“You believe he—murdered her?” said Van Aldin hoarsely.
Poirot raised a hand quickly.
“No, no, I did not say that—but it is a possibility—a very strong possibility. He was in a tight corner, a very tight corner, threatened with ruin. This was the one way out.”
“But why take the jewels?”
“To make the crime appear an ordinary one committed by train robbers. Otherwise suspicion might have fallen on him straight away.”
“If that is so, what has he done with the rubies?”
“That remains to be seen. There are several possibilities. There is a man in Nice who may be able to help, the man I pointed out at the tennis.”
He rose to his feet and Van Aldin rose also and laid his hand on the little man’s shoulder. His voice when he spoke was harsh with emotion.
“Find Ruth’s murderer for me,” he said, “that is all I ask.”
Poirot drew himself up.
“Leave it in the hands of Hercule Poirot,” he said superbly; “have no fears. I will discover the truth.”
He brushed a speck of fluff from his hat, smiled reassuringly at the millionaire, and left the room. Nevertheless, as he went down the stairs some of the confidence faded from his face.
“It is all very well,” he murmured to himself, “but there are difficulties. Yes, there are great difficulties.” As he was passing out of the hotel he came to a sudden halt. A car had drawn up in front of the door. In it was Katherine Grey, and Derek Kettering was standing beside it talking to her earnestly. A minute or two later the car drove off and Derek remained standing on the pavement looking after it. The expression on his face was an odd one. He gave a sudden impatient gesture of the shoulders, sighed deeply, and turned to find Hercule Poirot standing at his elbow. In spite of himself he started. The two men looked at each other. Poirot steadily and unwaveringly and Derek with a kind of lighthearted defiance. There was a sneer behind the easy mockery of his tone when he spoke, raising his eyebrows slightly as he did so.
“Rather a dear, isn’t she?” he asked easily.
His manner was perfectly natural.
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “that describes Mademoiselle Katherine very well. It is very English, that phrase there, and Mademoiselle Katherine, she also is very English.”
Derek remained perfectly still without answering.
“And yet she is sympathique, is it not so?”
“Yes,” said Derek; “there are not many like her.”
He spoke softly, almost as though to himself. Poirot nodded significantly. Then he leant towards the other and spoke in a different tone, a quiet, grave tone that was new to Derek Kettering.
“You will pardon an old man, Monsieur, if he says to you something that you may consider impertinent. There is one of your English proverbs that I would quote to you. It says that ‘it is well to be off with the old love, before being on with the new.’ ”
Kettering turned on him angrily.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“You enrage yourself at me,” said Poirot placidly. “I expected as much. As to what I mean—I mean, Monsieur, that there is a second car with a lady in it. If you turn your head you will see her.”
Derek spun round. His face darkened with anger.
“Mirelle, damn her!” he muttered. “I will soon—”
Poirot arrested the movement he was about to make.
“Is it wise what you are about to do there?” he asked warningly. His eyes shone softly with a green light in them. But Derek was past noticing the warning signs. In his anger he was completely off his guard.
“I have broken with her utterly, and she knows it,” cried Derek angrily.
“You have broken with her, yes, but has she broken with you?”
Derek gave a sudden harsh laugh.
“She won’t break with two million pounds if she can help it,” he murmured brutally; “trust Mirelle for that.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“You have the outlook cynical,” he murmured.
“Have I?” There was no mirth in his sudden wide smile. “I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all women are pretty much alike.” His face softened suddenly. “All save one.”
He met Poirot’s gaze defiantly. A look of alertness crept into his eyes, then faded again. “That one,” he said, and jerked his head in the direction of Cap Martin.
“Ah!” said Poirot.
This quiescence was well calculated to provoke the impetuous temperament of the other.
“I know what you are going to say,” said Derek rapidly, “the kind of life I have led, the fact that I am not worthy of her. You will say that I have no right to think even of such a thing. You will say that it is not a case of giving a dog a bad name—I know that it is not decent to be speaking like this with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered at that.”
He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage of the pause to remark in his plaintive tone:
“But, indeed, I have not said anything at all.”
“But you will.”
“Eh?” said Poirot.
“You will say that I have no earthly chance of marrying Katherine.”
“No,” said Poirot, “I would not say that. Your reputation is bad, yes, but with women—never does that deter them. If you were a man of excellent character, of strict morality who had done nothing that he should not do, and—possibly everything that he should do—eh bien! then I should have grave doubts of your success. Moral worth, you understand, it is not romantic. It is appreciated, however, by widows.”
Derek Kettering stared at him, then he swung round on his heel and went up to the waiting car.
Poirot looked after him with some interest.
