When Knighton left Katherine he went in search of Hercule Poirot, whom
he found in the Rooms, jauntily placing the minimum stake on the even
numbers. As Knighton joined him, the number thirty-three turned up, and
Poirot's stake was swept away.
"Bad luck!" said Knighton; "are you going to stake again?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Not at present."
"Do you feel the fascination of gambling?" asked Knighton curiously.
"Not at roulette."
Knighton shot a swift glance at him. His own face became troubled. He
spoke haltingly, with a touch of deference.
"I wonder, are you busy, M. Poirot? There is something I would like to
ask you about."
"I am at your disposal. Shall we go outside? It is pleasant in the
sunshine."
They strolled out together, and Knighton drew a deep breath.
"I love the Riviera," he said. "I came here first twelve years ago,
during the War, when I was sent to Lady Tamplin's Hospital. It was like
Paradise, coming from Flanders to this."
"It must have been," said Poirot.
"How long ago the War seems now!" mused Knighton.
They walked on in silence for some little way.
"You have something on your mind?" said Poirot.
Knighton looked at him in some surprise.
"You are quite right," he confessed. "I don't know how you knew it,
though."
"It showed itself only too plainly," said Poirot drily.
"I did not know that I was so transparent."
"It is my business to observe the physiognomy," the little man
explained, with dignity.
"I will tell you, M. Poirot. You have heard of this dancer
woman--Mirelle?"
"She who is the _chère amie_ of M. Derek Kettering?"
"Yes, that is the one; and, knowing this, you will understand that Mr.
Van Aldin is naturally prejudiced against her. She wrote to him, asking
for an interview. He told me to dictate a curt refusal, which of course
I did. This morning she came to the hotel and sent up her card, saying
that it was urgent and vital that she should see Mr. Van Aldin at once."
"You interest me," said Poirot.
"Mr. Van Aldin was furious. He told me what message to send down to
her. I ventured to disagree with him. It seemed to me both likely and
probable that this woman Mirelle might give us valuable information.
We know that she was on the Blue Train, and she may have seen or heard
something that it might be vital for us to know. Don't you agree with
me, M. Poirot?"
"I do," said Poirot drily. "M. Van Aldin, if I may say so, behaved
exceedingly foolishly."
"I am glad you take that view of the matter," said the secretary. "Now
I am going to tell you something, M. Poirot. So strongly did I feel the
unwisdom of Mr. Van Aldin's attitude that I went down privately and had
an interview with the lady."
"_Eh bien?_"
"The difficulty was that she insisted on seeing Mr. Van Aldin himself.
I softened his message as much as I possibly could. In fact--to be
candid--I gave it in a very different form. I said that Mr. Van Aldin
was too busy to see her at present, but that she might make any
communication she wished to me. That, however, she could not bring
herself to do, and she left without saying anything further. But I have
a strong impression, M. Poirot, that that woman knows something."
"This is serious," said Poirot quietly. "You know where she is staying?"
"Yes." Knighton mentioned the name of the hotel.
"Good," said Poirot; "we will go there immediately."
The secretary looked doubtful.
"And Mr. Van Aldin?" he queried doubtfully.
"M. Van Aldin is an obstinate man," said Poirot drily. "I do not argue
with obstinate men. I act in spite of them. We will go and see the lady
immediately. I will tell her that you are empowered by M. Van Aldin to
act for him, and you will guard yourself well from contradicting me."
Knighton still looked slightly doubtful, but Poirot took no notice of
his hesitation.
At the hotel, they were told that Mademoiselle was in, and Poirot sent
up both his and Knighton's cards, with "From Mr. Van Aldin" pencilled
upon them.
Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle would receive them.
When they were ushered into the dancer's apartments, Poirot immediately
took the lead.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing very low, "we are here on behalf of
M. Van Aldin."
"Ah! And why did he not come himself?"
"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously; "the Riviera throat, it
has him in its grip, but me, I am empowered to act for him, as is Major
Knighton, his secretary. Unless, of course, Mademoiselle would prefer
to wait a fortnight or so."
If there was one thing of which Poirot was tolerably certain, it was
that to a temperament such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait" was
anathema.
"_Eh bien_, I will speak, Messieurs," she cried. "I have been patient.
I have held my hand. And for what? That I should be insulted! Yes,
insulted! Ah! Does he think to treat Mirelle like that? To throw her
off like an old glove. I tell you never has a man tired of me. Always
it is I who tire of them."
She paced up and down the room, her slender body trembling with rage. A
small table impeded her free passage and she flung it from her into a
corner, where it splintered against the wall.
"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"
Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies she flung it into the grate,
where it smashed into a hundred pieces.
Knighton was looking at her with cold British disapproval. He felt
embarrassed and ill at ease. Poirot, on the other hand, with twinkling
eyes was thoroughly enjoying the scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can be seen--Madame has a
temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist has a temperament. I told
Dereek to beware, and he would not listen." She whirled round on Poirot
suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that English
miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"_On m'a dit_," he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."
Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There--now you have it! He told
me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an _impasse_--zut!
he took the easiest way out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that--er--statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the
train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that, Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was panting, and her eyes, half
defiant, half frightened, went from the face of one man to the other.
"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle," said the detective. "You
realize how serious?"
"Certainly I do."
"That is well," said Poirot. "Then you understand, Mademoiselle, that
no time must be lost. You will, perhaps, accompany us immediately to
the office of the Examining Magistrate."
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen,
she had no loophole for escape.
"Very well," she muttered. "I will fetch a coat."
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton exchanged glances.
"It is necessary to act while--how do you say it?--the iron is hot,"
murmured Poirot. "She is temperamental; in an hour's time, maybe, she
will repent, and she will wish to draw back. We must prevent that at
all costs."
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sand-coloured velvet wrap trimmed with
leopard skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and
dangerous. Her eyes still flashed with anger and determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate together. A few
brief introductory words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle Mirelle was
courteously entreated to tell her tale. This she did in much the same
words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more
soberness of manner.
"This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège slowly.
He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked keenly
and searchingly at the dancer through them.
"You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually boasted of the crime to
you beforehand?"
"Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said. If she were to die it must be
an accident--he would arrange it all."
"You are aware, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège sternly, "that you are
making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?"
"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I
take that statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know men, Monsieur;
they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one
were to take all they said _au pied de la lettre_."
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.
"We are to take it, then, that you regarded M. Kettering's threats as
mere idle words? May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up your
engagements in London and come out to the Riviera?"
Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so
unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that you accompanied him to Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She
hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a
haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself, Monsieur," she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men.
They said nothing.
"When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?"
"As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife's
compartment just before the train drew into Lyons. There was a look on
his face--ah! at the moment I could not understand it--a look haunted
and terrible. I shall never forget it."
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant
gesture.
"Quite so," said M. Carrège.
"Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when the train
left Lyons, then--then I knew!"
"And still--you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the
Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in
the rôle she was playing.
"Shall I betray my lover?" she asked. "Ah no; do not ask a woman to do
that."
"Yet now--" hinted M. Caux.
"Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in
silence...?"
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly. "And now, Mademoiselle,
perhaps you will read over the statement of what you have told us, see
that it is correct, and sign it."
Mirelle wasted no time on the document.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct." She rose to her feet. "You
require me no longer, Messieurs?"
"At present, no, Mademoiselle."
"And Dereek will be arrested?"
"At once, Mademoiselle."
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.
"He should have thought of this before he insulted me," she cried.
"There is one little matter"--Poirot coughed apologetically--"just a
matter of detail."
"Yes?"
"What makes you think Madame Kettering was dead when the train left
Lyons?"
Mirelle stared.
"But she _was_ dead."
"Was she?"
"Yes, of course. I--"
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was regarding her intently, and he
saw the wary look that came into her eyes.
"I have been told so. Everybody says so."
"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned
outside the Examining Magistrate's office."
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
"One hears those things," she said vaguely; "they get about. Somebody
told me. I can't remember who it was."
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang forward to open it for her, and
as he did so, Poirot's voice rose gently once more.
"And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle. Can you tell me anything about
those?"
"The jewels? What jewels?"
"The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since you hear so much, you must
have heard of them."
"I know nothing about any jewels," said Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her. M. Caux came back to his
chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.
"What a fury!" he said, "but _diablement chic_, I wonder if she is
telling the truth? I think so."
"There is _some_ truth in her story, certainly," said Poirot. "We have
confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor a
short time before the train reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go
into his wife's compartment."
"The case against him seems quite clear," said the Commissary, sighing;
"it is a thousand pities," he murmured.
"How do you mean?" asked Poirot.
"It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche
by the heels. This time, _ma foi_, I thought we had got him. This
other--it is not nearly so satisfactory."