“The Isles d’Or,” said the Commissary thoughtfully, “are situated just opposite Hyères, a remote and idyllic spot.”
Van Aldin nodded.
“My God! How could Ruth be such a fool?” he exclaimed bitterly. “All this talk about writing a book on jewels! Why, he must have been after the rubies from the first.”
“There are some very famous rubies,” said Poirot, “originally part of the Crown jewels of Russia; they are unique in character, and their value is almost fabulous. There has been a rumour that they have lately passed into the possession of an American. Are we right in concluding, Monsieur, that you were the purchaser?”
“Yes,” said Van Aldin. “They came into my possession in Paris about ten days ago.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur, but you have been negotiating for their purchase for some time?”
“A little over two months. Why?”
“These things became known,” said Poirot. “There is always a pretty formidable crowd on the track of jewels such as these.”
A spasm distorted the other’s face.
“I remember,” he said brokenly, “a joke I made to Ruth when I gave them to her. I told her not to take them to the Riviera with her, as I could not afford to have her robbed and murdered for the sake of the jewels. My God! the things one says—never dreaming or knowing they will come true.”
There was a sympathetic silence, and then Poirot spoke in a detached manner.
“Let us arrange our facts with order and precision. According to our present theory, this is how they run. The Comte de la Roche knows of your purchase of these jewels. By an easy stratagem he induces Madame Kettering to bring the stones with her. He, then, is the man Mason saw in the train at Paris.”
The other three nodded in agreement.
“Madame is surprised to see him, but he deals with the situation promptly. Mason is got out of the way; a dinner basket is ordered. We know from the conductor that he made up the berth for the first compartment, but he did not go into the second compartment, and that a man could quite well have been concealed from him. So far the Comte could have been hidden to a marvel. No one knows of his presence on the train except Madame; he has been careful that the maid did not see his face. All that she could say is that he was tall and dark. It is all most conveniently vague. They are alone—and the train rushes through the night. There would be no outcry, no struggle, for the man is, so she thinks, her lover.”
He turned gently to Van Aldin.
“Death, Monsieur, must have been almost instantaneous. We will pass over that quickly. The Comte takes the jewel case which lies ready to his hand. Shortly afterwards the train draws into Lyons.”
M. Carrège nodded his approval.
“Precisely. The conductor without descends. It would be easy for our man to leave the train unseen; it would be easy to catch a train back to Paris or anywhere he pleases. And the crime would be put down as an ordinary train robbery. But for the letter found in Madame’s bag, the Comte would not have been mentioned.”
“It was an oversight on his part not to search that bag,” declared the Commissary.
“Without doubt he thought she had destroyed that letter. It was—pardon me, Monsieur—it was an indiscretion of the first water to keep it.”
“And yet,” murmured Poirot, “it was an indiscretion the Comte might have foreseen.”
“You mean?”
“I mean we are all agreed on one point, and that is that the Comte de la Roche knows one subject à fond: Women. How was it that, knowing women as he does, he did not foresee that Madame would have kept that letter?”
“Yes—yes,” said the Examining Magistrate doubtfully, “there is something in what you say. But at such times, you understand, a man is not master of himself. He does not reason calmly. Mon Dieu!” he added, with feeling, “if our criminals kept their heads and acted with intelligence, how should we capture them?”
Poirot smiled to himself.
“It seems to me a clear case,” said the other, “but a difficult one to prove. The Comte is a slippery customer, and unless the maid can identify him—”
“Which is most unlikely,” said Poirot.
“True, true.” The Examining Magistrate rubbed his chin. “It is going to be difficult.”
“If he did indeed commit the crime—” began Poirot. M. Caux interrupted.
“If—you say if?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire, I say if.”
The other looked at him sharply. “You are right,” he said at last, “we go too fast. It is possible that the Comte may have an alibi. Then we should look foolish.”
“Ah, ça par exemple,” replied Poirot, “that is of no importance whatever. Naturally, if he committed the crime he will have an alibi. A man with the Comte’s experience does not neglect to take precautions. No, I said if for a very definite reason.”
“And what was that?”
Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger. “The psychology.”
“Eh?” said the Commissary.
“The psychology is at fault. The Comte is a scoundrel—yes. The Comte is a swindler—yes. The Comte preys upon women—yes. He proposes to steal Madame’s jewels—again yes. Is he the kind of man to commit murder? I say no! A man of the type of the Comte is always a coward; he takes no risks. He plays the safe, the mean, what the English call the lowdown game; but murder, a hundred times no!” He shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
The Examining Magistrate, however, did not seem disposed to agree with him.
“The day always comes when such gentry lose their heads and go too far,” he observed sagely. “Doubtless that is the case here. Without wishing to disagree with you, M. Poirot—”
“It was only an opinion,” Poirot hastened to explain. “The case is, of course, in your hands, and you will do what seems fit to you.”
“I am satisfied in my own mind the Comte de la Roche is the man we need to get hold of,” said M. Carrège. “You agree with me, Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“Perfectly.”
“And you, M. Van Aldin?”
“Yes,” said the millionaire. “Yes; the man is a thorough-paced villain, no doubt about it.”
“It will be difficult to lay hands on him, I am afraid,” said the Magistrate, “but we will do our best. Telegraphed instructions shall go out at once.”
“Permit me to assist you,” said Poirot. “There need be no difficulty.”
“Eh?”
; The others stared at him. The little man smiled beamingly back at them.
“It is my business to know things,” he explained. “The Comte is a man of intelligence. He is at present at a villa he has leased, the Villa Marina at Antibes.”
Sixteen
POIROT DISCUSSES THE CASE
Everybody looked respectfully at Poirot. Undoubtedly the little man had scored heavily. The Commissary laughed—on a rather hollow note.
“You teach us all our business,” he cried. “M. Poirot knows more than the police.”
Poirot gazed complacently at the ceiling, adopting a mock-modest air.
“What will you; it is my little hobby,” he murmured, “to know things. Naturally I have the time to indulge it. I am not overburdened with affairs.”
“Ah!” said the Commissary shaking his head portentously. “As for me—”
He made an exaggerated gesture to represent the cares that lay on his shoulders.
Poirot turned suddenly to Van Aldin.
“You agree, Monsieur, with this view? You feel certain that the Comte de la Roche is the murderer?”
“Why, it would seem so—yes, certainly.”
Something guarded in the answer made the Examining Magistrate look at the American curiously. Van Aldin seemed aware of his scrutiny and made an effort as though to shake off some preoccupation.
“What about my son-in-law?” he asked. “You have acquainted him with the news? He is in Nice, I understand.”
“Certainly, Monsieur.” The Commissary hesitated, and then murmured very discreetly: “You are doubtless aware, M. Van Aldin, that M. Kettering was also one of the passengers on the Blue Train that night?”
The millionaire nodded.
“Heard it just before I left London,” he vouchsafed laconically.
“He tells us,” continued the Commissary, “that he had no idea his wife was travelling on the train.”
“I bet he hadn’t,” said Van Aldin grimly. “It would have been rather a nasty shock to him if he’d come across her on it.”
The three men looked at him questioningly.