Derek Kettering did not stop. He lifted his hat and passed straight on.
“Ça y est,” said M. Hercule Poirot, “it is time, I think, that I return chez moi.”
He found the imperturbable George pressing trousers.
“A pleasant day, Georges, somewhat fatiguing, but not without interest,” he said.
George received these remarks in his usual wooden fashion.
“Indeed, sir.”
“The personality of a criminal, Georges, is an interesting matter. Many murderers are men of great personal charm.”
“I always heard, sir, that Dr. Crippen was a pleasant-spoken gentleman. And yet he cut up his wife like so much mincemeat.”
“Your instances are always apt, Georges.”
The valet did not reply, and at that moment the telephone rang. Poirot took up the receiver.
“ ’Allo—’allo—yes, yes, it is Hercule Poirot who speaks.”
“This is Knighton. Will you hold the line a minute, M. Poirot? Mr. Van Aldin would like to speak to you.”
There was a moment’s pause, then the millionaire’s voice came through.
“Is that you, M. Poirot? I just wanted to tell you that Mason came to me now of her own accord. She has been thinking it over, and she says that she is almost certain that the man at Paris was Derek Kettering. There was something familiar about him at the time, she says, but at the minute she could not place it. She seems pretty certain now.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “thank you, M. Van Aldin. That advances us.”
He replaced the receiver, and stood for a minute or two with a very curious smile on his face. George had to speak to him twice before obtaining an answer.
“Eh?” said Poirot. “What is that that you say to me?”
“Are you lunching here, sir, or are you going out?”
“Neither,” said Poirot. “I shall go to bed and take a tisane. The expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it always causes me emotion.”
XXV
Defiance
As Derek Kettering passed the car, Mirelle leant out.
“Dereek—I must speak to you for a moment—”
But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight on without stopping.
When he got back to his hotel, the concierge detached himself from his wooden pen and accosted him.
“A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur.”
“Who is it?” asked Derek.
“He did not give his name, Monsieur, but he said his business with you was important, and that he would wait.”
“Where is he?”
“In the little salon, Monsieur. He preferred it to the lounge, he said, as being more private.”
Derek nodded, and turned his steps in that direction.
The small salon was empty except for the visitor, who rose and bowed with easy foreign grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had only seen the Comte de la Roche once, but found no difficulty in recognising that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned angrily. Of all the consummate impertinence!
“The Comte de la Roche, is it not?” he said. “I am afraid you have wasted your time in coming here.”
“I hope not,” said the Comte agreeably. His white teeth glittered.
The Comte’s charm of manner was usually wasted on his own sex. All men, without exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering was already conscious of a distinct longing to kick the Count bodily out of the room. It was only the realisation that scandal would be unfortunate just at present that restrained him. He marvelled anew that Ruth could have cared, as she certainly had, for this fellow. A bounder, and worse than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the Count’s exquisitely manicured hands.
“I called,” said the Comte, “on a little matter of business. It would be advisable, I think, for you to listen to me.”
Again Derek felt strongly tempted to kick him out, but again he refrained. The hint of a threat was not lost upon him, but he interpreted it in his own way. There were various reasons why it would be better to hear what the Comte had to say.
He sat down and drummed impatiently with his fingers on the table.
“Well,” he said sharply, “what is it?”
It was not the Comte’s way to come out into the open at once.
“Allow me, Monsieur, to offer you my condolences on your recent bereavement.”
“If I have any impertinence from you,” said Derek quietly, “you go out by that window.”
He nodded his head towards the window beside the Comte, and the latter moved uneasily.
“I will send my friends to you, Monsieur, if that is what you desire,” he said haughtily.
Derek laughed.
“A duel, eh? My dear Count, I don’t take you seriously enough for that. But I should take a good deal of pleasure in kicking you down the Promenade des Anglais.”
The Comte was not at all anxious to take offence. He merely raised his eyebrows and murmured:
“The English are barbarians.”
“Well,” said Derek, “what is it you have to say to me?”
“I will be frank,” said the Comte, “I will come immediately to the point. That will suit us both, will it not?”
Again he smiled in his agreeable fashion.
“Go on,” said Derek curtly.
The Comte looked at the ceiling, joined the tips of his fingers together, and murmured softly:
“You have come into a lot of money, Monsieur.”
“What the devil has that got to do with you?”
The Comte drew himself up.
“Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am suspected—accused—of foul crime.”
“The accusation does not come from me,” said Derek coldly; “as an interested party I have not expressed any opinion.”
“I am innocent,” said the Comte. “I swear before heaven”—he raised his hand to heaven—“that I am innocent.”
“M. Carrège is, I believe, the Juge d’Instruction in charge of the case,” hinted Derek politely.
The Comte took no notice.
“Not only am I unjustly suspected of a crime that I did not commit, but I am also in serious need of money.”
He coughed softly and suggestively.
Derek rose to his feet.
“I was waiting for that,” he said softly; “you blackmailing brute! I will not give you a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal that you can make can touch her now. She wrote you foolish letters, I dare say. If
