The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [79]
“So you are going back to St. Mary Mead?” he said.
“No, I am not,” said Katherine; “why should I?”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “it is my mistake. You will excuse me one little minute.”
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside.
“M. Van Aldin looks ill,” he said.
“Do you wonder?” asked Knighton. “The scandal of Derek Kettering’s arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth.”
“He should go back to England,” said Poirot.
“We are going the day after tomorrow.”
“That is good news,” said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting.
“I wish,” he murmured, “that you could tell Miss Grey that.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you—I mean that M. Van Aldin is returning to England.”
Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he readily crossed the terrace and joined Katherine.
Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of the head, and then joined Lenox and the American. After a minute or two they joined the others. Conversation was general for a few minutes, then the millionaire and his secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to take his departure.
“A thousand thanks for your hospitality, Mesdemoiselles,” he cried; “it has been a most charming luncheon. Ma foi, I needed it!” He swelled out his chest and thumped it. “I am now a lion—a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle Katherine, you have not seen me as I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to strike terror into the hearts of those who listen to me.”
He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her underlip, and the corners of Katherine’s mouth had a suspicious twitch.
“And I shall do it,” he said gravely. “Oh yes, I shall succeed.”
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine’s voice made him turn.
“M. Poirot, I—I want to tell you. I think you were quite right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately.”
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
“I see,” he said gravely.
“I don’t believe you do,” said Katherine.
“I know more than you think, Mademoiselle,” he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes.
Hipolyte, the Comte de la Roche’s wooden-faced manservant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master’s beautiful cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. Chancing to look out of the window, Hipolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to the hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hipolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he called ce type là.
“It is not the police again?” said Marie anxiously.
“Look for yourself,” said Hipolyte.
Marie looked.
“Certainly not the police,” she declared. “I am glad.”
“They have not really worried us much,” said Hipolyte. “In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte’s warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wineshop to be what he was.”
The hall bell pealed and Hipolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door.
“M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home.”
The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly.
“I know that,” he replied. “You are Hipolyte Flavelle, are you not?”
“Yes, Monsieur, that is my name.”
“And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but—”
“I desire to see you both,” said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hipolyte into the hall.
“Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen,” he said. “I will go there.”
Before Hipolyte could recover his breath,