"And so it is," said Poirot, "that we are the good friends and have no
secrets from each other."
Katherine turned her head to look at him. There was something in his
voice, some undercurrent of seriousness, which she had not heard before.
They were sitting in the gardens of Monte Carlo. Katherine had come
over with her friends, and they had run into Knighton and Poirot almost
immediately on arrival. Lady Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had
overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most of which Katherine had a faint
suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin
with her hand on the young man's arm. Knighton had thrown a couple of
glances back over his shoulder, and Poirot's eyes twinkled a little as
he saw them.
"Of course we are friends," said Katherine.
"From the beginning we have been sympathetic to each other," mused
Poirot.
"When you told me that a 'Roman Policier' occurs in real life."
"And I was right, was I not?" he challenged her, with an emphatic
forefinger. "Here we are, plunged in the middle of one. That is natural
for me--it is my _métier_--but for you it is different. Yes," he added
in a reflective tone, "for you it is different."
She looked sharply at him. It was as though he were warning her,
pointing out to her some menace that she had not seen.
"Why do you say that I am in the middle of it? It is true that I
had that conversation with Mrs. Kettering just before she died, but
now--now all that is over. I am not connected with the case any more."
"Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, can we ever say, 'I have finished with
this or that'?"
Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.
"What is it?" she asked. "You are trying to tell me something--to
convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would
much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out."
Poirot looked at her sadly. "_Ah, mais c'est Anglais ça_," he murmured,
"everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined.
But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are the things that
are not yet, but which cast their shadow before."
He dabbed his brow with a very large silk pocket-handkerchief and
murmured:
"Ah, but it is that I become poetical. Let us, as you say, speak only
of facts. And, speaking of facts, tell me what you think of Major
Knighton."
"I like him very much indeed," said Katherine warmly; "he is quite
delightful."
Poirot sighed.
"What is the matter?" asked Katherine.
"You reply so heartily," said Poirot. "If you had said in an
indifferent voice, 'Oh, quite nice,' _eh bien_, do you know I should
have been better pleased."
Katherine did not answer. She felt slightly uncomfortable. Poirot went
on dreamily:
"And yet, who knows? With _les femmes_, they have so many ways of
concealing what they feel--and heartiness is perhaps as good a way as
any other."
He sighed.
"I don't see--" began Katherine.
He interrupted her.
"You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am an
old man, and now and then--not very often--I come across some one whose
welfare is dear to me. We are friends, Mademoiselle. You have said so
yourself. And it is just this--I should like to see you happy."
Katherine stared very straight in front of her. She had a cretonne
sunshade with her, and with its point she traced little designs in the
gravel at her feet.
"I have asked you a question about Major Knighton, now I will ask you
another. Do you like Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I hardly know him," said Katherine.
"That is not an answer, that."
"I think it is."
He looked at her, struck by something in her tone. Then he nodded his
head gravely and slowly.
"Perhaps you are right, Mademoiselle. See you, I who speak to you have
seen much of the world, and I know that there are two things which are
true. A good man may be ruined by his love for a bad woman--but the
other way holds good also. A bad man may equally be ruined by his love
for a good woman."
Katherine looked up sharply.
"When you say ruined--"
"I mean from his point of view. One must be wholehearted in crime as in
everything else."
"You are trying to warn me," said Katherine in a low voice. "Against
whom?"
"I cannot look into your heart, Mademoiselle; I do not think you would
let me if I could. I will just say this. There are men who have a
strange fascination for women."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine, with a smile.
"There are others--more dangerous than the Comte de la Roche. They
have qualities that appeal--recklessness, daring, audacity. You are
fascinated, Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more
than that. I hope so. This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels is
genuine enough, but all the same--"
"Yes?"
He got up and stood looking down at her. Then he spoke, in a low,
distinct voice:
"You could, perhaps, love a thief, Mademoiselle, _but not a murderer_."
He wheeled sharply away on that and left her sitting there.
He heard the little gasp she gave and paid no attention. He had
said what he meant to say. He left her there to digest that last
unmistakable phrase.
Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino into the sunshine, saw her
sitting alone on the bench and joined her.
"I have been gambling," he said, with a light laugh, "gambling
unsuccessfully. I have lost everything--everything, that is, that I
have with me."
Katherine looked at him with a troubled face. She was aware at once
of something new in his manner, some hidden excitement that betrayed
itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.
"I should think you were always a gambler. The spirit of gambling
appeals to you."
"Every day and in every way a gambler? You are about right. Don't _you_
find something stimulating in it? To risk all on one throw--there is
nothing like it."
Calm and stolid as she believed herself to be, Katherine felt a faint
answering thrill.
"I want to talk to you," went on Derek, "and who knows when I may have
another opportunity? There is an idea going about that I murdered
my wife--no, please don't interrupt. It is absurd, of course." He
paused for a minute or two, then went on, speaking more deliberately.
"In dealing with the police and Local Authorities here I have had to
pretend to--well--a certain decency. I prefer not to pretend with you.
I meant to marry money. I was on the lookout for money when I first
met Ruth Van Aldin. She had the look of a slim Madonna about her,
and I--well--I made all sorts of good resolutions--and was bitterly
disillusioned. My wife was in love with another man when she married
me. She never cared for me in the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the
thing was a perfectly respectable bargain. She wanted Leconbury and I
wanted money. The trouble arose simply through Ruth's American blood.
Without caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually
dancing attendance. Time and again she as good as told me that she had
bought me and that I belonged to her. The result was that I behaved
abominably to her. My father-in-law will tell you that, and he is
quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I was faced with absolute
disaster." He laughed suddenly. "One _is_ faced with absolute disaster
when one is up against a man like Rufus Van Aldin."
"And then?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered--very
providentially."
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh hurt Katherine. She winced.
"Yes," said Derek, "that wasn't in very good taste. But it is quite
true. Now I am going to tell you something more. From the very first
moment I saw you I knew you were the only woman in the world for me. I
was--afraid of you. I thought you might bring me bad luck."
"Bad luck?" said Katherine sharply.
He stared at her. "Why do you repeat it like that? What have you got in
your mind?"
"I was thinking of things that people have said to me."
Derek grinned suddenly. "They will say a lot to you about me, my dear,
and most of it will be true. Yes, and worse things too--things that I
shall never tell you. I have been a gambler always--and I have taken
some long odds. I shan't confess to you now or at any other time. The
past is done with. There is one thing I do wish you to believe. I swear
to you solemnly that I did not kill my wife."
He said the words earnestly enough, yet there was somehow a theatrical
touch about them. He met her troubled gaze and went on:
"I know. I lied the other day. It _was_ my wife's compartment I went
into."
"Ah," said Katherine.
"It's difficult to explain just why I went in, but I'll try. I did it
on an impulse. You see, I was more or less spying on my wife. I kept
out of sight on the train. Mirelle had told me that my wife was meeting
the Comte de la Roche in Paris. Well, as far as I had seen, that was
not so. I felt ashamed, and I thought suddenly that it would be a good
thing to have it out with her once and for all, so I pushed open the
door and went in."
He paused.
"Yes," said Katherine gently.
"Ruth was lying on the bunk asleep--her face was turned away from me--I
could see only the back of her head. I could have waked her up, of
course. But suddenly I felt a reaction. What, after all, was there to
say that we hadn't both of us said a hundred times before? She looked
so peaceful lying there. I left the compartment as quietly as I could."
"Why lie about it to the police?" asked Katherine.
"Because I'm not a complete fool. I've realized from the beginning
that, from the point of view of motive, I'm the ideal murderer. If I
once admitted that I had been in her compartment just before she was
murdered, I'd do for myself once and for all."
"I see."
Did she see? She could not have told herself. She was feeling the
magnetic attraction of Derek's personality, but there was something in
her that resisted, that held back....
"Katherine--"
"I--"
"You know that I care for you. Do--do you care for me?"
"I--I don't know."