The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [51]
Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road. It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver. Now they were going down hill, twisting and curving unceasingly. Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to a standstill before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest, extracted the small brown paper parcel and hurried into the post office. Two minutes later he was driving once more in the direction of Mentone. When the grey car arrived there, the Comte was drinking English five o’clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels.
Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once more at eleven o’clock. Hipolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed face.
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte has arrived. Monsieur le Comte did not telephone me, by any chance?”
The Comte shook his head.
“And yet at three o’clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte, to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco.”
“Really,” said the Comte; “and you went?”
“Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur le Comte. He had not been there.”
“Ah,” said the Comte, “doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her afternoon marketing?”
“That is so, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Ah, well,” said the Comte, “it is of no importance. A mistake.”
He went upstairs, smiling to himself.
Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round. Everything seemed as usual. He opened various drawers and cupboards. Then he nodded to himself. Things had been replaced almost exactly as he had left them, but not quite. It was evident that a very thorough search had been made.
He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring. The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it. He nodded his head several times.
“They are excellent, our French police,” he murmured to himself—“excellent. Nothing escapes them.”
Twenty
KATHERINE MAKES A FRIEND
On the following morning Katherine and Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa Marguerite. Something in the nature of a friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age. But for Lenox, Katherine would have found life at the Villa Marguerite quite intolerable. The Kettering case was the topic of the moment. Lady Tamplin frankly exploited her guest’s connection with the affair for all it was worth. The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine could administer quite failed to pierce Lady Tamplin’s self-esteem. Lenox adopted a detached attitude, seemingly amused at her mother’s manoeuvres, and yet with a sympathetic understanding of Katherine’s feelings. The situation was not helped by Chubby, whose naïve delight was unquenchable, and who introduced Katherine to all and sundry as:
“This is Miss Grey. You know that Blue Train business? She was in it up to the ears! Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few hours before the murder! Bit of luck for her, eh?”
A few remarks of this kind had provoked Katherine that morning to an unusually tart rejoinder, and when they were alone together Lenox observed in her slow drawl:
“Not used to exploitation, are you? You have a lot to learn, Katherine.”
“I am sorry I lost my temper. I don’t, as a rule.”
“It is about time you learnt to blow off steam. Chubby is only an ass; there is no harm in him. Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper with her until Kingdom come, and it won’t make any impression. She will open large, sad blue eyes at you and not care a bit.”
Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:
“I am rather like Chubby. I delight in a good murder, and besides