The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [54]
“Who do you call my young man?”
“A new one—Rufus Van Aldin’s secretary. You seem to have made rather an impression there. You are becoming a serious breaker of hearts, Katherine. First Derek Kettering, and now this young Knighton. The funny thing is that I remember him quite well. He was in Mother’s War Hospital that she ran out here. I was only a kid of about eight at the time.”
“Was he badly wounded?”
“Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly—rather a nasty business. I think the doctors messed it up a bit. They said he wouldn’t limp or anything, but when he left here he was still completely dot and go one.”
Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.
“Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?” she asked. “Such a dear fellow! Just at first I didn’t remember him—one had so many—but now it all comes back.”
“He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered before,” said Lenox. “Now that he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very different matter.”
“Darling!” said Lady Tamplin in her vague reproachful voice.
“What did Major Knighton ring up about?” inquired Katherine.
“He asked if you would like to go to the tennis this afternoon. If so, he would call for you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you with empressement. Whilst you dally with a millionaire’s secretary, you might give me a chance with the millionaire, Katherine. He is about sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet young thing like me.”
“I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin,” said Lady Tamplin earnestly; “one has heard so much of him. Those fine rugged figures of the Western world”—she broke off—“so fascinating,” she murmured.
“Major Knighton was very particular to say it was Mr. Van Aldin’s invitation,” said Lenox. “He said it so often that I began to smell a rat. You and Knighton would make a very nice pair, Katherine. Bless you, my children.”
Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to change her clothes.
Knighton arrived soon after lunch and endured manfully Lady Tamplin’s transports of recognition.
When they were driving together towards Cannes he remarked to Katherine: “Lady Tamplin has changed wonderfully little.”
“In manner or appearance?”
“Both. She must be, I suppose, well over forty, but she is a remarkably beautiful woman still.”
“She is,” agreed Katherine.
“I am very glad that you could come today,” went on Knighton. “M. Poirot is going to be there also. What an extraordinary little man he is. Do you know him well, Miss Grey?”
Katherine shook her head. “I met him on the train on the way here. I was reading a detective novel, and I happened to say something about such things not happening in real life. Of course, I had no idea of who he was.”
“He is a very remarkable person,” said Knighton slowly, “and has done some very remarkable things. He has a kind of genius for going to the root of the matter, and right up to the end no one has any idea of what he is really thinking. I remember I was staying at a house in Yorkshire, and Lady Clanravon’s jewels were stolen. It seemed at first to be a simple robbery, but it completely baffled the local police. I wanted them to call in Hercule Poirot, and said he was the only man who could help them, but they pinned their faith to Scotland Yard.”
“And what happened?” said Katherine curiously.
“The jewels were never recovered,” said Knighton drily.
“You really do believe in him?”
“I do indeed. The Comte de la Roche is a pretty wily customer. He has wriggled out of most things. But I think he has met his match in Hercule Poirot.”
“The Comte de la Roche,” said Katherine thoughtfully; “so you really think he did it?”
“Of course.” Knighton looked at her in astonishment. “Don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” said Katherine hastily; “that is, I mean, if it was not just an ordinary train robbery.”
“It might be, of course,” agreed the other, “but it seems to me that the Comte de la Roche fits into this business particularly well.”
“And yet he has an alibi.”
“Oh, alibis!” Knighton laughed, his face broke into his attractive boyish smile.
“You confess