The Mystery of the Blue Train (7 page)

She hoped that she would not be given the same place at dinner. She reflected, not without humour, that it might be awkward for both of them. Leaning back with her head against a cushion she felt tired and vaguely depressed. They had reached Paris, and the slow journey round the
ceinture,
with its interminable stops and waits, was very wearisome. When they arrived at the Gare de Lyon she was glad to get out and walk up and down the platform. The keen cold air was refreshing after the steam-heated train. She observed with a smile that her friend of the mink coat was solving the possible awkwardness of the dinner problem in her own way. A dinner basket was being handed up and received through the window by the maid.

When the train started once more, and dinner was announced by a violent ringing of bells, Katherine went along to it much relieved in mind. Her
vis-à-vis
tonight was of an entirely different kind—a small man, distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly waxed moustache and an egg-shaped head which he carried rather on one side. Katherine had taken in a book to dinner with her. She found the little man's eyes fixed upon it with a kind of twinkling amusement.

“I see, Madame, that you have a
roman policier.
You are fond of such things?”

“They amuse me,” Katherine admitted.

The little man nodded with the air of complete understanding.

“They have a good sale always, so I am told. Now why is that, eh, Mademoiselle? I ask you as a student of human nature—why should that be?”

Katherine felt more and more amused.

“Perhaps they give one the illusion of living an exciting life,” she suggested.

He nodded gravely.

“Yes; there is something in that.”

“Of course, one knows that such things don't really happen,” Katherine was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.

“Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I who speak to you—they have happened to
me.
”

She threw him a quick, interested glance.

“Some day, who knows,
you
might be in the thick of things,” he went on. “It is all chance.”

“I don't think it is likely,” said Katherine. “Nothing of that kind ever happens to me.”

He leaned forward.

“Would you like it to?”

The question startled her, and she drew in her breath sharply.

“It is my fancy, perhaps,” said the little man, as he dexterously polished one of the forks, “but I think that you have a yearning in you for interesting happenings.
Eh bien,
Mademoiselle, all through my life I have observed one thing—‘All one wants one gets!' Who knows?” His face screwed itself up comically. “You may get more than you bargain for.”

“Is that a prophecy?” asked Katherine, smiling as she rose from the table.

The little man shook his head.

“I never prophesy,” he declared pompously. “It is true that I have the habit of being always right—but I do not boast of it. Goodnight, Mademoiselle and may you sleep well.”

Katherine went back along the train amused and entertained by her little neighbour. She passed the open door of her friend's compartment and saw the conductor making up the bed. The lady in the mink coat was standing looking out of the window. The second compartment, as Katherine saw through the communicating door, was empty, with rugs and bags heaped up on the seat. The maid was not there.

Katherine found her own bed prepared, and since she was tired, she went to bed and switched off her light about half past nine.

She woke with a sudden start; how much time had passed she did not know. Glancing at her watch, she found that it had stopped. A feeling of intense uneasiness pervaded her and grew stronger moment by moment. At last she got up, threw her dressing-gown round her shoulders, and stepped out into the corridor. The whole train seemed wrapped in slumber. Katherine let the window down and sat by it for some minutes, drinking in the cool night air and trying vainly to calm her uneasy fears. She presently decided that she would go along to the end and ask the conductor for the right time so that she could set her watch. She found, however, that his little chair was vacant. She hesitated for a moment and then walked through into the next coach. She looked down the long, dim line of the corridor and saw, to her surprise, that a man was standing with his hand on the door of the compartment occupied by the lady in the mink coat. That is to say, she thought it was the compartment. Probably, however, she was mistaken. He stood there for a moment or two with his back to her, seeming uncertain and hesitating in his attitude. Then he slowly turned, and with an odd feeling of fatality, Katherine recognized him as the same man whom she had noticed twice before—once in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel and once in Cook's offices. Then he opened the door of the compartment and passed in, drawing it to behind him.

An idea flashed across Katherine's mind. Could this be the man of whom the other woman had spoken—the man she was journeying to meet?

Then Katherine told herself that she was romancing. In all probability she had mistaken the compartment.

She went back to her own carriage. Five minutes later the train slackened speed. There was the long plaintive hiss of the Westinghouse brake, and a few minutes later the train came to a stop at Lyons.

Eleven

M
URDER

K
atherine wakened the next morning to brilliant sunshine. She went along to breakfast early, but met none of her acquaintances of the day before. When she returned to her compartment it had just been restored to its daytime appearance by the conductor, a dark man with a drooping moustache and melancholy face.

“Madame is fortunate,” he said; “the sun shines. It is always a great disappointment to passengers when they arrive on a grey morning.”

“I should have been disappointed, certainly,” said Katherine.

The man prepared to depart.

“We are rather late, Madame,” he said. “I will let you know just before we get to Nice.”

Katherine nodded. She sat by the window, entranced by the sunlit panorama. The palm trees, the deep blue of the sea, the bright yellow mimosa came with all the charm of novelty to the woman who for fourteen years had known only the drab winters of England.

When they arrived at Cannes, Katherine got out and walked up and down the platform. She was curious about the lady in the mink coat, and looked up at the windows of her compartment. The blinds were still drawn down—the only ones to be so on the whole train. Katherine wondered a little, and when she reentered the train she passed along the corridor and noticed that these two compartments were still shuttered and closed. The lady of the mink coat was clearly no early riser.

Presently the conductor came to her and told her that in a few minutes the train would arrive at Nice. Katherine handed him a tip; the man thanked her, but still lingered. There was something odd about him. Katherine, who had at first wondered whether the tip had not been big enough, was now convinced that something far more serious was amiss. His face was of a sickly pallor, he was shaking all over, and looked as if he had been frightened out of his life. He was eyeing her in a curious manner. Presently he said abruptly: “Madame will excuse me, but is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice?”

“Probably,” said Katherine. “Why?”

But the man merely shook his head and murmured something that Katherine could not catch and moved away, not reappearing until the train came to rest at the station, when he started handing her belongings down from the window.

Katherine stood for a moment or two on the platform rather at a loss, but a fair young man with an ingenuous face came up to her and said rather hesitatingly:

“Miss Grey, is it not?”

Katherine said that it was, and the young man beamed upon her seraphically and murmured: “I am Chubby, you know—Lady Tamplin's husband. I expect she mentioned me, but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your
billet de bagages?
I lost mine when I came out this year, and you would not believe the fuss they made about it. Regular French red tape!”

Katherine produced it, and was just about to move off beside him when a very gentle and insidious voice murmured in her ear:

“A little moment, Madame, if you please.”

Katherine turned to behold an individual who made up for insignificance of stature by a large quantity of gold lace and uniform. The individual explained. “There were certain formalities. Madame would perhaps be so kind as to accompany him. The regulations of the police—” he threw up his arms. “Absurd, doubtless, but there it was.”

Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very imperfect comprehension, his French being of a limited order.

“So like the French,” murmured Mr. Evans. He was one of those staunch patriotic Britons who, having made a portion of a foreign country their own, strongly resent the original inhabitants of it. “Always up to some silly dodge or other. They've never tackled people on the station before, though. This is something quite new. I suppose you'll have to go.”

Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat to her surprise, he led her towards a siding where a coach of the departed train had been shunted. He invited her to mount into this, and, preceding her down the corridor, held aside the door of one of the compartments. In it was a pompous-looking official personage, and with him a nondescript being who appeared to be a clerk. The pompous-looking personage rose politely, bowed to Katherine, and said:

“You will excuse me, Madame, but there are certain formalities to be complied with. Madame speaks French, I trust?”

“Sufficiently, I think, Monsieur,” replied Katherine in that language.

“That is good. Pray be seated, Madame. I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police.” He blew out his chest importantly, and Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.

“You wish to see my passport?” she inquired. “Here it is.”

The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave a little grunt.

“Thank you, Madame,” he said, taking the passport from her. He cleared his throat. “But what I really desire is a little information.”

“Information?”

The Commissary nodded his head slowly.

“About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger of yours. You lunched with her yesterday.”

“I am afraid I can't tell you anything about her. We fell into conversation over our meal, but she is a complete stranger to me. I have never seen her before.”

“And yet,” said the Commissary sharply, “you returned to her compartment with her after lunch and sat talking for some time?”

“Yes,” said Katherine; “that is true.”

The Commissary seemed to expect her to say something more. He looked at her encouragingly.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Well, Monsieur?” said Katherine.

“You can, perhaps, give me some kind of idea of that conversation?”

“I could,” said Katherine, “but at the moment I see no reason to do so.”

In a somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed. This foreign official seemed to her impertinent.

“No reason?” cried the Commissary. “Oh yes, Madame, I can assure you that there
is
a reason.”

“Then perhaps you will give it to me.”

The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a minute or two without speaking.

“Madame,” he said at last, “the reason is very simple. The lady in question was found dead in her compartment this morning.”

“Dead!” gasped Katherine. “What was it—heart failure?”

“No,” said the Commissary in a reflective, dreamy voice. “No—she was murdered.”

“Murdered!” cried Katherine.

“So you see, Madame, why we are anxious for any information we can possibly get.”

“But surely her maid—”

“The maid has disappeared.”

“Oh!” Katherine paused to assemble her thoughts.

“Since the conductor had seen you talking with her in her compartment, he quite naturally reported the fact to the police, and that is why, Madame, we have detained you, in the hope of gaining some information.”

“I am very sorry,” said Katherine; “I don't even know her name.”

“Her name is Kettering. That we know from her passport and from the labels on her luggage. If we—”

There was a knock on the compartment door. M. Caux frowned. He opened it about six inches.

“What is the matter?” he said peremptorily. “I cannot be disturbed.”

The egg-shaped head of Katherine's dinner acquaintance showed itself in the aperture. On his face was a beaming smile.

“My name,” he said, “is Hercule Poirot.”

“Not,” the Commissary stammered, “not
the
Hercule Poirot?”

“The same,” said M. Poirot. “I remember meeting you once, M. Caux, at the
Sûreté
in Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten me?”

“Not at all, Monsieur, not at all,” declared the Commissary heartily. “But enter, I pray you. You know of this—?”

“Yes, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “I came to see if I might be of any assistance?”

“We should be flattered,” replied the Commissary promptly. “Let me present you, M. Poirot, to”—he consulted the passport he still held in his hand—“to Madame—er—Mademoiselle Grey.”

Poirot smiled across at Katherine.

“It is strange, is it not,” he murmured, “that my words should have come true so quickly?”

“Mademoiselle, alas! can tell us very little,” said the Commissary.

“I have been explaining,” said Katherine, “that this poor lady was a complete stranger to me.”

Poirot nodded.

“But she talked to you, did she not?” he said gently. “You formed an impression—is it not so?”

“Yes,” said Katherine thoughtfully. “I suppose I did.”

“And that impression was—?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle”—the Commissary jerked himself forward—“let us by all means have your impressions.”

Katherine sat turning the whole thing over in her mind. She felt in a way as if she were betraying a confidence, but with that ugly word “Murder” ringing in her ears she dared not keep anything back. Too much might hang upon it. So, as nearly as she could, she repeated word for word the conversation she had had with the dead woman.

“That is interesting,” said the Commissary, glancing at the other. “Eh, M. Poirot, that is interesting? Whether it has anything to do with the crime—” He left the sentence unfinished.

“I suppose it could not be suicide,” said Katherine, rather doubtfully.

“No,” said the Commissary, “it could not be suicide. She was strangled with a length of black cord.”

“Oh!” Katherine shivered. M. Caux spread out his hands apologetically. “It is not nice—no. I think that our train robbers are more brutal than they are in your country.”

“It is horrible.”

“Yes, yes”—he was soothing and apologetic—“but you have great courage, Mademoiselle. At once, as soon as I saw you, I said to myself, ‘Mademoiselle has great courage.' That is why I am going to ask you to do something more—something distressing, but I assure you very necessary.”

Katherine looked at him apprehensively.

He spread out his hands apologetically.

“I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to be so good as to accompany me to the next compartment.”

“Must I?” asked Katherine in a low voice.

“Someone must identify her,” said the Commissary, “and since the maid has disappeared”—he coughed significantly—“you appear to be the person who has seen most of her since she joined the train.”

“Very well,” said Katherine quietly; “if it is necessary—”

She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of approval.

“Mademoiselle is sensible,” he said. “May I accompany you, M. Caux?”

“Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot.”

They went out into the corridor, and M. Caux unlocked the door of the dead woman's compartment. The blinds on the far side had been drawn halfway up to admit light. The dead woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have thought her asleep. The bedclothes were drawn up over her, and her head was turned to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand on her shoulder and turned the body back so that the face came into view. Katherine flinched a little and dug her nails into her palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the features almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.

“When was that done, I wonder?” he demanded. “Before death or after?”

“The doctor says after,” said M. Caux.

“Strange,” said Poirot, drawing his brows together. He turned to Katherine. “Be brave, Mademoiselle; look at her well. Are you sure that this is the woman you talked to in the train yesterday?”

Katherine had good nerves. She steeled herself to look long and earnestly at the recumbent figure. Then she leaned forward and took up the dead woman's hand.

“I am quite sure,” she replied at length. “The face is too disfigured to recognize, but the build and carriage and hair are exact, and besides I noticed
this
”—she pointed to a tiny mole on the dead woman's wrist—“while I was talking to her.”

“
Bon,
” approved Poirot. “You are an excellent witness, Mademoiselle. There is, then, no question as to the identity, but it is strange, all the same.” He frowned down on the dead woman in perplexity.

M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.

“The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless,” he suggested.

“If she had been struck down, it would have been comprehensible,” mused Poirot, “but the man who strangled her slipped up behind and caught her unawares. A little choke—a little gurgle—that is all that would be heard, and then afterwards—that smashing blow on her face. Now why? Did he hope that if the face were unrecognizable she might not be identified? Or did he hate her so much that he could not resist striking that blow even after she was dead?”

Katherine shuddered, and he turned at once to her kindly.

“You must not let me distress you, Mademoiselle,” he said. “To you this is all very new and terrible. To me, alas! it is an old story. One moment, I pray of you both.”

They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the compartment. He noted the dead woman's clothes neatly folded on the end of the berth, the big fur coat that hung from a hook, and the little red lacquer hat tossed on the rack. Then he passed through into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been made up. Three or four rugs were piled loosely on the seat; there was a hatbox and a couple of suitcases. He turned suddenly to Katherine.

“You were in here yesterday,” he said. “Do you see anything changed, anything missing?”

Katherine looked carefully round both compartments.

“Yes,” she said, “there is something missing—a scarlet morocco case. It had the initials ‘R.V.K.' on it. It might have been a small dressing case or a big jewel case. When I saw it, the maid was holding it.”