The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [80]
“Voilà,” said the stranger, and sank into a wooden armchair; “I am Hercule Poirot.”
“Yes, Monsieur?”
“You do not know the name?”
“I have never heard it,” said Hipolyte.
“Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world.”
He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.
Hipolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor. “Monsieur desires—?” murmured Hipolyte mechanically.
“I desire to know why you have lied to the police.”
“Monsieur!” cried Hipolyte; “I—lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing.”
M. Poirot shook his head.
“You are wrong,” he said; “you have done it on several occasions. Let me see.” He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you.”
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hipolyte was taken aback.
“But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak,” continued Poirot, “only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned—your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January.”
“But that was no lie, Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?”
Marie assented eagerly.
“Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly.”
“Oh,” said Poirot, “and what did you give your good master for déjeuner that day?”
“I—” Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
“Odd,” said Poirot, “how one remembers some things—and forgets others.”
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.
“Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes—two people. One is le bon Dieu—”
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
“And the other is Hercule Poirot.”
“I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night—”
“True,” said Poirot—“by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning.”
“Monsieur is mistaken,” said Marie stolidly.
Poirot rose to his feet.
“Then the law must take its course,” he murmured, “A pity.”
“What do you mean, Monsieur?” asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
“You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed.”
“Murder!”
The man’s face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling pin and began to weep.
“But it is impossible—impossible. I thought—”
“Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish.”
He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him.
“Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. I—I had no idea that it was anything of this kind. I—I thought it was just a matter concerning a lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies before. But murder—that is very different.”
“I have no patience with you,” cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hipolyte’s face. “Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your lookout. For the last time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa Marina—Tuesday morning or Wednesday morning?”
“Wednesday,” gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.
“You are wise, my children,” he said quietly.