“Yes, yes,” said Van Aldin. “Of course. Naturally. And she told you that Ruth had gone on to the Riviera and had sent her to the Ritz to await further orders there?”
“Exactly that, sir.”
“It is very odd,” said Van Aldin. “Very odd, indeed, unless the woman had been impertinent or something of that kind.”
“In that case,” objected Knighton, “surely Mrs. Kettering would have paid her down a sum of money, and told her to go back to England. She would hardly have sent her to the Ritz.”
“No,” muttered the millionaire; “that’s true.”
He was about to say something further, but checked himself. He was fond of Knighton and liked and trusted him, but he could hardly discuss his daughter’s private affairs with his secretary. He had already felt hurt by Ruth’s lack of frankness, and this chance information which had come to him did nothing to allay his misgivings.
Why had Ruth got rid of her maid in Paris? What possible object or motive could she have had in so doing?
He reflected for a moment or two on the curious combination of chance. How should it have occurred to Ruth, except as the wildest coincidence, that the first person that the maid should run across in Paris should be her father’s secretary? Ah, but that was the way things happened. That was the way things got found out.
He winced at the last phrase; it had arisen with complete naturalness to his mind. Was there then “something to be found out”? He hated to put this question to himself; he had no doubt of the answer. The answer was—he was sure of it—Armand de la Roche.
It was bitter to Van Aldin that a daughter of his should be gulled by such a man, yet he was forced to admit that she was in good company—that other well-bred and intelligent women had succumbed just as easily to the Count’s fascination. Men saw through him, women did not.
He sought now for a phrase that would allay any suspicion that his secretary might have felt.
“Ruth is always changing her mind about things at a moment’s notice,” he remarked, and then he added in a would-be careless tone: “The maid didn’t give any—er—reason for this change of plan?”
Knighton was careful to make his voice as natural as possible as he replied:
“She said, sir, that Mrs. Kettering had met a friend unexpectedly.”
“Is that so?”
The secretary’s practised ears caught the note of strain underlying the seemingly casual tone.
“Oh, I see. Man or woman?”
“I think she said a man, sir.”
Van Aldin nodded. His worst fears were being realised. He rose from his chair, and began pacing up and down the room, a habit of his when agitated. Unable to contain his feelings any longer, he burst forth:
“There is one thing no man can do, and that is to get a woman to listen to reason. Somehow or other, they don’t seem to have any kind of sense. Talk of woman’s instinct—why, it is well known all the world over that a woman is the surest mark for any rascally swindler. Not one in ten of them knows a scoundrel when she meets one; they can be preyed on by any good-looking fellow with a soft side to his tongue. If I had my way—”
He was interrupted. A pageboy entered with a telegram. Van Aldin tore it open, and his face went a sudden chalky white. He caught hold of the back of a chair to steady himself, and waved the pageboy from the room.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
Knighton had risen in concern.
“Ruth!” said Van Aldin hoarsely.
“Mrs. Kettering?”
“Killed!”
“An accident to the train?”
Van Aldin shook his head.
“No. From this it seems she has been robbed as well. They don’t use the word, Knighton, but my poor girl has been murdered.”
“Oh, my God, sir!”
Van Aldin tapped the telegram with his forefinger.
“This is from the police at Nice. I must go out there by the first train.”
Knighton was efficient as ever. He glanced at the clock.
“Five o’clock from Victoria, sir.”
“That’s right. You will come with me, Knighton. Tell my man, Archer, and pack your own things. See to everything here. I want to go round to Curzon Street.”
The telephone rang sharply, and the secretary lifted the receiver.
“Yes; who is it?”
Then to Van Aldin:
“Mr. Goby, sir.”
“Goby? I can’t see him now. No—wait, we have plenty of time. Tell them to send him up.”
Van Aldin was a strong man. Already he had recovered that iron calm of his. Few people would have noticed anything amiss in his greeting to Mr. Goby.
“I am pressed for time, Goby. Got anything important to tell me?”
Mr. Goby coughed.
“The movements of Mr. Kettering, sir. You wished them reported to you.”
“Yes—well?”
“Mr. Kettering, sir, left London for the Riviera yesterday morning.”
“What?”
Something in his voice must have startled Mr. Goby. That worthy gentleman departed from his usual practice of never looking at the person to whom he was talking, and stole a fleeting glance at the millionaire.
“What train did he go on?” demanded Van Aldin.
“The Blue Train, sir.”
Mr. Goby coughed again and spoke to the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer from the Parthenon, went by the same train.”
XIV
Ada Mason’s Story
“I cannot repeat to you often enough, Monsieur, our horror, our consternation, and the deep sympathy we feel for you.”
Thus M. Carrège, the Juge d’Instruction, addressed Van Aldin. M. Caux, the Commissary, made sympathetic noises in his throat. Van Aldin brushed away horror, consternation, and sympathy with an abrupt gesture. The scene was the Examining Magistrate’s room at Nice. Besides M. Carrège, the Commissary, and Van Aldin, there was a further person in the room. It was that person who now spoke.
“M. Van Aldin,” he said, “desires action—swift action.”
“Ah!” cried the Commissary, “I have not yet presented you. M. Van Aldin, this is M. Hercule Poirot; you
