“Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?” murmured the Count politely.
“The police believe that you killed Madame Kettering. But they are wrong.”
“Certainly they are wrong,” agreed the Comte easily.
“You say that, but you do not know the truth. I do.”
The Comte looked at her curiously.
“You know who killed Madame Kettering? Is that what you would say, Mademoiselle?”
Mirelle nodded vehemently.
“Yes.”
“Who was it?” asked the Comte sharply.
“Her husband.” She leant across to the Comte, speaking in a low voice that vibrated with anger and excitement. “It was her husband who killed her.”
The Comte leaned back in his chair. His face was a mask.
“Let me ask you, Mademoiselle—how do you know this?”
“How do I know it?” Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh. “He boasted of it beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured. Only the death of his wife could save him. He told me so. He travelled on the same train—but she was not to know it. Why was that, I ask you? So that he might creep upon her in the night—Ah!”—she shut her eyes—“I can see it happening. . . .”
The Count coughed.
“Perhaps—perhaps,” he murmured. “But surely, Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?”
“The jewels!” breathed Mirelle. “The jewels. Ah! Those rubies. . . .”
Her eyes grew misty, a faraway light in them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of precious stones on the female sex. He recalled her to practical matters.
“What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle?”
Mirelle became alert and businesslike once more.
“Surely it is simple. You will go to the police. You will say to them that M. Kettering committed this crime.”
“And if they do not believe me? If they ask for proof?” He was eyeing her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round her.
“Send them to me, Monsieur le Comte,” she said softly; “I will give them the proof they want.”
Upon that she was gone, an impetuous whirlwind, her errand accomplished.
The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows delicately raised.
“She is in a fury,” he murmured. “What has happened now to upset her? But she shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr. Kettering killed his wife? She would like me to believe it. She would even like the police to believe it.”
He smiled to himself. He had no intention whatsoever of going to the police. He saw various other possibilities; to judge by his smile, an agreeable vista of them.
Presently, however, his brow clouded. According to Mirelle, he was suspected by the police. That might be true or it might not. An angry woman of the type of the dancer was not likely to bother about the strict veracity of her statements. On the other hand, she might easily have obtained—inside information. In that case—his mouth set grimly—in that case he must take certain precautions.
He went into the house and questioned Hipolyte closely once more as to whether any strangers had been to the house. The valet was positive in his assurances that this was not the case. The Comte went up to his bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau that stood against the wall. He let down the lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought for a spring at the back of one of the pigeonholes. A secret drawer flew out; in it was a small brown paper package. The Comte took this out and weighed it in his hand carefully for a minute or two. Raising his hand to his head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a single hair. This he placed on the lip of the drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs and out of the house to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten minutes later he had taken the road for Monte Carlo.
He spent a few hours at the Casino, then sauntered out into the town. Presently he reentered the car and drove off in the direction of Mentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had noticed an inconspicuous grey car some little distance behind him. He noticed it again now. He smiled to himself. The road was climbing steadily upwards. The Comte’s foot pressed hard on the accelerator. The little red car had been specially built to the Comte’s design, and had a far more powerful engine than would have been suspected from its appearance. It shot ahead.
Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road. It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver. Now they were going down hill, twisting and curving unceasingly. Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to a standstill before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest, extracted the small brown paper parcel and hurried into the post office. Two minutes later he was driving once more in the direction of Mentone. When the grey car arrived there, the Comte was drinking English five o’clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels.
Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once more at eleven o’clock. Hipolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed face.
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte has arrived. Monsieur le Comte did not telephone me, by any chance?”
The Comte shook his head.
“And yet at three o’clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte, to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco.”
“Really,” said the Comte; “and you went?”
“Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur le Comte. He had not been there.”
“Ah,” said the Comte, “doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her afternoon marketing?”
“That is so, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Ah, well,” said the Comte, “it is of no importance. A mistake.”
He went upstairs, smiling to himself.
Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round. Everything seemed as usual. He opened various drawers and cupboards. Then he nodded to himself. Things had been replaced almost exactly as he had left them, but not quite. It was evident that a very thorough search had been made.
He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring. The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it. He nodded his head several times.
“They are excellent, our French police,” he murmured to himself—“excellent. Nothing escapes them.”
Twenty
KATHERINE MAKES A FRIEND
On the following morning Katherine and Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa Marguerite. Something in the nature of a friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age. But for Lenox, Katherine would have found life at the Villa Marguerite quite intolerable. The Kettering case was the topic of the moment. Lady Tamplin frankly exploited her guest’s connection with the affair for all it was worth. The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine could administer quite failed to pierce Lady Tamplin’s self-esteem. Lenox adopted a detached attitude, seemingly amused at her mother’s manoeuvres, and yet with a sympathetic understanding of Katherine’s feelings. The situation was not helped by Chubby, whose naïve delight was unquenchable, and who introduced Katherine to all and sundry as:
“This is Miss Grey. You know that Blue Train business? She was in it up to the ears! Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few hours before the murder! Bit of luck for her, eh?”
A few remarks of this kind had provoked Katherine that morning to an unusually tart rejoinder, and when they were alone together Lenox observed in her slow drawl:
“Not used to exploitation, are you? You have a lot to learn, Katherine.”
“I am sorry I lost my temper. I don’t, as a rule.”
“It is about time you learnt to blow off steam. Chubby is only an ass; there is no harm in him. Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper
with her until Kingdom come, and it won’t make any impression. She will open large, sad blue eyes at you and not care a bit.”
Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:
“I am rather like Chubby. I delight in a good murder, and besides—well, knowing Derek makes a difference.”
Katherine nodded.
“So you lunched with him yesterday,” pursued Lenox reflectively. “Do you like him, Katherine?”
Katherine considered for a minute or two.
“I don’t know,” she said very slowly.
“He is very attractive.”
“Yes, he is attractive.”
“What don’t you like about him?”
Katherine did not reply to the question, or at any rate not directly. “He spoke of his wife’s death,” she said. “He said he would not pretend that it had been anything but a bit of most marvellous luck for him.”
“And that shocked you, I suppose,” said Lenox. She paused, and then added in rather a queer tone of voice: “He likes you, Katherine.”
“He gave me a very good lunch,” said Katherine, smiling.
Lenox refused to be sidetracked.
“I saw it the night he came here,” she said thoughtfully. “The way he looked at you; and you are not his usual type—just the opposite. Well, I suppose it is like religion—you get it at a certain age.”
“Mademoiselle is wanted at the telephone,” said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon. “M. Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her.”
“More blood and thunder. Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective.”