Mason turned to him. “I think it was you who gave them to her, sir, not very long ago.”
“My God!” cried Van Aldin. “You don’t say she had those rubies with her? I told her to leave them at the bank.”
Mason gave once more the discreet cough which was apparently part of her stock-in-trade as a lady’s maid. This time it expressed a good deal. It expressed far more clearly than words could have done, that Mason’s mistress had been a lady who took her own way.
“Ruth must have been mad,” muttered Van Aldin. “What on earth could have possessed her?”
M. Carrège in turn gave vent to a cough, again a cough of significance. It riveted Van Aldin’s attention on him.
“For the moment,” said M. Carrège, addressing Mason, “I think that is all. If you will go into the next room, Mademoiselle, they will read over to you the questions and answers, and you will sign accordingly.”
Mason went out escorted by the clerk, and Van Aldin said immediately to the Magistrate:
“Well?”
M. Carrège opened a drawer in his desk, took out a letter, and handed it across to Van Aldin.
“This was found in Madame’s handbag.”
“Chère Amie” (the letter ran)—“I will obey you; I will be prudent, discreet—all those things that a lover most hates. Paris would perhaps have been unwise, but the Isles d’Or are far away from the world, and you may be assured that nothing will leak out. It is like you and your divine sympathy to be so interested in the work on famous jewels that I am writing. It will, indeed, be an extraordinary privilege to actually see and handle these historic rubies. I am devoting a special passage to ‘Heart of Fire.’ My wonderful one! Soon I will make up to you for all those sad years of separation and emptiness.—Your ever-adoring,
XV
The Comte de la Roche
Van Aldin read the letter through in silence. His face turned a dull angry crimson. The men watching him saw the veins start out on his forehead, and his big hands clench themselves unconsciously. He handed back the letter without a word. M. Carrège was looking with close attention at his desk, M. Caux’s eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, and M. Hercule Poirot was tenderly brushing a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. With the greatest tact they none of them looked at Van Aldin.
It was M. Carrège, mindful of his status and his duties, who tackled the unpleasant subject.
“Perhaps, Monsieur,” he murmured, “you are aware by whom—er—this letter was written?”
“Yes, I know,” said Van Aldin heavily.
“Ah?” said the Magistrate inquiringly.
“A scoundrel who calls himself the Comte de la Roche.”
There was a pause; then M. Poirot leaned forward, straightened a ruler on the judge’s desk, and addressed the millionaire directly.
“M. Van Aldin, we are all sensible, deeply sensible, of the pain it must give you to speak of these matters, but believe me, Monsieur, it is not the time for concealments. If justice is to be done, we must know everything. If you will reflect a little minute you will realise the truth of that clearly for yourself.”
Van Aldin was silent for a moment or two, then almost reluctantly he nodded his head in agreement.
“You are quite right, M. Poirot,” he said. “Painful as it is, I have no right to keep anything back.”
The Commissary gave a sigh of relief, and the Examining Magistrate leaned back in his chair and adjusted a pince-nez on his long thin nose.
“Perhaps you will tell us in your own words, M. Van Aldin,” he said, “all that you know of this gentleman.”
“It began eleven or twelve years ago—in Paris. My daughter was a young girl then, full of foolish, romantic notions, like all young girls are. Unknown to me, she made the acquaintance of this Comte de la Roche. You have heard of him, perhaps?”
The Commissary and Poirot nodded in assent.
“He calls himself the Comte de la Roche,” continued Van Aldin, “but I doubt if he has any right to the title.”
“You would not have found his name in the Almanac de Gotha,” agreed the Commissary.
“I discovered as much,” said Van Aldin. “The man was a good-looking, plausible scoundrel, with a fatal fascination for women. Ruth was infatuated with him, but I soon put a stop to the whole affair. The man was no better than a common swindler.”
“You are quite right,” said the Commissary. “The Comte de la Roche is well known to us. If it were possible, we should have laid him by the heels before now, but ma foi! it is not easy; the fellow is cunning, his affairs are always conducted with ladies of high social position. If he obtains money from them under false pretences or as the fruit of blackmail, eh bien! naturally they will not prosecute. To look foolish in the eyes of the world, oh no, that would never do, and he has an extraordinary power over women.”
“That is so,” said the millionaire heavily. “Well, as I told you, I broke the affair up pretty sharply. I told Ruth exactly what he was, and she had, perforce, to believe me. About a year afterwards, she met her present husband and married him. As far as I knew, that was the end of the matter; but only a week ago, I discovered, to my amazement, that my daughter had resumed her acquaintance with the Comte de la Roche. She had been meeting him frequently in London and Paris. I remonstrated with her on her imprudence, for I may tell you gentlemen that, on my insistence, she was preparing to bring a suit for divorce against her husband.”
“That is interesting,” murmured Poirot softly, his eyes on the ceiling.
Van Aldin looked at him sharply, and then went on.
“I pointed out to her the folly of continuing to see the Comte under the circumstances. I thought she agreed with me.”
The Examining Magistrate coughed delicately.
“But according to
