“Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am suspected—accused—of foul crime.”
“The accusation does not come from me,” said Derek coldly; “as an interested party I have not expressed any opinion.”
“I am innocent,” said the Comte. “I swear before heaven”—he raised his hand to heaven—“that I am innocent.”
“M. Carrège is, I believe, the Juge d’Instruction in charge of the case,” hinted Derek politely.
The Comte took no notice.
“Not only am I unjustly suspected of a crime that I did not commit, but I am also in serious need of money.”
He coughed softly and suggestively.
Derek rose to his feet.
“I was waiting for that,” he said softly; “you blackmailing brute! I will not give you a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal that you can make can touch her now. She wrote you foolish letters, I daresay. If I were to buy them from you for a round sum at this minute, I am pretty certain that you would manage to keep one or two back; and I will tell you this, M. de la Roche, blackmailing is an ugly word both in England and France. That is my answer to you. Good afternoon.”
“One moment”—the Comte stretched out a hand as Derek was turning to leave the room. “You are mistaken, Monsieur. You are completely mistaken. I am, I hope, a ‘gentleman.’ ” Derek laughed. “Any letters that a lady might write to me I should hold sacred.” He flung back his head with a beautiful air of nobility. “The proposition that I was putting before you was of quite a different nature. I am, as I said, extremely short of money, and my conscience might impel me to go to the police with certain information.”
Derek came slowly back into the room.
“What do you mean?”
The Comte’s agreeable smile flashed forth once more.
“Surely it is not necessary to go into details,” he purred. “Seek whom the crime benefits, they say, don’t they? As I said just now, you have come into a lot of money lately.”
Derek laughed.
“If that is all—” he said contemptuously.
But the Comte was shaking his head.
“But it is not all, my dear sir. I should not come to you unless I had much more precise and detailed information than that. It is not agreeable, Monsieur, to be arrested and tried for murder.”
Derek came close up to him. His face expressed such furious anger that involuntarily the Comte drew back a pace or two.
“Are you threatening me?” the young man demanded angrily.
“You shall hear nothing more of the matter,” the Comte assured him.
“Of all the colossal bluffs that I have ever struck—”
The Comte raised a white hand.
“You are wrong. It is not a bluff. To convince you I will tell you this. My information was obtained from a certain lady. It is she who holds the irrefutable proof that you committed the murder.”
“She? Who?”
“Mademoiselle Mirelle.”
Derek drew back as though struck.
“Mirelle,” he muttered.
The Comte was quick to press what he took to be his advantage.
“A bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs,” he said. “I ask no more.”
“Eh?” said Derek absently.
“I was saying, Monsieur, that a bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs would satisfy my—conscience.”
Derek seemed to recollect himself. He looked earnestly at the Comte.
“You would like my answer now?”
“If you please, Monsieur.”
“Then here it is. You can go to the devil. See?”
Leaving the Comte too astonished to speak, Derek turned on his heel and swung out of the room.
Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and drove to Mirelle’s hotel. On inquiring, he learned that the dancer had just come in. Derek gave the concierge his card.
“Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if she will see me.”
A very brief interval elapsed, and then Derek was bidden to follow a chasseur.
A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek’s nostrils as he stepped over the threshold of the dancer’s apartments. The room was filled with carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle was standing by the window in a peignoir of foamy lace.
She came towards him, her hands outstretched.
“Dereek—you have come to me. I knew you would.”
He put aside the clinging arms and looked down on her sternly.
“Why did you send the Comte de la Roche to me?”
She looked at him in astonishment, which he took to be genuine.
“I? Send the Comte de la Roche to you? But for what?”
“Apparently—for blackmail,” said Derek grimly.
Again she stared. Then suddenly she smiled and nodded her head.
“Of course. It was to be expected. It is what he would do, ce type là. I might have known it. No, indeed, Dereek, I did not send him.”
He looked at her piercingly, as though seeking to read her mind.
“I will tell you,” said Mirelle. “I am ashamed, but I will tell you. The other day, you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite mad”—she made an eloquent gesture. “My temperament, it is not a patient one. I want to be revenged on you, and so I go to the Comte de la Roche, and I tell him to go to the police and say so and so, and so and so. But have no fear, Dereek. Not completely did I lose my head; the proof rests with me alone. The police can do nothing without my word, you understand? And now—now?”
She nestled up close to him, looking at him with melting eyes.
He thrust her roughly away from him. She stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing to a catlike slit.
“Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You have come back to me, have you not?”
“I shall never come back to you,” said Derek steadily.
“Ah!”
More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.
“So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I right?”
“I intend to ask that lady to marry me. You might as well know.”
“That prim Englishwoman! Do you think that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no.” Her beautiful lithe body quivered. “Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation we had in London? You said the only thing that could save you was the death of your wife. You regretted that she was so healthy. Then the idea of an accident came to your brain. And more than an accident.”
“I suppose,” said Derek contemptuously, “that it was this conversation that you repeated to the Comte de la Roche.”
Mirelle laughed.
“Am I a fool? Could the police do anything with a vague story like that? See—I will give you a last chance. You shall give up this Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And then, chéri, never, never will I breathe—”
“Breathe what?”
She laughed softly. “You thought no one saw you—”
“What do you mean?”
&nbs
p; “As I say, you thought no one saw you—but I saw you, Dereek, mon ami; I saw you coming out of the compartment of Madame your wife just before the train got into Lyons that night. And I know more than that. I know that when you came out of her compartment she was dead.”
He stared at her. Then, like a man in a dream, he turned very slowly and went out of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.
Twenty-six
A WARNING
“And so it is,” said Poirot, “that we are the good friends and have no secrets from each other.”
Katherine turned her head to look at him. There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of seriousness, which she had not heard before.
They were sitting in the gardens of Monte Carlo. Katherine had come over with her friends, and they had run into Knighton and Poirot almost immediately on arrival. Lady Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most of which Katherine had a faint suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin with her hand on the young man’s arm. Knighton had thrown a couple of glances back over his shoulder, and Poirot’s eyes twinkled a little as he saw them.
“Of course we are friends,” said Katherine.
“From the beginning we have been sympathetic to each other,” mused Poirot.
“When you told me that a ‘roman policier’ occurs in real life.”
“And I was right, was I not?” he challenged her, with an emphatic forefinger. “Here we are, plunged in the middle of one. That is natural for me—it is my métier—but for you it is different. Yes,” he added in a reflective tone, “for you it is different.”
She looked sharply at him. It was as though he were warning her, pointing out to her some menace that she had not seen.
“Why do you say that I am in the middle of it? It is true that I had that conversation with Mrs. Kettering just before she died, but now—now all that is over. I am not connected with the case any more.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, can we ever say, ‘I have finished with this or that?’ ”
Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.
“What is it?” she asked. “You are trying to tell me something—to convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out.”