The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [0]
the Blue Train
A Hercule Poirot Mystery
Dedication
To the two
distinguished members
of the O.F.D.
Carlotta and Peter
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1 The Man with the White Hair
2 M. le Marquis
3 Heart of Fire
4 On Curzon Street
5 A Useful Gentleman
6 Mirelle
7 Letters
8 Lady Tamplin Writes a Letter
9 An Offer Refused
10 On the Blue Train
11 Murder
12 At the Villa Marguerite
13 Van Aldin Gets a Telegram
14 Ada Mason’s Story
15 The Comte de la Roche
16 Poirot Discusses the Case
17 An Aristocratic Gentleman
18 Derek Lunches
19 An Unexpected Visitor
20 Katherine Makes a Friend
21 At the Tennis
22 M. Papopolous Breakfasts
23 A New Theory
24 Poirot Gives Advice
25 Defiance
26 A Warning
27 Interview with Mirelle
28 Poirot Plays the Squirrel
29 A Letter from Home
30 Miss Viner Gives Judgment
31 Mr. Aarons Lunches
32 Katherine and Poirot Compare Notes
33 A New Theory
34 The Blue Train Again
35 Explanations
36 By the Sea
About the Author
Other Works
Copyright
One
THE MAN WITH THE WHITE HAIR
It was close on midnight when a man crossed the Place de la Concorde. In spite of the handsome fur coat which garbed his meagre form, there was something essentially weak and paltry about him.
A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous part, or rise to prominence in any sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous as he seemed, played a prominent part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats.
Even now, an Embassy awaited his return. But he had business to do first—business of which the Embassy was not officially cognizant. His face gleamed white and sharp in the moonlight. There was the least hint of a curve in the thin nose. His father had been a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was business such as his father would have loved that took him abroad tonight.
He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered one of the less reputable quarters of Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated house and made his way up to an apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely time to knock before the door was opened by a woman who had evidently been awaiting his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but helped him off with his overcoat and then led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting room. The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise, the girl’s face with its mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance. There was no doubt of Olga Demiroff’s profession, nor of her nationality.
“All is well, little one?”
“All is well, Boris Ivanovitch.”
He nodded, murmuring: “I do not think I have been followed.”
But there was anxiety in his tone. He went to the window, drawing the curtains aside slightly, and peering carefully out. He started away violently.
“There are two men—on the opposite pavement. It looks to me—” He broke off and began gnawing at his nails—a habit he had when anxious.
The Russian girl was shaking her head with a slow, reassuring action.
“They were here before you came.”
“All the same, it looks to me as though they were watching this house.”
“Possibly,” she admitted indifferently.
“But then—”
“What of it? Even if they know—it will not be you they will follow from here.”
A thin, cruel smile came to his lips.
“No,” he admitted, “that is true.”
He mused for a minute or two, and then observed,
“This damned American—he can look after himself as well as anybody.”
“I suppose so.”
He went again to the window.
“Tough customers,” he muttered, with a chuckle. “Known to the police, I fear. Well, well, I wish Brother Apache good hunting.”
Olga Demiroff shook her head.
“If the American is the kind of man they say he is, it will take more than a couple of cowardly apaches to get the better of him.” She paused. “I wonder—”
“Well?”
“Nothing. Only twice this evening