“I’m not going to mince matters,” said Van Aldin savagely. “No one knows what my poor girl has had to put up with. Derek Kettering wasn’t alone. He had a lady with him.”
“Ah?”
“Mirelle—the dancer.”
M. Carrège and the Commissary looked at each other and nodded as though confirming some previous conversation. M. Carrège leaned back in his chair, joined his hands, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“Ah!” he murmured again. “One wondered.” He coughed. “One has heard rumours.”
“The lady,” said M. Caux, “is very notorious.”
“And also,” murmured Poirot softly, “very expensive.”
Van Aldin had gone very red in the face. He leant forward and hit the table a bang with his fist.
“See here,” he cried, “my son-in-law is a damned scoundrel!”
He glared at them, looking from one face to another.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he went on. “Good looks and a charming, easy manner. It took me in once upon a time. I suppose he pretended to be brokenhearted when you broke the news to him—that is, if he didn’t know it already.”
“Oh, it came as a surprise to him. He was overwhelmed.”
“Darned young hypocrite,” said Van Aldin. “Simulated great grief, I suppose?”
“N—no,” said the Commissary cautiously. “I would not quite say that—eh, M. Carrège?”
The Magistrate brought the tips of his fingers together, and half-closed his eyes.
“Shock, bewilderment, horror—these things, yes,” he declared judicially. “Great sorrow—no—I should not say that.”
Hercule Poirot spoke once more.
“Permit me to ask, M. Van Aldin, does M. Kettering benefit by the death of his wife?”
“He benefits to the tune of a couple of millions,” said Van Aldin.
“Dollars?”
“Pounds. I settled that sum on Ruth absolutely on her marriage. She made no will and leaves no children, so the money will go to her husband.”
“Whom she was on the point of divorcing,” murmured Poirot. “Ah, yes—précisément.”
The Commissary turned and looked sharply at him.
“Do you mean—?” he began.
“I mean nothing,” said Poirot. “I arrange the facts, that is all.”
Van Aldin stared at him with awakening interest.
The little man rose to his feet.
“I do not think I can be of any further service to you, M. le Juge,” he said politely, bowing to M. Carrège. “You will keep me informed of the course of events? It will be a kindness.”
“But certainly—most certainly.”
Van Aldin rose also.
“You don’t want me any more at present?”
“No, Monsieur; we have all the information we need for the moment.”
“Then I will walk a little way with M. Poirot. That is, if he does not object?”
“Enchanted, Monsieur,” said the little man, with a bow.
Van Aldin lighted a large cigar, having first offered one to Poirot, who declined it and lit one of his own tiny cigarettes. A man of great strength of character, Van Aldin already appeared to be his everyday, normal self once more. After strolling along for a minute or two in silence, the millionaire spoke:
“I take it, M. Poirot, that you no longer exercise your profession?”
“That is so, Monsieur. I enjoy the world.”
“Yet you are assisting the police in this affair?”
“Monsieur, if a doctor walks along the street and an accident happens, does he say, ‘I have retired from my profession, I will continue my walk,’ when there is someone bleeding to death at his feet? If I had been already in Nice, and the police had sent to me and asked me to assist them, I should have refused. But this affair, the good God thrust it upon me.”
“You were on the spot,” said Van Aldin thoughtfully. “You examined the compartment, did you not?”
Poirot nodded.
“Doubtless you found things that were, shall we say, suggestive to you?”
“Perhaps,” said Poirot.
“I hope you see what I am leading up to?” said Van Aldin. “It seems to me that the case against this Comte de la Roche is perfectly clear, but I am not a fool. I have been watching you for this last hour or so, and I realize that for some reason of your own you don’t agree with that theory?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I may be wrong.”
“So we come to the favour I want to ask you. Will you act in this matter for me?”
“For you, personally?”
“That was my meaning.”
Poirot was silent for a moment or two. Then he said:
“You realize what you are asking?”
“I guess so,” said Van Aldin.
“Very well,” said Poirot. “I accept. But in that case, I must have frank answers to my questions.”
“Why, certainly. That is understood.”
Poirot’s manner changed. He became suddenly brusque and businesslike.
“This question of a divorce,” he said. “It was you who advised your daughter to bring the suit?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About ten days ago. I had had a letter from her complaining of her husband’s behaviour, and I put it to her very strongly that divorce was the only remedy.”
“In what way did she complain of his behaviour?”
“He was being seen about with a very notorious lady—the one we have been speaking of—Mirelle.”
“The dancer. Ah-ha! And Madame Kettering objected? Was she very devoted to her husband?”
“I would not say that,” said Van Aldin, hesitating a little.
“It was not her heart that suffered, it was her pride—is that what you would say?”
“Yes, I suppose you might put it like that.”
“I gather that the marriage has not been a happy one from the beginning?”
“Derek Kettering is rotten to the core,” said Van Aldin. “He is incapable of making any woman happy.”
“He is, as you say in England, a bad lot. That is right, is it not?”
Van Aldin nodded.
“Très bien! You advise Madame to seek a divorce, she agrees; you consult your solicitors. When does M. Kettering get news of what is in the wind?”
“I sent for him myself, and explained the course of action I proposed to take.”
“And what did he say?” murmured Poirot softly.
Van Aldin’s face darkened at the remembrance.
“He was infernally impudent.”
“Excuse the question, Monsieur, but did he refer to the Comte de la Roche?”
“Not by name,” growled the other unwillingly, “but he showed himself cognizant of the affair.”
“What, if I may ask, was Mr. Kettering’s financial position at the time?”
“How do you suppose I should know that?” asked Van Aldin, after a very brief hesitation.
“It seemed likely to me that you would inform yourself on that point.”
“Well—you are quite right, I did. I discovered that Kettering was on the rocks.”
“And now he has inherited two million pounds! La vie—it is a strange thing, is it not?”
Van Aldin looked at him sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“I moralize,” said Poirot, “I reflect, I speak the philosophy. But to return to where we were. Surely M. Kettering did not propose to allow himself to be divorced without making a fight for it?”
Van Aldin did not answer for a minute or two, then he said:
“I don’t exactly know what his intentions were.”
“Did you hold any further communications with him?”
Again a slight pause, then Van Aldin said:
“No.”
Poirot stopped dead, took off his hat, and held out his hand.
“I must wish you good-day, Monsieur. I can do nothing
for you.”
“What are you getting at?” demanded Van Aldin angrily.
“If you do not tell me the truth, I can do nothing.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. You may rest assured, M. Van Aldin, that I know how to be discreet.”
“Very well, then,” said the millionaire. “I’ll admit that I was not speaking the truth just now. I did have further communication with my son-in-law.”
“Yes?”
“To be exact, I sent my secretary, Major Knighton, to see him, with instructions to offer him the sum of one hundred thousand pounds in cash if the divorce went through undefended.”
“A pretty sum of money,” said Poirot appreciatively: “and the answer of Monsieur your son-in-law?”
“He sent back word that I could go to hell,” replied the millionaire succinctly.
“Ah!” said Poirot.