“Perhaps,” said Poirot.
“I hope you see what I am leading up to?” said Van Aldin. “It seems to me that the case against this Comte de la Roche is perfectly clear, but I am not a fool. I have been watching you for this last hour or so, and I realise that for some reason of your own you don’t agree with that theory?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I may be wrong.”
“So we come to the favour I want to ask you. Will you act in this matter for me?”
“For you, personally?”
“That was my meaning.”
Poirot was silent for a moment or two. Then he said:
“You realise what you are asking?”
“I guess so,” said Van Aldin.
“Very well,” said Poirot. “I accept. But in that case, I must have frank answers to my questions.”
“Why, certainly. That is understood.”
Poirot’s manner changed. He became suddenly brusque and businesslike.
“This question of a divorce,” he said. “It was you who advised your daughter to bring the suit?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About ten days ago. I had had a letter from her complaining of her husband’s behaviour, and I put it to her very strongly that divorce was the only remedy.”
“In what way did she complain of his behaviour?”
“He was being seen about with a very notorious lady—the one we have been speaking of—Mirelle.”
“The dancer. Ah-ha! And Madame Kettering objected? Was she very devoted to her husband?”
“I would not say that,” said Van Aldin, hesitating a little.
“It was not her heart that suffered, it was her pride—is that what you would say?”
“Yes, I suppose you might put it like that.”
“I gather that the marriage has not been a happy one from the beginning?”
“Derek Kettering is rotten to the core,” said Van Aldin. “He is incapable of making any woman happy.”
“He is, as you say in England, a bad lot. That is right, is it not?”
Van Aldin nodded.
“Très bien! You advise Madame to seek a divorce, she agrees; you consult your solicitors. When does M. Kettering get news of what is in the wind?”
“I sent for him myself, and explained the course of action I proposed to take.”
“And what did he say?” murmured Poirot softly.
Van Aldin’s face darkened at the remembrance.
“He was infernally impudent.”
“Excuse the question, Monsieur, but did he refer to the Comte de la Roche?”
“Not by name,” growled the other unwillingly, “but he showed himself cognizant of the affair.”
“What, if I may ask, was M. Kettering’s financial position at the time?”
“How do you suppose I should know that?” asked Van Aldin, after a very brief hesitation.
“It seemed likely to me that you would inform yourself on that point.”
“Well—you are quite right, I did. I discovered that Kettering was on the rocks.”
“And now he has inherited two million pounds! La vie—it is a strange thing, is it not?”
Van Aldin looked at him sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“I moralise,” said Poirot, “I reflect, I speak the philosophy. But to return to where we were. Surely M. Kettering did not propose to allow himself to be divorced without making a fight for it?”
Van Aldin did not answer for a minute or two, then he said:
“I don’t exactly know what his intentions were.”
“Did you hold any further communications with him?”
Again a slight pause, then Van Aldin said:
“No.”
Poirot stopped dead, took off his hat, and held out his hand.
“I must wish you good day, Monsieur. I can do nothing for you.”
“What are you getting at?” demanded Van Aldin angrily.
“If you do not tell me the truth, I can do nothing.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. You may rest assured, M. Van Aldin, that I know how to be discreet.”
“Very well, then,” said the millionaire. “I’ll admit that I was not speaking the truth just now. I did have further communication with my son-in-law.”
“Yes?”
“To be exact, I sent my secretary, Major Knighton, to see him, with instructions to offer him the sum of one hundred thousand pounds in cash if the divorce went through undefended.”
“A pretty sum of money,” said Poirot appreciatively; “and the answer of Monsieur your son-in-law?”
“He sent back word that I could go to hell,” replied the millionaire succinctly.
“Ah!” said Poirot.
He betrayed no emotion of any kind. At the moment he was engaged in methodically recording facts.
“Monsieur Kettering has told the police that he neither saw nor spoke to his wife on the journey from England. Are you inclined to believe that statement, Monsieur?”
“Yes, I am,” said Van Aldin. “He would take particular pains to keep out of her way, I should say.”
“Why?”
“Because he had got that woman with him.”
“Mirelle?”
“Yes.”
“How did you come to know that fact?”
“A man of mine, whom I had put on to watch him, reported to me that they both left by that train.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “In that case, as you said before, he would not be likely to attempt to hold any communication with Madame Kettering.”
The little man fell silent for some time. Van Aldin did not interrupt his meditation.
XVII
An Aristocratic Gentleman
“You have been to the Riviera before, Georges?” said Poirot to his valet the following morning.
George was an intensely English, rather wooden-faced individual.
“Yes, sir. I was here two years ago when I was in the service of Lord Edward Frampton.”
“And today,” murmured his master, “you are here with Hercule Poirot. How one mounts in the world!”
The valet made no reply to this observation. After a suitable pause he asked:
“The brown lounge suit, sir? The wind is somewhat chilly today.”
“There is a grease spot on the waistcoat,” objected Poirot. “A morceau of Filet de sole à la Jeanette alighted there when I was lunching at the Ritz last Tuesday.”
“There is no spot there now, sir,” said George reproachfully. “I have removed it.”
“Très bien!” said Poirot. “I am pleased with you, Georges.”
“Thank you, sir.”
There was a pause, and then Poirot murmured dreamily:
“Supposing, my good Georges, that you had been born in the same social sphere as your late master, Lord Edward Frampton—that, penniless yourself, you had married an extremely wealthy wife, but
