“No?”
“When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: ‘Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost. You must ask no questions.’ Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I said these things?”
“I have no idea,” said the girl coldly.
“It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious.”
“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” cried Zia angrily.
“Do you not, Mademoiselle? Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?” He heard the quick intake of her breath—almost a gasp.
“He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he have got hold of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his eyes to his master’s daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they must occasionally talk of things that interest them both—such as that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous’ possession. And since, as you say, Mademoiselle, the young are foolish and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards when it is gone—when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas! the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions.”
Zia turned on him fiercely.
“You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it—was it Antonio?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No one told me,” he said quietly. “I guessed. It was a good guess, was it not, Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”
The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence. Then she said in a hard voice:
“Well, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to tell my father?”
“No,” said Poirot sharply. “Certainly not.”
She looked at him curiously.
“You want something from me?”
“I want your help, Mademoiselle.”
“What makes you think that I can help you?”
“I do not think so. I only hope so.”
“And if I do not help you, then—you will tell my father?”
“But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it.”
“If I refuse to help you—” began the girl slowly.
“Then you refuse, and that is that.”
“Then why—” she stopped.
“Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them, they will do it. I was generous once to you, Mademoiselle. When I might have spoken, I held my tongue.”
There was another silence; then the girl said, “My father gave you a hint the other day.”
“It was very kind of him.”
“I do not think,” said Zia slowly, “that there is anything that I can add to that.”
If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it. Not a muscle of his face changed.
“Eh bien!” he said cheerfully, “then we must talk of other things.”
And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was distraite, however, and her answers were mechanical and not always to the point. It was when they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a decision.
“M. Poirot?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle?”
“I—I should like to help you if I could.”
“You are very amiable, Mademoiselle—very amiable.”
Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content to wait and let her take her own time.
“Ah bah,” said Zia, “after all, why should I not tell you? My father is cautious—always cautious in everything he says. But I know that with you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you. You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was.”
“The Marquis?” murmured Poirot softly.
“Yes, the Marquis.”
“Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?”
“Once,” said the girl. “But not very well,” she added. “It was through a keyhole.”
“That always presents difficulties,” said Poirot sympathetically, “but all the same you saw him. You would know him again?”
Zia shook her head.
“He wore a mask,” she explained.
“Young or old?”
“He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his voice.”
“His voice?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Ah, his voice! Would you know it again, Mademoiselle Zia?”
“I might,” said the girl.
“You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole.”
Zia nodded.
“Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much—he is not the ordinary thief—he is more like a figure of history or romance.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully; “yes, perhaps so.”
“But it is not this that I meant to tell you,” said Zia. “It was just one other little fact that I thought might be—well—useful to you.”
“Yes?” said Poirot encouragingly.
“The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I did not see the person who handed them over, but—”
“Yes?”
“I know one thing. It was a woman.”
XXIX
A Letter from Home
Dear Katherine—Living among grand friends as you are doing
