“You are very amiable, Mademoiselle—very amiable.”
Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content to wait and let her take her own time.
“Ah bah,” said Zia, “after all, why should I not tell you? My father is cautious—always cautious in everything he says. But I know that with you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you. You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was.”
“The Marquis?” murmured Poirot softly.
“Yes, the Marquis.”
“Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?”
“Once,” said the girl. “But not very well,” she added. “It was through a keyhole.”
“That always presents difficulties,” said Poirot sympathetically, “but all the same you saw him. You would know him again?”
Zia shook her head.
“He wore a mask,” she explained.
“Young or old?”
“He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his voice.”
“His voice?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Ah, his voice! Would you know it again, Mademoiselle Zia?”
“I might,” said the girl.
“You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole?”
Zia nodded.
“Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much—he is not the ordinary thief—he is more like a figure of history or romance.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully; “yes, perhaps so.”
“But it is not this that I meant to tell you,” said Zia. “It was just one other little fact that I thought might be—well—useful to you.”
“Yes?” said Poirot encouragingly.
“The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I did not see the person who handed them over, but—”
“Yes?”
“I know one thing. It was a woman.”
Twenty-nine
A LETTER FROM HOME
Dear Katherine,—Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don’t suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose. Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is—all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Annie was no good—skirts up to her knees and wouldn’t wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist—a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, “I’m a plain woman, Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?” And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I’m sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn’t come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there—there’s no good wanting what we can’t get. However, if things should go ill with you—and that is always possible. I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I daresay you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plain-spoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too.
Your affectionate old friend,
Amelia Viner.
PS. I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin, Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings. I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and vainglory.
Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things—and yet—home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
“Hello, Katherine,” said Lenox. “I say—what is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner’s letter and thrusting it into her handbag.
“You looked rather queer,” said Lenox. “I say—I hope you don’t mind—I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me.”
“Did you want to see him then?” asked Katherine.
“Yes,” said Lenox. “I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat’s.”
“All right,” said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering’s arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint.
“I have ordered the car,” said Lenox, “and I have told Mother some lie or other—unfortunately I can’t remember exactly what; but it won’t matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot.”
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughter; yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, and Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting on the terrace sipping their coffee she suddenly attacked Poirot bluntly.
“How are things going? You know what I mean?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “They take their course,” he said.
“And you are just letting them take their course?”
; He looked at Lenox a little sadly.
“You are young, Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried—le bon Dieu, Nature, and old people.”
“Nonsense!” said Lenox. “You are not old.”
“Ah, it is pretty, what you say there.”
“Here is Major Knighton,” said Lenox.
Katherine looked round quickly and then turned back again.
“He is with Mr. Van Aldin,” continued Lenox. “There is something I want to ask Major Knighton about. I won’t be a minute.”
Left alone together, Poirot bent forward and murmured to Katherine:
“You are distraite, Mademoiselle; your thoughts, they are far away, are they not?”
“Just as far as England, no farther.”
Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the letter she had received that morning and handed it across to him to read.
“That is the first word that has come to me from my old life; somehow or other—it hurts.”
He read it through and then handed it back to her.
“So you are going back to St. Mary Mead?” he said.
“No, I am not,” said Katherine; “why should I?”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “it is my mistake. You will excuse me one little minute.”
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside.
“M. Van Aldin looks ill,” he said.
“Do you wonder?” asked Knighton. “The scandal of Derek Kettering’s arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth.”
“He should go back to England,” said Poirot.
“We are going the day after tomorrow.”
“That is good news,” said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting.
“I wish,” he murmured, “that you could tell Miss Grey that.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you—I mean that M. Van Aldin is returning to England.”