The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [46]
“Possibly,” agreed Poirot thoughtfully.
“I asked M. Kettering to come here this morning,” continued the Magistrate, “though really I doubt if we have much to ask him, but there are one or two suspicious circumstances—” He paused, rubbing his nose.
“Such as?” asked Poirot.
“Well”—the Magistrate coughed—“this lady with whom he is said to be travelling—Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at one hotel and he at another. That strikes me—er—as rather odd.”
“It looks,” said M. Caux, “as though they were being careful.”
“Exactly,” said M. Carrège triumphantly; “and what should they have to be careful about?”
“An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?” said Poirot.
“Précisément.”
“We might, I think,” murmured Poirot, “ask M. Kettering one or two questions.”
The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair as ever, entered the room.
“Good morning, Monsieur,” said the Judge politely.
“Good morning,” said Derek Kettering curtly. “You sent for me. Has anything fresh turned up?”
“Pray sit down, Monsieur.”
Derek took a seat and flung his hat and stick on the table.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“We have, so far, no fresh data,” said M. Carrège cautiously.
“That’s very interesting,” said Derek drily. “Did you send for me here in order to tell me that?”
“We naturally thought, Monsieur, that you would like to be informed of the progress of the case,” said the Magistrate severely.
“Even if the progress is nonexistent.”
“We also wished to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away.”
“You are quite sure that you neither saw nor spoke with your wife on the train.”
“I’ve answered that already. I did not.”
“You had, no doubt, your reasons.”
Derek stared at him suspiciously.
“I—did—not—know—she—was—on—the—train,” he explained, spacing his words elaborately, as though to someone dull of intellect.
“That is what you say, yes,” murmured M. Carrège.
A quick frown suffused Derek’s face.
“I should like to know what you are driving at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrège?”
“What do you think, Monsieur?”
“I think the French police are vastly overrated. Surely you must have some data as to these gangs of train robbers. It’s outrageous that such a thing could happen on a train de luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter.”
“We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never fear.”
“Madame Kettering, I understand, did not leave a will,” interposed Poirot suddenly. His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.
“I don’t think she ever made one,” said Kettering. “Why?”
“It is a very pretty little fortune that you inherit there,” said Poirot—“a very pretty little fortune.”
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose to Derek Kettering’s face.
“What do you mean, and who are you?”
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face.
“My name is Hercule Poirot,” he said quietly, “and I am probably the greatest detective in the world. You are quite sure that you did not see or speak to your wife on that train?”
“What are you getting at? Do you—do you mean to insinuate that I—I killed her?”
He laughed suddenly.
“I mustn’t lose my temper; it’s too palpably absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would I?”
“That is true,” murmured Poirot, with a rather crestfallen air. “I did not think of that.”
“If ever there were a clear case of murder and robbery this is it,” said Derek Kettering. “Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies did for her. It must have got about she had them with her. There has been murder done for those same stones before now, I believe.”
Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. He looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed cat.
“One more question, M. Kettering,