"The Millionaire's Train," as it is sometimes called, swung round a
curve of line at what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin, Knighton,
and Poirot sat together in silence. Knighton and Van Aldin had two
compartments connecting with each other, as Ruth Kettering and her maid
had had on the fateful journey. Poirot's own compartment was further
along the coach.
The journey was a painful one for Van Aldin, recalling as it did the
most agonizing memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed occasionally in
low tones without disturbing him.
When, however, the train had completed its slow journey round the
_ceinture_ and reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became suddenly
galvanized into activity. Van Aldin realized that part of his object in
travelling by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime.
Poirot himself acted every part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly
shut into her own compartment, Mrs. Kettering, recognizing her husband
with surprise and a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering discovering
that his wife was travelling on the train. He tested various
possibilities, such as the best way for a person to conceal himself in
the second compartment.
Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He clutched at Van Aldin's
arm.
"_Mon Dieu_, but that is something I have not thought of! We must break
our journey in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once."
Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the train. Van Aldin and Knighton,
bewildered but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having once formed his
opinion of Poirot's ability was slow to part from it. At the barrier
they were held up. Their tickets were in charge of the conductor of the
train, a fact which all three of them had forgotten.
Poirot's explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they
produced no effect upon the stolid-faced official.
"Let us get quit of this," said Van Aldin abruptly. "I gather you are
in a hurry, Monsieur Poirot. For God's sake pay the fares from Calais
and let us get right on with whatever you have got in your mind."
But Poirot's flood of language had suddenly stopped dead, and he had
the appearance of a man turned to stone. His arm, still outflung in an
impassioned gesture, remained there as though stricken with paralysis.
"I have been an imbecile," he said simply. "_Ma foi_, I lose my
head nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With
reasonable luck the train will not have gone."
They were only just in time, the train moving off as Knighton, the last
of the three, swung himself and his suitcase on board.
The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly, and assisted them to
carry their luggage back to their compartments. Van Aldin said nothing,
but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot's extraordinary conduct. Alone
with Knighton for a moment or two, he remarked:
"This is a wildgoose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He has
got brains up to a point, but any man who loses his head and scuttles
round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly darned good."
Poirot came to them in a moment or two, full of abject apologies and
clearly so crestfallen that harsh words would have been superfluous.
Van Aldin received his apologies gravely, but managed to restrain
himself from making acid comments.
They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the surprise
of the other two, Poirot suggested that they should all three set up in
Van Aldin's compartment.
The millionaire looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything that you are keeping back from us, Monsieur Poirot?"
"I?" Poirot opened his eyes in innocent surprise. "But what an idea."
Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not satisfied. The conductor was
told that he need not make up the beds. Any surprise he might have felt
was obliterated by the largeness of the tip which Van Aldin handed to
him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot fidgeted and seemed restless.
Presently he turned to the secretary.
"Major Knighton, is the door of your compartment bolted? The door into
the corridor, I mean."
"Yes; I bolted it myself just now."
"Are you sure?" said Poirot.
"I will go and make sure, if you like," said Knighton smiling.
"No, no, do not derange yourself. I will see for myself."
He passed through the connecting door and returned in a second or two,
nodding his head.
"Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must pardon an old man's fussy ways."
He closed the connecting door and resumed his place in the right-hand
corner.
The hours passed. The three men dozed fitfully, waking with
uncomfortable starts. Probably never before had three people booked
berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to avail
themselves of the accommodations they had paid for. Every now and then
Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head and composed
himself to slumber once more. On one occasion he rose from his seat
and opened the connecting door, peered sharply into the adjoining
compartment, and then returned to his seat, shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" whispered Knighton. "You are expecting something
to happen, aren't you?"
"I have the nerves," confessed Poirot. "I am like the cat upon the hot
tiles. Every little noise it makes me jump."
Knighton yawned.
"Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys," he murmured. "I suppose you
know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot."
He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Van Aldin
had succumbed to slumber, when Poirot, glancing for the fourteenth time
at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire on the shoulder.
"Eh? What is it?"
"In five or ten minutes, Monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyons."
"My God!" Van Aldin's face looked white and haggard in the dim light.
"Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was killed."
He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little,
his mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his
life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh of the brake, and the train
slackened speed and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down the window and
leant out.
"If it wasn't Derek--if your new theory is correct, it is here that the
man left the train?" he asked over his shoulder.
Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his head.
"No," he said thoughtfully, "no _man_ left the train, but I think--yes,
I think, a _woman_ may have done so."
Knighton gave a gasp.
"A woman?" demanded Van Aldin sharply.
"Yes, a woman," said Poirot, nodding his head. "You may not remember,
Monsieur Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence mentioned that a
youth in a cap and overcoat descended on to the platform ostensibly
to stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth was most probably a
woman."
"But who was she?"
Van Aldin's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously
and categorically.
"Her name--or the name under which she was known, for many years--is
Kitty Kidd, but you, Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by another
name--_that of Ada Mason_."
Knighton sprang to his feet.
"What?" he cried.
Poirot swung round to him.
"Ah!--before I forget it." He whipped something from a pocket and held
it out.
"Permit me to offer you a cigarette--out of your own cigarette case.
It was careless of you to drop it when you boarded the train on the
_ceinture_ at Paris."
Knighton stood staring at him as though stupefied. Then he made a
movement, but Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.
"No, don't move," he said in a silky voice; "the door into the next
compartment is open, and you are being covered from there this
minute. I unbolted the door into the corridor when we left Paris,
and our friends the police were told to take their places there. As
I expect you know, the French police want you rather urgently, Major
Knighton--or shall we say--Monsieur le Marquis?"