably,” said Katherine. “Why?”
But the man merely shook his head and murmured something that Katherine could not catch and moved away, not reappearing until the train came to rest at the station, when he started handing her belongings down from the window.
Katherine stood for a moment or two on the platform rather at a loss, but a fair young man with an ingenuous face came up to her and said rather hesitatingly:
“Miss Grey, is it not?”
Katherine said that it was, and the young man beamed upon her seraphically and murmured: “I am Chubby, you know—Lady Tamplin’s husband. I expect she mentioned me, but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your billet de bagages? I lost mine when I came out this year, and you would not believe the fuss they made about it. Regular French red tape!”
Katherine produced it, and was just about to move off beside him when a very gentle and insidious voice murmured in her ear:
“A little moment, Madame, if you please.”
Katherine turned to behold an individual who made up for insignificance of stature by a large quantity of gold lace and uniform. The individual explained. “There were certain formalities. Madame would perhaps be so kind as to accompany him. The regulations of the police—” he threw up his arms. “Absurd, doubtless, but there it was.”
Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very imperfect comprehension, his French being of a limited order.
“So like the French,” murmured Mr. Evans. He was one of those staunch patriotic Britons who, having made a portion of a foreign country their own, strongly resent the original inhabitants of it. “Always up to some silly dodge or other. They’ve never tackled people on the station before, though. This is something quite new. I suppose you’ll have to go.”
Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat to her surprise, he led her towards a siding where a coach of the departed train had been shunted. He invited her to mount into this, and, preceding her down the corridor, held aside the door of one of the compartments. In it was a pompous-looking official personage, and with him a nondescript being who appeared to be a clerk. The pompous-looking personage rose politely, bowed to Katherine, and said:
“You will excuse me, Madame, but there are certain formalities to be complied with. Madame speaks French, I trust?”
“Sufficiently, I think, Monsieur,” replied Katherine in that language.
“That is good. Pray be seated, Madame. I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police.” He blew out his chest importantly, and Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.
“You wish to see my passport?” she inquired. “Here it is.”
The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave a little grunt.
“Thank you, Madame,” he said, taking the passport from her. He cleared his throat. “But what I really desire is a little information.”
“Information?”
The Commissary nodded his head slowly.
“About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger of yours. You lunched with her yesterday.”
“I am afraid I can’t tell you anything about her. We fell into conversation over our meal, but she is a complete stranger to me. I have never seen her before.”
“And yet,” said the Commissary sharply, “you returned to her compartment with her after lunch and sat talking for some time?”
“Yes,” said Katherine; “that is true.”
The Commissary seemed to expect her to say something more. He looked at her encouragingly.
“Yes, Madame?”
“Well, Monsieur?” said Katherine.
“You can, perhaps, give me some kind of idea of that conversation?”
“I could,” said Katherine, “but at the moment I see no reason to do so.”
In a somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed. This foreign official seemed to her impertinent.
“No reason?” cried the Commissary. “Oh yes, Madame, I can assure you that there is a reason.”
“Then perhaps you will give it to me.”
The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a minute or two without speaking.
“Madame
,” he said at last, “the reason is very simple. The lady in question was found dead in her compartment this morning.”
“Dead!” gasped Katherine. “What was it—heart failure?”
“No,” said the Commissary in a reflective, dreamy voice. “No—she was murdered.”
“Murdered!” cried Katherine.
“So you see, Madame, why we are anxious for any information we can possibly get.”
“But surely her maid—”
“The maid has disappeared.”
“Oh!” Katherine paused to assemble her thoughts.
“Since the conductor had seen you talking with her in her compartment, he quite naturally reported the fact to the police, and that is why, Madame, we have detained you, in the hope of gaining some information.”
“I am very sorry,” said Katherine; “I don’t even know her name.”
“Her name is Kettering. That we know from her passport and from the labels on her luggage. If we—”
There was a knock on the compartment door. M. Caux frowned. He opened it about six inches.
“What is the matter?” he said peremptorily. “I cannot be disturbed.”
The egg-shaped head of Katherine’s dinner acquaintance showed itself in the aperture. On his face was a beaming smile.
“My name,” he said, “is Hercule Poirot.”
“Not,” the Commissary stammered, “not the Hercule Poirot?”
“The same,” said M. Poirot. “I remember meeting you once, M. Caux, at the Sûreté in Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten me?”
“Not at all, Monsieur, not at all,” declared the Commissary heartily. “But enter, I pray you. You know of this—?”
“Yes, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “I came to see if I might be of any assistance?”
“We should be flattered,” replied the Commissary promptly. “Let me present you, M. Poirot, to”—he consulted the passport he still held in his hand—“to Madame—er—Mademoiselle Grey.”