The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [49]
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Perhaps this has already happened?”
“No, Monsieur le Comte.”
“There have been no strangers about the place? You are certain?”
“There has been no one, Monsieur le Comte.”
“That is well,” said the Comte drily; “nevertheless they will come—I am sure of it. They will ask questions.”
Hipolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation.
The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hipolyte.
“As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday morning. If the police or any other inquirer should question you, do not forget that fact. I arrived on Tuesday, the 14th—not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?”
“Perfectly, Monsieur le Comte.”
“In an affair where a lady is concerned, it is always necessary to be discreet. I feel certain, Hipolyte, that you can be discreet.”
“I can be discreet, Monsieur.”
“And Marie?”
“Marie also. I will answer for her.”
“That is well then,” murmured the Comte.
When Hipolyte had withdrawn, the Comte sipped his black coffee with a reflective air. Occasionally he frowned, once he shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it. Into the midst of these cogitations came Hipolyte once more.
“A lady, Monsieur.”
“A lady?”
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visit from a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa Marina, but at this particular moment the Comte could not think who the lady was likely to be.
“She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur,” murmured the valet helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
“Show her out here, Hipolyte,” he commanded.
A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out in the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic blossoms.
“Monsieur le Comte de la Roche?”
“At your service, Mademoiselle,” said the Comte, bowing.
“My name is Mirelle. You may have heard of me.”
“Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle, but who has not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle Mirelle? Exquisite!”
The dancer acknowledged this compliment with a brief mechanical smile.
“My descent upon you is unceremonious,” she began.
“But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle,” cried the Comte, bringing forward a chair.
Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his experience had not lain much in ladies of Mirelle’s class, who were themselves predatory. He and the dancer were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts, the Comte knew, would be thrown away on Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that the Comte could recognize infallibly when he saw it. He knew at once that he was in the presence of a very angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Comte was well aware, always says more than is prudent, and is occasionally a source of profit to a levelheaded gentleman who keeps cool.
“It is most amiable of you, Mademoiselle, to honour my poor abode thus.”
“We have mutual friends in Paris,” said Mirelle. “I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you today for another reason. I have heard of you since I came to Nice—in a different way, you understand.”
“Ah?” said the Comte softly.
“I will be brutal,” continued the dancer; “nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare at heart. They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte, that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering.”
“I!—the murderer of Madame Kettering? Bah! But how absurd!”
He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further.
“But yes,” she insisted, “it is as I tell you.”
“It amuses people to talk,” murmured the Comte indifferently. “It would be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously.”
“You do not understand.” Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing. “It is not the idle talk of those in the street. It is the police.”
“The police—ah?”
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times.
“Yes, yes. You comprehend me—I have friends everywhere. The Prefect himself—” She left the sentence unfinished,