"In-deed," he murmured.
Poirot leant forward and assumed his most innocent and beguiling air.
"M. Papopolous," he said, "I am going to lay my cards upon the table.
The original of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering on the
Blue Train. Now I will say to you first this: _I am not concerned with
the recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of the police._ I am
working not for the police but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands on
the man who killed Madame Kettering. I am interested in the jewels only
in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?"
The last two words were uttered with great significance. M. Papopolous,
his face quite unmoved, said quietly:
"Go on."
"It seems to me probable, Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands
in Nice--may already have done so."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and
patriarchal than usual.
"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with animation, "what good
fortune! My old friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will aid me."
"And how do you think I can aid you?" inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
"I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous is in Nice on business."
"Not at all," said M. Papopolous, "I am here for my health--by the
doctor's orders."
He coughed hollowly.
"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere
sympathy. "But to continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian
Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family
jewels--to whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it not? He who is
famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges
these things."
The other bowed.
"You flatter me."
"It is a great thing, discretion," mused Poirot, and was rewarded by
the fleeting smile which passed across the Greek's face. "I, too, can
be discreet."
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly, and obviously picking his
words with care.
"I say to myself, this: if these jewels have changed hands in Nice, M.
Papopolous would have heard of it. He has knowledge of all that passes
in the jewel world."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, and helped himself to a _croissant_.
"The police, you understand," said M. Poirot, "do not enter into the
matter. It is a personal affair."
"One hears rumours," admitted M. Papopolous cautiously.
"Such as?" prompted Poirot.
"Is there any reason why I should pass them on?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "I think there is. You may remember, M. Papopolous,
that seventeen years ago there was a certain article in your hands,
left there as security by a very--er--Prominent Person. It was in your
keeping and it unaccountably disappeared. You were, if I may use the
English expression, in the soup."
His eyes came gently round to the girl. She had pushed her cup and
plate aside, and with both elbows on the table and her chin resting on
her hands was listening eagerly. Still keeping an eye on her he went on:
"I am in Paris at the time. You send for me. You place yourself in my
hands. If I restore to you that--article, you say I shall earn your
undying gratitude. _Eh bien!_ I did restore it to you."
A long sigh came from M. Papopolous.
"It was the most unpleasant moment of my career," he murmured.
"Seventeen years is a long time," said Poirot thoughtfully, "but I
believe that I am right in saying, Monsieur, that your race does not
forget."
"A Greek?" murmured Papopolous, with an ironical smile.
"It was not as a Greek I meant," said Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man drew himself up proudly.
"You are right, M. Poirot," he said quietly. "I am a Jew. And, as you
say, our race does not forget."
"You will aid me then?"
"As regards the jewels, Monsieur, I can do nothing."
The old man, as Poirot had done just now, picked his words carefully.
"I know nothing. I have heard nothing. But I can perhaps do you a good
turn--that is, if you are interested in racing."
"Under certain circumstances I might be," said Poirot, eyeing him
steadily.
"There is a horse running at Longchamps that would, I think, repay
attention. I cannot say for certain, you understand; this news passed
through so many hands."
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as though to make sure that the
latter was comprehending him.
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot, nodding.
"The name of the horse," said M. Papopolous, leaning back and joining
the tips of his fingers together, "is the Marquis. I think, but I am
not sure, that it is an English horse, eh, Zia?"
"I think so too," said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.
"I thank you, Monsieur," he said. "It is a great thing to have what
the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir, Monsieur, and many
thanks."
He turned to the girl.
"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems to me but yesterday that I saw
you in Paris. One would say that two years had passed at most."
"There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three," said Zia
ruefully.
"Not in your case," declared Poirot gallantly. "You and your father
will perhaps dine with me one night."
"We shall be delighted," replied Zia.
"Then we will arrange it," declared Poirot, "and now--_je me sauve_."
Poirot walked along the street humming a little tune to himself. He
twirled his stick with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to himself
quietly. He turned into the first Bureau de Poste he came to and sent
off a telegram. He took some time in wording it, but it was in code and
he had to call upon his memory. It purported to deal with a missing
scarf-pin, and was addressed to Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard.
Decoded, it was short and to the point. "_Wire me everything known
about man whose soubriquet is the Marquis._"