“And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?” continued Van Aldin eagerly.
“No,” said Poirot.
A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin’s face.
“But why? What more do you want?”
“The Comte’s alibi is still unshaken.”
“But that is nonsense.”
“Yes,” said Poirot; “I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately we have to prove it so.”
“In the meantime he will slip through your fingers.”
Poirot shook his head very energetically.
“No,” he said, “he will not do that. The one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice is his social position. At all costs he must stop and brazen it out.”
Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.
“But I don’t see—”
Poirot raised a hand. “Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of Hercule Poirot—and they have been wrong.”
“Well,” said Van Aldin, “go ahead. What is this little idea?”
Poirot paused for a moment and then he said:
“I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Until then, say nothing to anyone.”
XXII
M. Papopolous Breakfasts
M. Papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia.
There was a knock at the sitting-room door, and a chasseur entered with a card which he brought to M. Papopolous. The latter scrutinised it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.
“Ah!” said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully, “Hercule Poirot. I wonder now.”
Father and daughter looked at each other.
“I saw him yesterday at the tennis,” said M. Papopolous. “Zia, I hardly like this.”
“He was very useful to you once,” his daughter reminded him.
“That is true,” acknowledged M. Papopolous; “also he has retired from active work, so I hear.”
These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own language. Now M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French:
“Faîtes monter ce monsieur.”
A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a cane with a jaunty air, entered the room.
“My dear M. Papopolous.”
“My dear M. Poirot.”
“And Mademoiselle Zia.” Poirot swept her a low bow.
“You will excuse us going on with our breakfast,” said M. Papopolous, pouring himself out another cup of coffee. “Your call is—ahem!—a little early.”
“It is scandalous,” said Poirot, “but you see, I am pressed.”
“Ah!” murmured M. Papopolous, “you are on an affair then?”
“A very serious affair,” said Poirot; “the death of Madame Kettering.”
“Let me see,” M. Papopolous looked innocently up at the ceiling, “that was the lady who died on the Blue Train, was it not? I saw a mention of it in the papers, but there was no suggestion of foul play.”
“In the interests of justice,” said Poirot, “it was thought best to suppress that fact.”
There was a pause.
“And in what way can I assist you, M. Poirot?” asked the dealer politely.
“Voilà,” said Poirot, “I shall come to the point.” He took from his pocket the same box that he had displayed at Cannes, and, opening it, he took out the rubies and pushed them across the table to Papopolous.
Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old man’s face moved. He took up the jewels and examined them with a kind of detached interest, then he looked across at the detective inquiringly:
“Superb, are they not?” asked Poirot.
“Quite excellent,” said M. Papopolous.
“How much should you say they are worth?”
The Greek’s face quivered a little.
“Is it really necessary to tell you, M. Poirot?” he asked.
“You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it is not. They are not, for instance, worth five hundred thousand dollars.”
Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined with him.
“As an imitation,” said Papopolous, handing them back to Poirot, “they are, as I said, quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to ask, M. Poirot, where you came across them?”
“Not at all,” said Poirot; “I have no objection to telling an old friend like yourself. They were in the possession of the Comte de la Roche.”
M. Papopolous’ eyebrows lifted themselves eloquently.
“In‑deed,” he murmured.
Poirot leaned forward and assumed his most innocent and beguiling air.
“M. Papopolous,” he said, “I am going to lay my cards upon the table. The original of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering on the Blue Train. Now I will say to you first this: I am not concerned with the recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of the police. I am working not for the police but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands on the man who killed Madame Kettering. I am interested in the jewels only in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?”
The last two words were uttered with great significance. M. Papopolous, his face quite unmoved, said quietly:
“Go on.”
“It seems to me probable, Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands in Nice—may already have done so.”
“Ah!” said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and patriarchal than usual.
“I say to myself,” continued Poirot, with animation, “what good fortune! My old friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will aid me.”
“And how do you think I can aid you?” inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
“I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous is in Nice on business.”
“Not at all,” said M. Papopolous, “I am here for my health—by the doctor’s orders.”
He coughed hollowly.
“I am desolated to hear it,” replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere sympathy. “But to continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family jewels—to whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it not? He who is famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges these things.”
The other bowed.
“You flatter me.”
“It is a great thing, discretion,” mused Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting smile which passed across the Greek’s face. “I, too, can be discreet.”
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly, and obviously picking his words with care.
“I say to myself, this: if these jewels have changed hands in Nice, M. Papopolous would have heard of it. He has knowledge of all that passes in the
