There was a knock at the sitting-room door, and a chasseur entered with
a card which he brought to Mr. Papopolous. The latter scrutinized it,
raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully,
"Hercule Poirot. I wonder now."
Father and daughter looked at each other.
"I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said M. Papopolous. "Zia, I hardly
like this."
"He was very useful to you once," his daughter reminded him.
"That is true," acknowledged M. Papopolous; "also he has retired from
active work, so I hear."
These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own
language. Now M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French:
"_Faites monter ce monsieur._"
A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a
cane with a jaunty air, entered the room.
"My dear M. Papopolous."
"My dear M. Poirot."
"And Mademoiselle Zia." Poirot swept her a low bow.
"You will excuse us going on with our breakfast," said M. Papopolous,
pouring himself out another cup of coffee. "Your call is--ahem!--a
little early."
"It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but see you, I am pressed."
"Ah!" murmured M. Papopolous, "you are on an affair then?"
"A very serious affair," said Poirot: "the death of Madame Kettering."
"Let me see," M. Papopolous looked innocently up at the ceiling, "that
was the lady who died on the Blue Train, was it not? I saw a mention of
it in the papers, but there was no suggestion of foul play."
"In the interests of justice," said Poirot, "it was thought best to
suppress that fact."
There was a pause.
"And in what way can I assist you, M. Poirot?" asked the dealer
politely.
"_Voilà_," said Poirot, "I shall come to the point." He took from his
pocket the same box that he had displayed at Cannes, and opening it, he
took out the rubies and pushed them across the table to Papopolous.
Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old
man's face moved. He took up the jewels and examined them with a
kind of detached interest, then he looked across at the detective
inquiringly:
"Superb, are they not?" asked Poirot.
"Quite excellent," said M. Papopolous.
"How much should you say they are worth?"
The Greek's face quivered a little.
"Is it really necessary to tell you, M. Poirot?" he asked.
"You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it is not. They are not, for
instance, worth five hundred thousand dollars."
Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined with him.
"As an imitation," said Papopolous, handing them back to Poirot, "they
are, as I said, quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to ask, M.
Poirot, where you came across them?"
"Not at all," said Poirot; "I have no objection to telling an old
friend like yourself. They were in the possession of the Comte de la
Roche."