The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [28]
Katherine produced it, and was just about to move off beside him when a very gentle and insidious voice murmured in her ear:
“A little moment, Madame, if you please.”
Katherine turned to behold an individual who made up for insignificance of stature by a large quantity of gold lace and uniform. The individual explained. “There were certain formalities. Madame would perhaps be so kind as to accompany him. The regulations of the police—” he threw up his arms. “Absurd, doubtless, but there it was.”
Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very imperfect comprehension, his French being of a limited order.
“So like the French,” murmured Mr. Evans. He was one of those staunch patriotic Britons who, having made a portion of a foreign country their own, strongly resent the original inhabitants of it. “Always up to some silly dodge or other. They’ve never tackled people on the station before, though. This is something quite new. I suppose you’ll have to go.”
Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat to her surprise, he led her towards a siding where a coach of the departed train had been shunted. He invited her to mount into this, and, preceding her down the corridor, held aside the door of one of the compartments. In it was a pompous-looking official personage, and with him a nondescript being who appeared to be a clerk. The pompous-looking personage rose politely, bowed to Katherine, and said:
“You will excuse me, Madame, but there are certain formalities to be complied with. Madame speaks French, I trust?”
“Sufficiently, I think, Monsieur,” replied Katherine in that language.
“That is good. Pray be seated, Madame. I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police.” He blew out his chest importantly, and Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.
“You wish to see my passport?” she inquired. “Here it is.”
The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave a little grunt.
“Thank you, Madame,” he said, taking the passport from her. He cleared his throat. “But what I really desire is a little information.”
“Information?”
The Commissary nodded his head slowly.
“About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger of yours. You lunched with her yesterday.”
“I am afraid I can’t tell you anything about her. We fell into conversation over our meal, but she is a complete stranger to me. I have never seen her before.”
“And yet,” said the Commissary sharply, “you returned to her compartment with her after lunch and sat talking for some time?”
“Yes,” said Katherine; “that is true.”
The Commissary seemed to expect her to say something more. He looked at her encouragingly.
“Yes, Madame?”
“Well, Monsieur?” said Katherine.
“You can, perhaps, give me some kind of idea of that conversation?”
“I could,” said Katherine, “but at the moment I see no reason to do so.”
In a somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed. This foreign official seemed to her impertinent.
“No reason?” cried the Commissary. “Oh yes, Madame, I can assure you that there is a reason.”
“Then perhaps you will give it to me.”
The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a minute or two without speaking.
“Madame,” he said at last, “the reason is very simple. The lady in question was found dead in her compartment this morning.”
“Dead!” gasped Katherine. “What was it—heart failure?”
“No,” said the Commissary in a reflective, dreamy voice. “No—she was murdered.”
“Murdered!” cried Katherine.
“So you see, Madame, why we are anxious for any information we can possibly get.”
“But surely her maid—”
“The maid has disappeared.”
“Oh!” Katherine paused to assemble her thoughts.
“Since the conductor had seen you talking with her in her compartment, he quite naturally reported the fact to the police, and that is why, Madame, we have detained you, in the hope of gaining some information.”
“I am very sorry,” said Katherine; “I don’t even know her name.”
“Her name is Kettering. That we know from her passport and from the labels on her luggage. If we