“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 of 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
