M. Hercule Poirot’s voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine’s ear.
“That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks? Bon. Mademoiselle, I have a word for you from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or at his hotel, whichever you prefer.”
Katherine reflected for a moment, but she decided that for Van Aldin to come to the Villa Marguerite would be both painful and unnecessary. Lady Tamplin would have hailed his advent with far too much delight. She never lost a chance to cultivate millionaires. She told Poirot that she would much rather come to Nice.
“Excellent, Mademoiselle. I will call for you myself in an auto. Shall we say in about three-quarters of an hour?”
Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared. Katherine was waiting for him, and they drove off at once.
“Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?”
She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was confirmed in her first impression that there was something very attractive about M. Hercule Poirot.
“This is our own roman policier, is it not?” said Poirot. “I made you the promise that we should study it together. And me, I always keep my promises.”
“You are too kind,” murmured Katherine.
“Ah, you mock yourself at me; but do you want to hear the developments of the case, or do you not?”
Katherine admitted that she did, and Poirot proceeded to sketch for her a thumbnail portrait of the Comte de la Roche.
“You think he killed her,” said Katherine thoughtfully.
“That is the theory,” said Poirot guardedly.
“Do you yourself believe that?”
“I did not say so. And you, Mademoiselle, what do you think?”
Katherine shook her head.
“How should I know? I don’t know anything about those things, but I should say that—”
“Yes,” said Poirot encouragingly.
“Well—from what you say the Count does not sound the kind of man who would actually kill anybody.”
“Ah! Very good,” cried Poirot. “You agree with me; that is just what I have said.” He looked at her sharply. “But tell me, you have met Mr. Derek Kettering?”
“I met him at Lady Tamplin’s, and I lunched with him yesterday.”
“A mauvais sujet,” said Poirot, shaking his head; “but les femmes—they like that, eh?”
He twinkled at Katherine and she laughed.
“He is the kind of man one would notice anywhere,” continued Poirot. “Doubtless you observed him on the Blue Train?”
“Yes, I noticed him.”
“In the restaurant car?”
“No. I didn’t notice him at meals at all. I only saw him once—going into his wife’s compartment.”
Poirot nodded. “A strange business,” he murmured. “I believe you said you were awake, Mademoiselle, and looked out of your window at Lyons? You saw no tall dark man such as the Comte de la Roche leave the train?”
Katherine shook her head. “I don’t think I saw anyone at all,” she said. “There was a youngish lad in a cap and overcoat who got out, but I don’t think he was leaving the train, only walking up and down the platform. There was a fat Frenchman with a beard, in pyjamas and an overcoat, who wanted a cup of coffee. Otherwise, I think there were only the train attendants.”
Poirot nodded his head several times. “It is like this, you see,” he confided, “the Comte de la Roche has an alibi. An alibi, it is a very pestilential thing, and always open to the gravest suspicion. But here we are!”
They went straight up to Van Aldin’s suite, where they found Knighton. Poirot introduced him to Katherine. After a few commonplaces had been exchanged, Knighton said: “I will tell Mr. Van Aldin that Miss Grey is here.”
He went through a second door into an adjoining room. There was a low murmur of voices, and then Van Aldin came into the room and advanced towards Katherine with outstretched hand, giving her at the same time a shrewd and penetrating glance.
“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Grey,” he said simply. “I have been wanting very badly to hear what you can tell me about Ruth.”
The quiet simplicity of the millionaire’s manner appealed to Katherine strongly. She felt herself in the presence of a very genuine grief, the more real for its absence of outward sign.
He drew forward a chair.
“Sit here, will you, and just tell me all about it.”
Poirot and Knighton retired discreetly into the other room, and Katherine and Van Aldin were left alone together. She found no difficulty in her task. Quite simply and naturally she related her conversation with Ruth Kettering, word for word as nearly as she could. He listened in silence, leaning back in his chair, with one hand shading his eyes. When she had finished he said quietly:
“Thank you, my dear.”
They both sat silent for a minute or two. Katherine felt that words of sympathy would be out of place. When the millionaire spoke, it was in a different tone:
“I am very grateful to you, Miss Grey. I think you did something to ease my poor Ruth’s mind in the last hours of her life. Now I want to ask you something. You know—M. Poirot will have told you—about the scoundrel that my poor girl had got herself mixed up with. He was the man of whom she spoke to you—the man she was going to meet. In your judgment, do you think she might have changed her mind after her conversation with you? Do you think she meant to go back on her word?”
“I can’t honestly tell you. She had certainly come to some decision, and seemed more cheerful in consequence of it.”
“She gave you no idea where she intended to meet the skunk—whether in Paris or at Hyères?”
Katherine shook her head.
“She said nothing as to that.”
“Ah!” said Van Aldin thoughtfully, “and that is the important point. Well, time will show.”
He got up and opened the door of the adjoining room. Poirot and Knighton came back.
Katherine declined the millionaire’s invitation to lunch, and Knighton went down with her and saw her into the waiting car. He returned to find Poirot and Van Aldin deep in conversation.
“If we only knew,” said the millionaire thoughtfully, “what decision Ruth came to. It might have been any of half a dozen. She might have meant to leave the train at Paris and cable to me. She may have
meant to have gone on to the south of France and have an explanation with the Count there. We are in the dark—absolutely in the dark. But we have the maid’s word for it that she was both startled and dismayed at the Count’s appearance at the station in Paris. That was clearly not part of the preconceived plan. You agree with me, Knighton?”
The secretary started. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Van Aldin. I was not listening.”
“Daydreaming, eh?” said Van Aldin. “That’s not like you. I believe that girl has bowled you over.”
Knighton blushed.
“She is a remarkably nice girl,” said Van Aldin thoughtfully, “very nice. Did you happen to notice her eyes?”
“Any man,” said Knighton, “would be bound to notice her eyes.”
Twenty-one
AT THE TENNIS
Several days had elapsed. Katherine had been for a walk by herself one morning, and came back to find Lenox grinning at her expectantly.
“Your young man has been ringing you up, Katherine!”
“Who do you call my young man?”
“A new one—Rufus Van Aldin’s secretary. You seem to have made rather an impression there. You are becoming a serious breaker of hearts, Katherine. First Derek Kettering, and now this young Knighton. The funny thing is that I remember him quite well. He was in Mother’s War Hospital that she ran out here. I was only a kid of about eight at the time.”
“Was he badly wounded?”
“Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly—rather a nasty business. I think the doctors messed it up a bit. They said he wouldn’t limp or anything, but when he left here he was still completely dot and go one.”
Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.
“Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?” she asked. “Such a dear fellow! Just at first I didn’t remember him—one had so many—but now it all comes back.”
“He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered before,” said Lenox. “Now that he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very different matter.”
“Darling!” said Lady Tamplin in her vague reproachful voice.
“What did Major Knighton ring up about?” inquired Katherine.