The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [42]
“Ah!” he murmured again. “One wondered.” He coughed. “One has heard rumours.”
“The lady,” said M. Caux, “is very notorious.”
“And also,” murmured Poirot softly, “very expensive.”
Van Aldin had gone very red in the face. He leant forward and hit the table a bang with his fist.
“See here,” he cried, “my son-in-law is a damned scoundrel!”
He glared at them, looking from one face to another.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he went on. “Good looks and a charming, easy manner. It took me in once upon a time. I suppose he pretended to be brokenhearted when you broke the news to him—that is, if he didn’t know it already.”
“Oh, it came as a surprise to him. He was overwhelmed.”
“Darned young hypocrite,” said Van Aldin. “Simulated great grief, I suppose?”
“N—no,” said the Commissary cautiously. “I would not quite say that—eh, M. Carrège?”
The Magistrate brought the tips of his fingers together, and half-closed his eyes.
“Shock, bewilderment, horror—these things, yes,” he declared judicially. “Great sorrow—no—I should not say that.”
Hercule Poirot spoke once more.
“Permit me to ask, M. Van Aldin, does M. Kettering benefit by the death of his wife?”
“He benefits to the tune of a couple of millions,” said Van Aldin.
“Dollars?”
“Pounds. I settled that sum on Ruth absolutely on her marriage. She made no will and leaves no children, so the money will go to her husband.”
“Whom she was on the point of divorcing,” murmured Poirot. “Ah, yes—précisément.”
The Commissary turned and looked sharply at him.
“Do you mean—?” he began.
“I mean nothing,” said Poirot. “I arrange the facts, that is all.”
Van Aldin stared at him with awakening interest.
The little man rose to his feet.
“I do not think I can be of any further service to you, M. le Juge,” he said politely, bowing to M. Carrège. “You will keep me informed of the course of events? It will be a kindness.”
“But certainly—most certainly.”
Van Aldin rose also.
“You don’t want me any more at present?”
“No, Monsieur; we have all the information we need for the moment.”
“Then I will walk a little way with M. Poirot. That is, if he does not object?”
“Enchanted, Monsieur,” said the little man, with a bow.
Van Aldin lighted a large cigar, having first offered one to Poirot, who declined it and lit one of his own tiny cigarettes. A man of great strength of character, Van Aldin already appeared to be his everyday, normal self once more. After strolling along for a minute or two in silence, the millionaire spoke:
“I take it, M. Poirot, that you no longer exercise your profession?”
“That is so, Monsieur. I enjoy the world.”
“Yet you are assisting the police in this affair?”
“Monsieur, if a doctor walks along the street and an accident happens, does he say, ‘I have retired from my profession, I will continue my walk,’ when there is someone bleeding to death at his feet? If I had been already in Nice, and the police had sent to me and asked me to assist them, I should have refused. But this affair, the good God thrust it upon me.”
“You were on the spot,” said Van Aldin thoughtfully. “You examined the compartment, did you not?”
Poirot nodded.
“Doubtless you found things that were, shall we say, suggestive to you?”
“Perhaps,” said Poirot.
“I hope you see what I am leading up to?” said Van Aldin. “It seems to me that the case against this Comte de la Roche is perfectly clear, but I am not a fool. I have been watching you for this last hour or so, and I realize that for some reason of your own you don’t agree with that theory?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I may be wrong.”
“So we come to the favour I want to ask you. Will you act in this matter for me?”
“For you, personally?”
“That was my meaning.”
Poirot was silent for a moment or two. Then he said:
“You realize what you are asking?”
“I guess so,” said Van Aldin.
“Very well,” said Poirot. “I accept. But in that case, I must have frank answers to my questions.”
“Why,