The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [73]
George smiled apologetically.
“I think that I might say that I have, sir,” he replied.
“I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are invariably drawn from the lower orders?”
“Not always, sir. There was great trouble with one of the Duke of Devize’s younger sons. He left Eton under a cloud, and after that he caused great anxiety on several occasions. The police would not accept the view that it was kleptomania. A very clever young gentleman, sir, but vicious through and through, if you take my meaning. His Grace shipped him to Australia, and I hear he was convicted out there under another name. Very odd, sir, but there it is. The young gentleman, I need hardly say, was not in want financially.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
“Love of excitement,” he murmured, “and a little kink in the brain somewhere. I wonder now—”
He drew out the telegram from his pocket and read it again.
“Then there was Lady Mary Fox’s daughter,” continued the valet in a mood of reminiscence. “Swindled tradespeople something shocking, she did. Very worrying to the best families, if I may say so, and there are many other queer cases I could mention.”
“You have a wide experience, Georges,” murmured Poirot. “I often wonder having lived so exclusively with titled families that you demean yourself by coming as a valet to me. I put it down to love of excitement on your part.”
“Not exactly, sir,” said George. “I happened to see in Society Snippets that you had been received at Buckingham Palace. That was just when I was looking for a new situation. His Majesty, so it said, had been most gracious and friendly and thought very highly of your abilities.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “one always likes to know the reason for things.”
He remained in thought for a few moments and then said:
“You rang up Mademoiselle Papopolous?”
“Yes, sir; she and her father will be pleased to dine with you tonight.”
“Ah,” said Poirot thoughtfully. He drank off his chocolate, set the cup and saucer neatly in the middle of the tray, and spoke gently, more to himself than to the valet.
“The squirrel, my good Georges, collects nuts. He stores them up in the autumn so that they may be of advantage to him later. To make a success of humanity, Georges, we must profit by the lessons of those below us in the animal kingdom. I have always done so. I have been the cat, watching the mouse hole. I have been the good dog following up the scent, and not taking my nose from the trail. And also, my good Georges, I have been the squirrel. I have stored away the little fact here, the little fact there. I go now to my store and I take out one particular nut, a nut that I stored away—let me see, seventeen years ago. You follow me, Georges?”
“I should hardly have thought, sir,” said George, “that nuts would have kept so long as that, though I know one can do wonders with preserving bottles.”
Poirot looked at him and smiled.
Twenty-eight
POIROT PLAYS THE SQUIRREL
Poirot started to keep his dinner appointment with a margin of three-quarters of an hour to spare. He had an object in this. The car took him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin’s house at Cap Martin, where he asked for Miss Grey. The ladies were dressing and Poirot was shown into a small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse of three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin came to him.
“Katherine is not quite ready yet,” she said. “Can I give her a message, or would you rather wait until she comes down?”
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was a minute or two in replying, as though something of great weight hung upon his decision. Apparently the answer to such a simple question mattered.
“No,” he said at last, “No, I do not think it is necessary that I should wait to see Mademoiselle Katherine. I think perhaps, that it is better that I should not. These things are sometimes difficult.”
Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows slightly raised.
“I have a piece of news,” continued Poirot. “You will, perhaps, tell your friend. M. Kettering was arrested tonight