Several days had elapsed. Katherine had been for a walk by herself one
morning, and came back to find Lenox grinning at her expectantly.
"Your young man has been ringing you up, Katherine!"
"Who do you call my young man?"
"A new one--Rufus Van Aldin's secretary. You seem to have made rather
an impression there. You are becoming a serious breaker of hearts,
Katherine. First Derek Kettering, and now this young Knighton. The
funny thing is, that I remember him quite well. He was in Mother's War
Hospital that she ran out here. I was only a kid of about eight at the
time."
"Was he badly wounded?"
"Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly--rather a nasty business. I
think the doctors messed it up a bit. They said he wouldn't limp or
anything, but when he left here he was still completely dot and go one."
Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.
"Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?" she asked.
"Such a dear fellow! Just at first I didn't remember him--one had so
many--but now it all comes back."
"He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered before," said Lenox.
"Now that he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very
different matter."
"Darling!" said Lady Tamplin in her vague reproachful voice.
"What did Major Knighton ring up about?" inquired Katherine.
"He asked if you would like to go to the tennis this afternoon. If so,
he would call for you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you with
_empressement_. Whilst you dally with a millionaire's secretary, you
might give me a chance with the millionaire, Katherine. He is about
sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet
young thing like me."
"I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin," said Lady Tamplin earnestly;
"one has heard so much of him. Those fine rugged figures of the Western
world"--she broke off--"so fascinating," she murmured.
"Major Knighton was very particular to say it was Mr. Van Aldin's
invitation," said Lenox. "He said it so often that I began to smell a
rat. You and Knighton would make a very nice pair, Katherine. Bless
you, my children!"
Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to change her clothes.
Knighton arrived soon after lunch and endured manfully Lady Tamplin's
transports of recognition.
When they were driving together towards Cannes he remarked to
Katherine: "Lady Tamplin has changed wonderfully little."
"In manner or appearance?"
"Both. She must be, I suppose, well over forty, but she is a remarkably
beautiful woman still."
"She is," agreed Katherine.
"I am very glad that you could come to-day," went on Knighton. "M.
Poirot is going to be there also. What an extraordinary little man he
is. Do you know him well, Miss Grey?"
Katherine shook her head. "I met him on the train on the way here. I
was reading a detective novel, and I happened to say something about
such things not happening in real life. Of course, I had no idea of who
he was."
"He is a very remarkable person," said Knighton slowly, "and has done
some very remarkable things. He has a kind of genius for going to the
root of the matter, and right up to the end no one has any idea of
what he is really thinking. I remember I was staying at a house in
Yorkshire, and Lady Clanravon's jewels were stolen. It seemed at first
to be a simple robbery, but it completely baffled the local police. I
wanted them to call in Hercule Poirot, and said he was the only man who
could help them, but they pinned their faith to Scotland Yard."
"And what happened?" said Katherine curiously.
"The jewels were never recovered," said Knighton drily.
"You really do believe in him?"
"I do indeed. The Comte de la Roche is a pretty wily customer. He
has wriggled out of most things. But I think he has met his match in
Hercule Poirot."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine thoughtfully; "so you really
think he did it?"
"Of course." Knighton looked at her in astonishment. "Don't you?"
"Oh yes," said Katherine hastily; "that is, I mean, if it was not just
an ordinary train robbery."
"It might be, of course," agreed the other, "but it seems to me that
the Comte de la Roche fits into this business particularly well."
"And yet he has an alibi."
"Oh, alibis!" Knighton laughed, his face broke into his attractive
boyish smile.
"You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know
that any one who has a perfect alibi is always open to grave suspicion."
"Do you think that real life is like that?" asked Katherine, smiling.
"Why not? Fiction is founded on fact."
"But is rather superior to it," suggested Katherine.
"Perhaps. Anyway, if I was a criminal I should not like to have Hercule
Poirot on my track."
"No more should I," said Katherine, and laughed.
They were met on arrival by Poirot. As the day was warm he was attired
in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.
"_Bon jour_, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I look very English, do I
not?"
"You look wonderful," said Katherine tactfully.
"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot genially, "but no matter. Papa
Poirot, he always laughs the last."
"Where is Mr. Van Aldin?" asked Knighton.
"He will meet us at our seats. To tell you the truth, my friend, he
is not too well pleased with me. Oh, those Americans--the repose, the
calm, they know it not! Mr. Van Aldin, he would that I fly myself in
the pursuit of criminals through all the byways of Nice."
"I should have thought myself that it would not have been a bad plan,"
observed Knighton.
"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these matters one needs not energy
but finesse. At the tennis one meets every one. That is so important.
Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."
Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though
something had arisen to upset him. He and Knighton greeted each other
with some frigidity. Poirot alone seemed unconscious of any sense of
strain, and chatted pleasantly in a laudable attempt to put every one
at his ease. He paid little compliments.
"It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well you speak the French," he
observed--"so well that you could be taken for a Frenchman if you
chose. That is a very rare accomplishment among Englishmen."
"I wish I did," said Katherine. "I am only too well aware that my
French is of a painfully British order."
They reached their seats and sat down, and almost immediately Knighton
perceived his employer signaling to him from the other end of the
court, and went off to speak to him.
"Me, I approve of that young man," said Poirot, sending a beaming smile
after the departing secretary; "and you, Mademoiselle?"
"I like him very much."
"And you, M. Kettering?"
Some quick rejoinder was springing to Derek's lips, but he checked it
as though something in the little Belgian's twinkling eyes had made him
suddenly alert. He spoke carefully, choosing his words.
"Knighton is a very good fellow," he said.
Just for a moment Katherine fancied that Poirot looked disappointed.
"He is a great admirer of yours, M. Poirot," she said, and she related
some of the things that Knighton had said. It amused her to see the
little man plume himself like a bird, thrusting out his chest, and
assuming an air of mock modesty that would have deceived no one.
"That reminds me, Mademoiselle," he said suddenly, "I have a little
matter of business I have to speak to you about. When you were sitting
talking to that poor lady in the train, I think you must have dropped a
cigarette case."
Katherine looked rather astonished. "I don't think so," she said.
Poirot drew from his pocket a cigarette case of soft blue leather, with
the initial "K" on it in gold.
"No, that is not mine," Katherine said.
"Ah, a thousand apologies. It was doubtless Madame's own. 'K,' of
course, stands for Kettering. We were doubtful, because she had another
cigarette case in her bag, and it seemed odd that she should have two."
He turned to Derek suddenly. "You do not know, I suppose, whether this
was your wife's case or not?"
Derek seemed momentarily taken aback. He stammered a little in his
reply: "I--I don't know. I suppose so."
"It is not yours by any chance?"
"Certainly not. If it were mine it would hardly have been in my wife's
possession."
Poirot looked more ingenuous and childlike than ever.
"I thought perhaps you might have dropped it when you were in your
wife's compartment," he explained guilelessly.
"I never was there. I have already told the police that a dozen times."
"A thousand pardons," said Poirot, with his most apologetic air. "It
was Mademoiselle here who mentioned having seen you going in."
He stopped with an air of embarrassment.
Katherine looked at Derek. His face had gone rather white, but perhaps
that was her fancy. His laugh, when it came, was natural enough.
"You made a mistake, Miss Grey," he said easily. "From what the police
have told me, I gather that my own compartment was only a door or two
away from that of my wife's--though I never suspected the fact at the
time. You must have seen me going into my own compartment." He got up
quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.
"I'm going to leave you now," he announced. "I can't stand my
father-in-law at any price."
Van Aldin greeted Katherine very courteously, but was clearly in a bad
humour.
"You seem fond of watching tennis, M. Poirot," he growled.
"It is a pleasure to me, yes," cried Poirot placidly.
"It is as well you are in France," said Van Aldin. "We are made of
sterner stuff in the States. Business comes before pleasure there."
Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he smiled gently and confidingly
at the irate millionaire.
"Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you. Every one has his own methods.
Me, I have always found it a delightful and pleasing idea to combine
business and pleasure together."
He glanced at the other two. They were deep in conversation, absorbed
in each other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction, and then leant
towards the millionaire, lowering his voice as he did so.
"It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M. Van Aldin. Observe just
opposite us that tall old man--the one with the yellow face and the
venerable beard."
"Well, what of him?"
"That," Poirot said, "is M. Papopolous."
"A Greek, eh?"
"As you say--a Greek. He is a dealer in antiques of world-wide
reputation. He has a small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by the
police of being something more."
"What?"
"A receiver of stolen goods, especially jewels. There is nothing as to
the re-cutting and re-setting of gems that he does not know. He deals
with the highest in Europe and with the lowest of the riff-raff of the
underworld."
Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly awakened attention.
"Well?" he demanded, a new note in his voice.
"I ask myself," said Poirot, "I, Hercule Poirot"--he thumped himself
dramatically on the chest--"ask myself _why is M. Papopolous suddenly
come to Nice?_"
Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment he had doubted Poirot and
suspected the little man of being past his job, a _poseur_ only. Now,
in a moment, he switched back to his original opinion. He looked
straight at the little detective.
"I must apologize to you, M. Poirot."
Poirot waved the apology aside with an extravagant gesture.
"Bah!" he cried, "all that is of no importance. Now listen, M. Van
Aldin; I have news for you."
The millionaire looked sharply at him, all his interest aroused.
Poirot nodded.
"It is as I say. You will be interested. As you know, M. Van Aldin, the
Comte de la Roche has been under surveillance ever since his interview
with the Juge d'Instruction. The day after that, during his absence,
the Villa Marina was searched by the police."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "did they find anything? I bet they didn't."
Poirot made him a little bow.
"Your acumen is not at fault, M. Van Aldin. They found nothing of an
incriminating nature. It was not to be expected that they would. The
Comte de la Roche, as your expressive idiom has it, was not born on
the preceding day. He is an astute gentleman with great experience."
"Well, go on," growled Van Aldin.
"It may be, of course, that the Comte had nothing of a compromising
nature to conceal. But we must not neglect the possibility. If, then,
he has something to conceal, where is it? Not in his house--the police
searched thoroughly. Not on his person, for he knows that he is liable
to arrest at any minute. There remains--his car. As I say, he was under
surveillance. He was followed on that day to Monte Carlo. From there he
went by road to Mentone, driving himself. His car is a very powerful
one, it outdistanced his pursuers, and for about a quarter of an hour
they completely lost sight of him."
"And during that time you think he concealed something by the
roadside?" asked Van Aldin, keenly interested.
"By the roadside, no. _Ça n'est pas pratique._ But listen now--me, I
have made a little suggestion to M. Carrège. He is graciously pleased
to approve of it. In each Bureau de Poste in the neighbourhood it has
been seen to that there is some one who knows the Comte de la Roche by
sight. Because, you see, Monsieur, the best way of hiding a thing is by
sending it away by the post."
"Well?" demanded Van Aldin; his face was keenly alight with interest
and expectation.
"Well--_voilà!_" With a dramatic flourish Poirot drew out from his
pocket a loosely wrapped brown paper package from which the string had
been removed.
"During that quarter of an hour's interval, our good gentleman mailed
this."
"The address?" asked the other sharply.
Poirot nodded his head.
"Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not. The
package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris
where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a
small commission."
"Yes, but what is inside?" demanded Van Aldin impatiently.
Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box.
He looked round him.
"It is a good moment," he said quietly. "All eyes are on the tennis.
Look, Monsieur!"
He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction of a second. An
exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face
turned as white as chalk.
"My God!" he breathed, "the rubies."
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his
pocket and beamed placidly. Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to
come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand
so heartily that the little man winced with pain.
"This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot.
Once and for all, you are the goods."
"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly. "Order, method, being prepared
for eventualities beforehand--that is all there is to it."
"And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?"
continued Van Aldin eagerly.
"No," said Poirot.
A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin's face.
"But why? What more do you want?"
"The Comte's alibi is still unshaken."
"But that is nonsense."
"Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately
we have to prove it so."
"In the meantime he will slip through your fingers."
Poirot shook his head very energetically.
"No," he said, "he will not do that. The one thing the Comte cannot
afford to sacrifice is his social position. At all costs he must stop
and brazen it out."
Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.
"But I don't see--"
Poirot raised a hand. "Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a
little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of
Hercule Poirot--and they have been wrong."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead. What is this little idea?"
Poirot paused for a moment and then he said:
"I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-morrow
morning. Until then, say nothing to any one."