The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [76]
Zia laughed.
“You should not laugh at love, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, shaking an energetic forefinger at her. “You who are young and beautiful.”
“Hardly that,” said Zia; “you forget that I am thirty-three, M. Poirot. I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise. As you told my father it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris that time.”
“When I look at you, it seems much less,” said Poirot gallantly. “You were then very much as you are now, Mademoiselle, a little thinner, a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension. Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not quite a woman. You were very delicious, very charming, Mademoiselle Zia; others thought so too, without doubt.”
“At sixteen,” said Zia, “one is simple and a little fool.”
“That may be,” said Poirot; “yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told.”
If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily: “It was a curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true inwardness of it.”
“No?”
“When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: ‘Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost. You must ask no questions.’ Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I said these things?”
“I have no idea,” said the girl coldly.
“It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious.”
“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” cried Zia angrily.
“Do you not, Mademoiselle? Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?” He heard the quick intake of her breath—almost a gasp.
“He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he have got hold of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his eyes to his master’s daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they must occasionally talk of things that interest them both—such as that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous’ possession. And since, as you say, Mademoiselle, the young are foolish and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards when it is gone—when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas! the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions.”
Zia turned on him fiercely.
“You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it—was it Antonio?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No one told me,” he said quietly. “I guessed. It was a good guess, was it not, Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”
The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence. Then she said in a hard voice:
“Well, what are you going to do about it; are you going to tell my father?”
“No,” said Poirot sharply. “Certainly not.”
She looked at him curiously.
“You want something from me?”
“I want your help, Mademoiselle.”
“What makes you think that I can help you?”
“I do not think so. I only hope so.”
“And if I do not help you, then—you will tell my father?”
“But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it.”
“If I refuse to help you—?” began the girl slowly.
“Then you refuse, and that is that.”
“Then why—?” she stopped.
“Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render a service to one who has rendered