Poirot started to keep his dinner appointment with a margin of
three-quarters of an hour to spare. He had an object in this. The car
took him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin's house at
Cap Martin, where he asked for Miss Grey. The ladies were dressing and
Poirot was shown into a small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse of
three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin came to him.
"Katherine is not quite ready yet," she said. "Can I give her a
message, or would you rather wait until she comes down?"
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was a minute or two in replying,
as though something of great weight hung upon his decision. Apparently
the answer to such a simple question mattered.
"No," he said at last, "no, I do not think it is necessary that I
should wait to see Mademoiselle Katherine. I think, perhaps, that it is
better that I should not. These things are sometimes difficult."
Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows slightly raised.
"I have a piece of news," continued Poirot. "You will, perhaps, tell
your friend. M. Kettering was arrested to-night for the murder of his
wife."
"You want me to tell Katherine that?" asked Lenox. She breathed rather
hard, as though she had been running; her face, Poirot thought, looked
white and strained--rather noticeably so.
"If you please, Mademoiselle."
"Why?" said Lenox. "Do you think Katherine will be upset? Do you think
she cares?"
"I don't know, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "See, I admit it frankly.
As a rule I know everything, but in this case, I--well, I do not. You,
perhaps, know better than I do."
"Yes," said Lenox, "I know--but I am not going to tell you all the
same."
She paused for a minute or two, her dark brows drawn together in a
frown.
"You believe he did it?" she said abruptly.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"The police say so."
"Ah," said Lenox, "hedging, are you? So there is something to hedge
about."
Again she was silent, frowning. Poirot said gently:
"You have known Derek Kettering a long time, have you not?"
"Off and on ever since I was a kid," said Lenox gruffly.
Poirot nodded his head several times without speaking.
With one of her brusque movements Lenox drew forward a chair and sat
down on it, her elbows on the table and her face supported by her
hands. Sitting thus, she looked directly across the table at Poirot.
"What have they got to go on?" she demanded. "Motive, I suppose.
Probably came into money at her death."
"He came into two million."
"And if she had not died he would have been ruined?"
"Yes."
"But there must have been more than that," persisted Lenox. "He
travelled by the same train, I know, but--that would not be enough to
go on by itself."
"A cigarette case with the letter 'K' on it which did not belong to
Mrs. Kettering was found in her carriage, and he was seen by two people
entering and leaving the compartment just before the train got into
Lyons."
"What two people?"
"Your friend Miss Grey was one of them. The other was Mademoiselle
Mirelle, the dancer."
"And he, Derek, what has he got to say about it?" demanded Lenox
sharply.
"He denies having entered his wife's compartment at all," said Poirot.
"Fool!" said Lenox crisply, frowning. "Just before Lyons, you say? Does
nobody know when--when she died?"
"The doctors' evidence necessarily cannot be very definite," said
Poirot; "they are inclined to think that death was unlikely to have
occurred after leaving Lyons. And we know this much, that a few moments
after leaving Lyons Mrs. Kettering was dead."
"How do you know that?"
Poirot was smiling rather oddly to himself.
"Some one else went into her compartment and found her dead."
"And they did not rouse the train?"
"No."
"Why was that?"
"Doubtless they had their reasons."
Lenox looked at him sharply.
"Do you know the reason?"
"I think so--yes."
Lenox sat still turning things over in her mind. Poirot watched her in
silence. At last she looked up. A soft colour had come into her cheeks
and her eyes were shining.
"You think some one on the train must have killed her, but that need
not be so at all. What is to stop any one swinging themselves on to
the train when it stopped at Lyons? They could go straight to her
compartment, strangle her, and take the rubies and drop off the train
again without any one being the wiser. She may have been actually
killed while the train was in Lyons station. Then she would have been
alive when Derek went in, and dead when the other person found her."
Poirot leant back in his chair. He drew a deep breath. He looked across
at the girl and nodded his head three times, then he heaved a sigh.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "what you have said there is very just--very
true. I was struggling in darkness, and you have shown me a light.
There was a point that puzzled me and you have made it plain."
He got up.
"And Derek?" said Lenox.
"Who knows?" said Poirot, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But I will
tell you this, Mademoiselle. I am not satisfied; no, I, Hercule Poirot,
am not yet satisfied. It may be that this very night I shall learn
something more. At least, I go to try."
"You are meeting some one?"
"Yes."
"Some one who knows something?"
"Some one who might know something. In these matters one must leave no
stone unturned. Au revoir, Mademoiselle."
Lenox accompanied him to the door.
"Have I--helped?" she asked.
Poirot's face softened as he looked up at her standing on the doorstep
above him.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, you have helped. If things are very dark, always
remember that."
When the car had driven off he relapsed into a frowning absorption, but
in his eyes was that faint green light which was always the precursor
of the triumph to be.
He was a few minutes late at the rendezvous, and found that M.
Papopolous and his daughter had arrived before him. His apologies were
abject, and he outdid himself in politeness and small attentions.
The Greek was looking particularly benign and noble this evening, a
sorrowful patriarch of blameless life. Zia was looking handsome and
good humoured. The dinner was a pleasant one. Poirot was his best and
most sparkling self. He told anecdotes, he made jokes, he paid graceful
compliments to Zia Papopolous, and he told many interesting incidents
of his career. The menu was a carefully selected one, and the wine was
excellent.
At the close of dinner M. Papopolous inquired politely:
"And the tip I gave you? You have had your little flutter on the horse?"
"I am in communication with--er--my bookmaker," replied Poirot.
The eyes of the two men met.
"A well-known horse, eh?"
"No," said Poirot; "it is what our friends, the English, call a dark
horse."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous thoughtfully.
"Now we must step across to the Casino and have our little flutter at
the roulette table," cried Poirot gaily.
At the Casino the party separated, Poirot devoting himself solely to
Zia, whilst Papopolous himself drifted away.
Poirot was not fortunate, but Zia had a run of good luck, and had soon
won a few thousand francs.
"It would be as well," she observed drily to Poirot, "if I stopped now."
Poirot's eyes twinkled.
"Superb!" he exclaimed. "You are the daughter of your father,
Mademoiselle Zia. To know when to stop. Ah! that is the art."
He looked round the rooms.
"I cannot see your father anywhere about," he remarked carelessly. "I
will fetch your cloak for you, Mademoiselle, and we will go out in the
gardens."
He did not, however, go straight to the cloak-room. His sharp eyes had
seen but a little while before the departure of M. Papopolous. He was
anxious to know what had become of the wily Greek. He ran him to earth
unexpectedly in the big entrance hall. He was standing by one of the
pillars, talking to a lady who had just arrived. The lady was Mirelle.
Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the room. He arrived at the other
side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking together
in an animated fashion--or rather, that is to say, the dancer was
talking, Papopolous contributing an occasional monosyllable and a good
many expressive gestures.
"I tell you I must have time," the dancer was saying. "If you give me
time I will get the money."
"To wait"--the Greek shrugged his shoulders--"it is awkward."
"Only a very little while," pleaded the other. "Ah! but you must! A
week--ten days--that is all I ask. You can be sure of your affair. The
money will be forthcoming."
Papopolous shifted a little and looked round him uneasily--to find
Poirot almost at his elbow with a beaming innocent face.
"_Ah! vous voilà_, M. Papopolous. I have been looking for you. It
is permitted that I take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the
gardens? Good evening, Mademoiselle." He bowed very low to Mirelle. "A
thousand pardons that I did not see you immediately."
The dancer accepted his greetings rather impatiently. She was clearly
annoyed at the interruption of her _tête-à-tête_. Poirot was quick
to take the hint. Papopolous had already murmured: "Certainly--but
certainly," and Poirot withdrew forthwith.
He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they strolled out into the gardens.
"This is where the suicides take place," said Zia.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is said. Men are foolish, are
they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air,
it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave
all that simply because one has no money--or because the heart aches.
_L'amour_, it causes many fatalities, does it not?"
Zia laughed.
"You should not laugh at love, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, shaking an
energetic forefinger at her. "You who are young and beautiful."
"Hardly that," said Zia; "you forget that I am thirty-three, M. Poirot.
I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise. As you told
my father, it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris
that time."
"When I look at you, it seems much less," said Poirot gallantly. "You
were then very much as you are now, Mademoiselle, a little thinner,
a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh
from your pension. Not quite the _petite pensionnaire_, not quite a
woman. You were very delicious, very charming, Mademoiselle Zia; others
thought so too, without doubt."
"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and a little fool."
"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is
credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told."
If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he
pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily: "It was a
curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never
understood the true inwardness of it."
"No?"
"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus:
'Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost. You must
ask no questions.' Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I said these things?"
"I have no idea," said the girl coldly.
"It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little
pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious."
"I don't understand what you are talking about," cried Zia angrily.
"Do you not, Mademoiselle? Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?"
He heard the quick intake of her breath--almost a gasp.
"He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he
have got hold of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his eyes to
his master's daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with
a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they
must occasionally talk of things that interest them both--such as
that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous'
possession. And since, as you say, Mademoiselle, the young are foolish
and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of
that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards
when it is gone--when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas!
the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She
is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And
then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost
a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The
priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions."
Zia turned on him fiercely.
"You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it--was it Antonio?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No one told me," he said quietly. "I guessed. It was a good guess, was
it not, Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is
not much use being a detective."
The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence. Then she
said in a hard voice:
"Well, what are you going to do about it, are you going to tell my
father?"
"No," said Poirot sharply. "Certainly not."
She looked at him curiously.
"You want something from me?"
"I want your help, Mademoiselle."
"What makes you think that I can help you?"
"I do not think so. I only hope so."
"And if I do not help you, then--you will tell my father?"
"But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle. I
am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and
threaten you with it."
"If I refuse to help you--" began the girl slowly.
"Then you refuse, and that is that."
"Then why--" she stopped.
"Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If
they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them,
they will do it. I was generous once to you, Mademoiselle. When I might
have spoken, I held my tongue."
There was another silence; then the girl said, "My father gave you a
hint the other day."
"It was very kind of him."
"I do not think," said Zia slowly, "that there is anything that I can
add to that."
If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it. Not a muscle of his face
changed.
"_Eh bien!_" he said cheerfully, "then we must talk of other things."
And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was _distraite_, however, and
her answers were mechanical and not always to the point. It was when
they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a
decision.
"M. Poirot?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"I--I should like to help you if I could."
"You are very amiable, Mademoiselle--very amiable."
Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content
to wait and let her take her own time.
"Ah bah," said Zia, "after all, why should I not tell you? My father is
cautious--always cautious in everything he says. But I know that with
you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you
seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you.
You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because
of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My
father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our
mysterious client was."
"The Marquis?" murmured Poirot softly.
"Yes, the Marquis."
"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?"
"Once," said the girl. "But not very well," she added. "It was through
a keyhole."
"That always presents difficulties," said Poirot sympathetically, "but
all the same you saw him. You would know him again?"
Zia shook her head.
"He wore a mask," she explained.
"Young or old?"
"He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very
well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his
voice."
"His voice?" said Poirot thoughtfully. "Ah, his voice! Would you know
it again, Mademoiselle Zia?"
"I might," said the girl.
"You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the
keyhole."
Zia nodded.
"Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much--he is not the ordinary
thief--he is more like a figure of history or romance."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes; perhaps so."
"But it is not this that I meant to tell you," said Zia. "It was just
one other little fact that I thought might be--well--useful to you."
"Yes?" said Poirot encouragingly.
"The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I
did not see the person who handed them over, but--"
"Yes?"
"I know one thing. _It was a woman._"