The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie [88]
There was a break in her voice.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
“Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not fail now; the end is very near.”
Thirty-three
A NEW THEORY
“Monsieur Poirot wants to see you, sir.”
“Damn the fellow!” said Van Aldin.
Knighton remained sympathetically silent.
Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced up and down.
“I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers this morning?”
“I have glanced at them, sir.”
“Still at it hammer and tongs?”
“I am afraid so, sir.”
The millionaire sat down again and pressed his hand to his forehead.
“If I had had an idea of this,” he groaned. “I wish to God I had never got that little Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth’s murderer—that was all I thought about.”
“You wouldn’t have liked your son-in-law to go scot free?”
Van Aldin sighed.
“I would have preferred to take the law into my own hands.”
“I don’t think that would have been a very wise proceeding, sir.”
“All the same—are you sure the fellow wants to see me?”
“Yes, Mr. Van Aldin. He is very urgent about it.”
“Then I suppose he will have to. He can come along this morning if he likes.”
It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot who was ushered in. He did not seem to see any lack of cordiality in the millionaire’s manner, and chatted pleasantly about various trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name of an eminent surgeon.
“No, no, pas la guerre—a memory of my days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally apache.”
He touched his left shoulder and winced realistically.
“I always consider you a lucky man, Monsieur Van Aldin; you are not like our popular idea of American millionaires, martyrs to dyspepsia.”
“I am pretty tough,” said Van Aldin. “I lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare and not too much of it.”
“You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?” inquired Poirot, innocently turning to the secretary.
“I—yes; once or twice,” said Knighton.
He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed in surprise:
“Funny you never mentioned to me that you had seen her, Knighton.”
“I didn’t think you would be interested, sir.”
“I like that girl very much,” said Van Aldin.
“It is a thousand pities that she should have buried herself once more in St. Mary Mead,” said Poirot.
“It is very fine of her,” said Knighton hotly. “There are very few people who would bury themselves down there to look after a cantankerous old woman who has no earthly claim on her.”
“I am silent,” said Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little; “but all the same I say it is a pity. And now, Messieurs, let us come to business.”
Both the other men looked at him in some surprise.
“You must not be shocked or alarmed at what I am about to say. Supposing, Monsieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur Derek Kettering did not murder his wife?”
“What?”
Both men stared at him in blank surprise.
“Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Kettering did not murder his wife?”
“Are you mad, Monsieur Poirot?”
It was Van Aldin who spoke.
“No,” said Poirot, “I am not mad. I am eccentric, perhaps—at least certain people say so; but as regards my profession, I am very much, as one says, ‘all there.’ I ask you, Monsieur Van Aldin, whether you would be glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the case?”
Van Aldin stared at him.
“Naturally I should be glad,” he said at last. “Is this an exercise in suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts behind it?”
Poirot looked at the ceiling.
“There is an off chance,” he said quietly, “that it might be the Comte de la Roche after all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting his alibi.”
“How did you manage that?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.
“I have my own methods. The exercise of a little tact, a little cleverness—and the thing is done.”
“But the rubies,” said Van Aldin, “these rubies that the Count had in his possession were false.”
“And clearly he would not have committed the crime except for the rubies. But you are overlooking one point, Monsieur Van