The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [41]
“If—you say if?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire, I say if.”
The other looked at him sharply. “You are right,” he said at last, “we go too fast. It is possible that the Comte may have an alibi. Then we should look foolish.”
“Ah, ça par exemple,” replied Poirot, “that is of no importance whatever. Naturally, if he committed the crime he will have an alibi. A man with the Comte’s experience does not neglect to take precautions. No, I said if for a very definite reason.”
“And what was that?”
Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger. “The psychology.”
“Eh?” said the Commissary.
“The psychology is at fault. The Comte is a scoundrel—yes. The Comte is a swindler—yes. The Comte preys upon women—yes. He proposes to steal Madame’s jewels—again yes. Is he the kind of man to commit murder? I say no! A man of the type of the Comte is always a coward; he takes no risks. He plays the safe, the mean, what the English call the lowdown game; but murder, a hundred times no!” He shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
The Examining Magistrate, however, did not seem disposed to agree with him.
“The day always comes when such gentry lose their heads and go too far,” he observed sagely. “Doubtless that is the case here. Without wishing to disagree with you, M. Poirot—”
“It was only an opinion,” Poirot hastened to explain. “The case is, of course, in your hands, and you will do what seems fit to you.”
“I am satisfied in my own mind the Comte de la Roche is the man we need to get hold of,” said M. Carrège. “You agree with me, Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“Perfectly.”
“And you, M. Van Aldin?”
“Yes,” said the millionaire. “Yes; the man is a thorough-paced villain, no doubt about it.”
“It will be difficult to lay hands on him, I am afraid,” said the Magistrate, “but we will do our best. Telegraphed instructions shall go out at once.”
“Permit me to assist you,” said Poirot. “There need be no difficulty.”
“Eh?”
The others stared at him. The little man smiled beamingly back at them.
“It is my business to know things,” he explained. “The Comte is a man of intelligence. He is at present at a villa he has leased, the Villa Marina at Antibes.”
Sixteen
POIROT DISCUSSES THE CASE
Everybody looked respectfully at Poirot. Undoubtedly the little man had scored heavily. The Commissary laughed—on a rather hollow note.
“You teach us all our business,” he cried. “M. Poirot knows more than the police.”
Poirot gazed complacently at the ceiling, adopting a mock-modest air.
“What will you; it is my little hobby,” he murmured, “to know things. Naturally I have the time to indulge it. I am not overburdened with affairs.”
“Ah!” said the Commissary shaking his head portentously. “As for me—”
He made an exaggerated gesture to represent the cares that lay on his shoulders.
Poirot turned suddenly to Van Aldin.
“You agree, Monsieur, with this view? You feel certain that the Comte de la Roche is the murderer?”
“Why, it would seem so—yes, certainly.”
Something guarded in the answer made the Examining Magistrate look at the American curiously. Van Aldin seemed aware of his scrutiny and made an effort as though to shake off some preoccupation.
“What about my son-in-law?” he asked. “You have acquainted him with the news? He is in Nice, I understand.”
“Certainly, Monsieur.” The Commissary hesitated, and then murmured very discreetly: “You are doubtless aware, M. Van Aldin, that M. Kettering was also one of the passengers on the Blue Train that night?”
The millionaire nodded.
“Heard it just before I left London,” he vouchsafed laconically.
“He tells us,” continued the Commissary, “that he had no idea his wife was travelling on the train.”
“I bet he hadn’t,” said Van Aldin grimly. “It would have been rather a nasty shock to him if he’d come across her on it.”
The three men looked at him questioningly.
“I’m not going to mince matters,” said Van Aldin savagely. “No one knows what my poor girl has had to put up with. Derek Kettering wasn’t alone. He had a lady with him.”
“Ah?”
“Mirelle—the dancer.”
M. Carrège and the Commissary looked at each