The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [29]
There was a knock on the compartment door. M. Caux frowned. He opened it about six inches.
“What is the matter?” he said peremptorily. “I cannot be disturbed.”
The egg-shaped head of Katherine’s dinner acquaintance showed itself in the aperture. On his face was a beaming smile.
“My name,” he said, “is Hercule Poirot.”
“Not,” the Commissary stammered, “not the Hercule Poirot?”
“The same,” said M. Poirot. “I remember meeting you once, M. Caux, at the Sûreté in Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten me?”
“Not at all, Monsieur, not at all,” declared the Commissary heartily. “But enter, I pray you. You know of this—?”
“Yes, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “I came to see if I might be of any assistance?”
“We should be flattered,” replied the Commissary promptly. “Let me present you, M. Poirot, to”—he consulted the passport he still held in his hand—“to Madame—er—Mademoiselle Grey.”
Poirot smiled across at Katherine.
“It is strange, is it not,” he murmured, “that my words should have come true so quickly?”
“Mademoiselle, alas! can tell us very little,” said the Commissary.
“I have been explaining,” said Katherine, “that this poor lady was a complete stranger to me.”
Poirot nodded.
“But she talked to you, did she not?” he said gently. “You formed an impression—is it not so?”
“Yes,” said Katherine thoughtfully. “I suppose I did.”
“And that impression was—?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle”—the Commissary jerked himself forward—“let us by all means have your impressions.”
Katherine sat turning the whole thing over in her mind. She felt in a way as if she were betraying a confidence, but with that ugly word “Murder” ringing in her ears she dared not keep anything back. Too much might hang upon it. So, as nearly as she could, she repeated word for word the conversation she had had with the dead woman.
“That is interesting,” said the Commissary, glancing at the other. “Eh, M. Poirot, that is interesting? Whether it has anything to do with the crime—” He left the sentence unfinished.
“I suppose it could not be suicide,” said Katherine, rather doubtfully.
“No,” said the Commissary, “it could not be suicide. She was strangled with a length of black cord.”
“Oh!” Katherine shivered. M. Caux spread out his hands apologetically. “It is not nice—no. I think that our train robbers are more brutal than they are in your country.”
“It is horrible.”
“Yes, yes”—he was soothing and apologetic—“but you have great courage, Mademoiselle. At once, as soon as I saw you, I said to myself, ‘Mademoiselle has great courage.’ That is why I am going to ask you to do something more—something distressing, but I assure you very necessary.”
Katherine looked at him apprehensively.
He spread out his hands apologetically.
“I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to be so good as to accompany me to the next compartment.”
“Must I?” asked Katherine in a low voice.
“Someone must identify her,” said the Commissary, “and since the maid has disappeared”—he coughed significantly—“you appear to be the person who has seen most of her since she joined the train.”
“Very well,” said Katherine quietly; “if it is necessary—”
She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of approval.
“Mademoiselle is sensible,” he said. “May I accompany you, M. Caux?”
“Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot.”
They went out into the corridor, and M. Caux unlocked the door of the dead woman’s compartment. The blinds on the far side had been drawn halfway up to admit light. The dead woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have thought her asleep. The bedclothes were drawn up over her, and her head was turned to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand on her shoulder and turned the body back so that the face came into view. Katherine flinched a little and dug her nails into her palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the features almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.
“When was that done, I wonder?” he demanded. “Before death or after?”
“The doctor says after,” said M. Caux.
“Strange,” said Poirot,