The Count rose, picked up his handsome stick from the corner, and, with rather a curt bow, left the room.
“And that is that,” said M. Carrège. “You were quite right, M. Poirot—much better to let him feel he is not suspected. Two of my men will shadow him night and day, and at the same time we will go into the question of the alibi. It seems to me rather—er—a fluid one.”
“Possibly,” agreed Poirot thoughtfully.
“I asked M. Kettering to come here this morning,” continued the Magistrate, “though really I doubt if we have much to ask him, but there are one or two suspicious circumstances—” He paused, rubbing his nose.
“Such as?” asked Poirot.
“Well”—the Magistrate coughed—“this lady with whom he is said to be travelling—Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at one hotel and he at another. That strikes me—er—as rather odd.”
“It looks,” said M. Caux, “as though they were being careful.”
“Exactly,” said M. Carrège triumphantly; “and what should they have to be careful about?”
“An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?” said Poirot.
“Précisément.”
“We might, I think,” murmured Poirot, “ask M. Kettering one or two questions.”
The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair as ever, entered the room.
“Good morning, Monsieur,” said the Judge politely.
“Good morning,” said Derek Kettering curtly. “You sent for me. Has anything fresh turned up?”
“Pray sit down, Monsieur.”
Derek took a seat and flung his hat and stick on the table.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“We have, so far, no fresh data,” said M. Carrège cautiously.
“That’s very interesting,” said Derek drily. “Did you send for me here in order to tell me that?”
“We naturally thought, Monsieur, that you would like to be informed of the progress of the case,” said the Magistrate severely.
“Even if the progress is nonexistent.”
“We also wished to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away.”
“You are quite sure that you neither saw nor spoke with your wife on the train.”
“I’ve answered that already. I did not.”
“You had, no doubt, your reasons.”
Derek stared at him suspiciously.
“I—did—not—know—she—was—on—the—train,” he explained, spacing his words elaborately, as though to someone dull of intellect.
“That is what you say, yes,” murmured M. Carrège.
A quick frown suffused Derek’s face.
“I should like to know what you are driving at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrège?”
“What do you think, Monsieur?”
“I think the French police are vastly overrated. Surely you must have some data as to these gangs of train robbers. It’s outrageous that such a thing could happen on a train de luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter.”
“We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never fear.”
“Madame Kettering, I understand, did not leave a will,” interposed Poirot suddenly. His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.
“I don’t think she ever made one,” said Kettering. “Why?”
“It is a very pretty little fortune that you inherit there,” said Poirot—“a very pretty little fortune.”
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose to Derek Kettering’s face.
“What do you mean, and who are you?”
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face.
“My name is Hercule Poirot,” he said quietly, “and I am probably the greatest detective in the world. You are quite sure that you did not see or speak to your wife on that train?”
“What are you getting at? Do you—do you mean to insinuate that I—I killed her?”
He laughed suddenly.
“I mustn’t lose my temper; it’s too palpably absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would I?”
“That is true,” murmured Poirot, with a rather crestfallen air. “I did not think of that.”
“If ever there were a clear case of murder and robbery this is it,” said Derek Kettering. “Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies did for her. It must have got about she had them with her. There has been murder done for those same stones before now, I believe.”
Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. He looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed cat.
“One more question, M. Kettering,” he said. “Will you give me the date when you last saw your wife?”
“Let me see,” Kettering reflected. “It must have been—yes, over three weeks ago. I am afraid I can’t give you the date exactly.”
“No matter,” said Poirot drily; “that is all I wanted to know.”
“Well,” said Derek Kettering impatiently, “anything further?”
He looked towards M. Carrège. The latter sought inspiration from Poirot, and received it in a very faint shake of the head.
“No, M. Kettering,” he said politely; “no, I do not think we need trouble you any further. I wish you good morning.”
“Good morning,” said Kettering. He went out, banging the door behind him.
Poirot leaned forward and spoke sharply, as soon as the young man was out of the room.
“Tell me,” he said peremptorily, “when did you speak of these rubies to M. Kettering?”
“I have not spoken of them,” said M. Carrège. “It was only yesterday afternoon that we learnt about them from M. Van Aldin.”
“Yes; but there was a mention of them in the Comte’s letter.”
M. Carrège looked pained.
“Naturally I did not speak of that letter to M. Kettering,” he said in a shocked voice. “It would have been most indiscreet at the present juncture of affairs.”
Poirot leaned forward and tapped the table.
“Then how did he know about them?” he demanded softly. “Madame could not have told him, for he has not seen her for three weeks. It seems unlikely that either M. Van Aldin or his secretary would have mentioned them; their interviews with him have been on entirely different lines, and there has not been any hint or reference to them in the newspapers.”
He got up and took his hat and stick.
“And yet,” he murmured to himself, “our gentleman knows all about them. I wonder now, yes, I wonder!”
Eighteen
DEREK LUNCHES
Derek Kettering went straight to the Negresco, where he ordered a couple of cocktails and disposed of them rapidly; then he stared moodily out over the dazzling blue sea. He noted the passersby mechanically—a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw anything worthwhile nowadays. Then he corrected this last impression rapidly, as a woman placed herself at a table a little distance away from him. She was wearing a marvellous confection of orange and black, with a little hat that shaded her face. He ordered a third cocktail; again he stared out to sea, and then suddenly he started. A well-known perfume assailed his nostrils, and he looked up to see the orange-and-black lady standing beside him. He saw her face now, and recognized her. It was Mirelle. She was smiling that insolent, seductive smile he knew so well.
“Dereek!” she murmured. “You are pleased to see me, no?”
She dropped into a seat the other side of the table.
“But welcome me, then, stupid one,” she mocked.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said Derek. “When did you leave London?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“A day or two ago?”
“And the Parthenon?”
“I have, how do yo
u say it?—given them the chuck!”
“Really?”
“You are not very amiable, Dereek.”
“Do you expect me to be?”
Mirelle lit a cigarette and puffed at it for a few minutes before saying:
“You think, perhaps, that it is not prudent so soon?”
Derek stared at her, then he shrugged his shoulders, and remarked formally:
“You are lunching here?”