Katherine looked at Derek. His face had gone rather white, but perhaps that was her fancy. His laugh, when it came, was natural enough.
“You made a mistake, Miss Grey,” he said easily. “From what the police have told me, I gather that my own compartment was only a door or two away from that of my wife’s—though I never suspected the fact at the time. You must have seen me going into my own compartment.” He got up quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.
“I’m going to leave you now,” he announced. “I can’t stand my father-in-law at any price.”
Van Aldin greeted Katherine very courteously, but was clearly in a bad humour.
“You seem fond of watching tennis, M. Poirot,” he growled.
“It is a pleasure to me, yes,” replied Poirot placidly.
“It is as well you are in France,” said Van Aldin. “We are made of sterner stuff in the States. Business comes before pleasure there.”
Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he smiled gently and confidingly at the irate millionaire.
“Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you. Everyone his own methods. Me, I have always found it a delightful and pleasing idea to combine business and pleasure together.”
He glanced at the other two. They were deep in conversation, absorbed in each other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction, and then leant towards the millionaire, lowering his voice as he did so.
“It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M. Van Aldin. Observe just opposite us that tall old man—the one with the yellow face and the venerable beard.”
“Well, what of him?”
“That,” Poirot said, “is M. Papopolous.”
“A Greek, eh?”
“As you say—a Greek. He is a dealer in antiques of worldwide reputation. He has a small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by the police of being something more.”
“What?”
“A receiver of stolen goods, especially jewels. There is nothing as to the re-cutting and resetting of gems that he does not know. He deals with the highest in Europe and with the lowest of the riffraff of the underworld.”
Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly awakened attention.
“Well?” he demanded, a new note in his voice.
“I ask myself,” said Poirot, “I, Hercule Poirot”—he thumped himself dramatically on the chest—“ask myself why is M. Papopolous suddenly come to Nice?”
Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment he had doubted Poirot and suspected the little man of being past his job, a poseur only. Now, in a moment, he switched back to his original opinion. He looked straight at the little detective.
“I must apologise to you, M. Poirot.”
Poirot waved the apology aside with an extravagant gesture.
“Bah!” he cried, “all that is of no importance. Now listen, M. Van Aldin; I have news for you.”
The millionaire looked sharply at him, all his interest aroused.
Poirot nodded.
“It is as I say. You will be interested. As you know, M. Van Aldin, the Comte de la Roche has been under surveillance ever since his interview with the Juge d’Instruction. The day after that, during his absence, the Villa Marina was searched by the police.”
“Well,” said Van Aldin, “did they find anything? I bet they didn’t.”
Poirot made him a little bow.
“Your acumen is not at fault, M. Van Aldin. They found nothing of an incriminating nature. It was not to be expected that they would. The Comte de la Roche, as your expressive idiom has it, was not born on the preceding day. He is an astute gentleman with great experience.”
“Well, go on,” growled Van Aldin.
“It may be, of course, that the Comte had nothing of a compromising nature to conceal. But we must not neglect the possibility. If, then, he has something to conceal, where is it? Not in his house—the police searched thoroughly. Not on his person, for he knows that he is liable to arrest at any minute. There remains—his car. As I say, he was under surveillance. He was followed on that day to Monte Carlo. From there he went by road to Mentone, driving himself. His car is a very powerful one, it outdistanced his pursuers, and for about a quarter of an hour they completely lost sight of him.”
“And during that time you think he concealed something by the roadside?” asked Van Aldin, keenly interested.
“By the roadside, no. Ça n’est pas pratique. But listen now—me, I have made a little suggestion to M. Carrège. He is graciously pleased to approve of it. In each Bureau de Poste in the neighbourhood it has been seen to that there is someone who knows the Comte de la Roche by sight. Because, you see, Messieurs, the best way of hiding a thing is by sending it away by the post.”
“Well?” demanded Van Aldin; his face was keenly alight with interest and expectation.
“Well—voilà!” With a dramatic flourish Poirot drew out from his pocket a loosely wrapped brown paper package from which the string had been removed.
“During that quarter of an hour’s interval, our good gentleman mailed this.”
“The address?” asked the other sharply.
Poirot nodded his head.
“Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not. The package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a small commission.”
“Yes, but what is inside?” demanded Van Aldin impatiently.
Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box. He looked round him.
“It is a good moment,” he said quietly. “All eyes are on the tennis. Look, Monsieur!”
He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction of a second. An exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face turned as white as chalk.
“My God!” he breathed, “the rubies.”
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and beamed placidly. Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand so heartily that the little man winced with pain.
“This is great,” said Van Aldin. “Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for all, you are the goods.”
“It is nothing,” said
