The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [86]
“No,” said Poirot gently; “no—somehow I do not think it is coloured glass.”
Thirty-two
KATHERINE AND POIROT
COMPARE NOTES
“You have changed, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot suddenly. He and Katherine were seated opposite each other at a small table at the Savoy.
“Yes, you have changed,” he continued.
“In what way?”
“Mademoiselle, these nuances are difficult to express.”
“I am older.”
“Yes, you are older. And by that I do not mean that the wrinkles and the crows’ feet are coming. When I first saw you, Mademoiselle, you were a looker-on at life. You had the quiet, amused look of one who sits back in the stalls and watches the play.”
“And now?”
“Now you no longer watch. It is an absurd thing, perhaps, that I say here, but you have the wary look of a fighter who is playing a difficult game.”
“My old lady is difficult sometimes,” said Katherine, with a smile; “but I can assure you that I don’t engage in deadly contests with her. You must go down and see her some day, Monsieur Poirot. I think you are one of the people who would appreciate her pluck and her spirit.”
There was a silence while the waiter deftly served them with chicken en casserole. When he had departed, Poirot said: “You have heard me speak of my friend Hastings?—he who said that I was a human oyster. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, I have met my match in you. You, far more than I, play a lone hand.”
“Nonsense,” said Katherine lightly.
“Never does Hercule Poirot talk nonsense. It is as I say.”
Again there was a silence. Poirot broke it by inquiring:
“Have you seen any of our Riviera friends since you have been back, Mademoiselle?”
“I have seen something of Major Knighton.”
“A-ha. Is that so?”
Something in Poirot’s twinkling eyes made Katherine lower hers.
“So Mr. Van Aldin remains in London?”
“Yes.”
“I must try to see him tomorrow or the next day.”
“You have news for him?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I—wondered, that is all.”
Poirot looked across at her with twinkling eyes.
“And now, Mademoiselle, there is much that you wish to ask me, I can see that. And why not? Is not the affair of the Blue Train our own ‘roman policier?’ ”
“Yes, there are things I should like to ask you.”
“Eh bien?”
Katherine looked up with a sudden air of resolution.
“What were you doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot smiled slightly.
“I made a call at the Russian Embassy.”
“Oh.”
“I see that that tells you nothing. But I will not be a human oyster. No, I will lay my cards on the table, which is assuredly a thing that oysters never do. You suspect, do you not, that I am not satisfied with the case against Derek Kettering?”
“That is what I have been wondering. I thought, in Nice, that you had finished with the case.”
“You do not say all that you mean, Mademoiselle. But I admit everything. It was I—my researches—which placed Derek Kettering where he now is. But for me the Examining Magistrate would still be vainly trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de la Roche. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, what I have done I do not regret. I have only one duty—to discover the truth, and that way led straight to Mr. Kettering. But did it end there? The police say yes, but I, Hercule Poirot, am not satisfied.”
He broke off suddenly. “Tell me, Mademoiselle, have you heard from Mademoiselle Lenox lately?”
“One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I think, annoyed with me for coming back to England.”
Poirot nodded.
“I had an interview with her the night that Monsieur Kettering was arrested. It was an interesting interview in more ways than one.”
Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not interrupt his train of thought. “Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I am now on delicate ground, yet I will say this to you. There is, I think, someone who loves Monsieur Kettering—correct me if I am wrong—and for her sake—well—for her sake I hope that I am right and the police are wrong. You know who that someone is?”
There was a pause, then Katherine said:
“Yes—I think I know.”