The Mystery of the Blue Train

“And what of it? Do you attach importance to them?”

Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.

“What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully.”

They went back again into the first compartment, and in a minute or two the conductor of the carriage arrived to be questioned.

“Your name is Pierre Michel?” said the Commissary.

“Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“I should like you to repeat to this gentleman” – he indicated Poirot – “the story that you told me as to what happened in Paris.”

“Very good, Monsieur le Commissaire. It was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I came along to make the beds, thinking that Madame would be at dinner, but she had a dinner-basket in her compartment. She said to me that she had been obliged to leave her maid behind in Paris, so that I only need make up one berth. She took her dinnerbasket into the adjoining compartment, and sat there while I made up the bed; then she told me that she did not wish to be wakened early in the morning, that she liked to sleep on. I told her I quite understood, and she wished me 'goodnight'.”

“You yourself did not go into the adjoining compartment?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Then you did not happen to notice if a scarlet morocco case was amongst the luggage there?”

“No, Monsieur, I did not.”

“Would it have been possible for a man to have been concealed in the adjoining compartment?”

The conductor reflected.

“The door was half open,” he said. “If a man had stood behind that door I should not have been able to see him, but he would, of course, have been perfectly visible to Madame when she went in there.”

“Quite so,” said Poirot, “Is there anything more you have to tell us?”

“I think that is all, Monsieur. I can remember nothing else.”

“And now this morning?” prompted Poirot.

“As Madame had ordered, I did not disturb her. It was not until just before Cannes that I ventured to knock at the door. Getting no reply, I opened it. The lady appeared to be in her bed asleep. I took her by the shoulder to rouse her, and then-”

“And then you saw what had happened,” volunteered Poirot. “Tres bien. I think I now all I want to know.”

“I hope. Monsieur le Commissaire, it is not that I have been guilty of any negligence,” said the man piteously. “Such an affair to happen on the Blue Train! It is horrible.”

“Console yourself,” said the Commissary. “Everything will be done to keep the affair as quiet as possible, if only in the interests of justice. I cannot think you have been guilty of any negligence.”

“And Monsieur le Commissaire will report as much to the Company?”

“But certainly, but certainly,” said M. Caux impatiently. “That will do now.”

The conductor withdrew.

“According to the medical evidence,” said the Commissary, “the lady was probably dead before the train reached Lyons. Who then was the murderer? From Mademoiselle's story, it seems clear that somewhere on her journey she was to meet this man of whom she spoke. Her action in getting rid of the maid seems significant. Did the man join the train at Paris, and did she conceal him in the adjoining compartment? If so, they may have quarrelled, and he may have killed her in a fit of rage. That is one possibility. The other, and the more likely to my mind, is that her assailant was a train robber travelling on the train, that he stole along the corridor unseen by the conductor, killed her, and went off with the red morocco case which doubtless contained jewels of some value. In all probability he left the train at Lyons, and we have already telegraphed to the station there for full particulars of any one seen leaving the train.”

“Or he might have come on to Nice,” suggested Poirot.

“He might,” agreed the Commissary, “but that would be a very bold course.”

Poirot let a minute or two go by before speaking, and then he said:

“In the latter case you think the man was an ordinary train robber?”

The Commissary shrugged his shoulders.

“It depends. We must get hold of the maid. It is possible that she has the red morocco case with her. If so, then the man of whom she spoke to Mademoiselle may be concerned in the case, and the affair is a crime of passion. I myself think the solution of a train robber is the more probable. These bandits have become very bold of late.”

Poirot looked suddenly across to Katherine.

“And you. Mademoiselle,” he said, “you heard and saw nothing during the night?”

“Nothing,” said Katherine.

Poirot turned to the Commissary.

“We need detain Mademoiselle no longer, I think,” he suggested.

The latter nodded.

“She will leave us her address?” he said.

Katherine gave him the name of Lady Tamplin's villa. Poirot made her a little bow.

“You permit that I see you again, Mademoiselle?” he said. “Or have you so many friends that your time will be all taken up?”

“On the contrary,” said Katherine, “I shall have plenty of leisure, and I shall be very pleased to see you again.”

“Excellent,” said Poirot, and gave her a little friendly nod. “This shall be a 'roman policier' a nous. We will investigate this affair together.”

Chapter 12. At the Villa Marguerite

“Then you were really in the thick of it all!” said Lady Tamplin enviously. “My dear, how thrilling!” She opened her china blue eyes very wide and gave a little sigh.

“A real murder,” said Mr. Evans gloatingly.

“Of course Chubby had no idea of anything of the kind,” went on Lady Tamplin; “he simply could not imagine why the police wanted you. My dear, what an opportunity! I think, you know – yes, I certainly think something might be made out of this.”

A calculating look rather marred the ingenuousness of the blue eyes.

Katherine felt slightly uncomfortable. They were just finishing lunch, and she looked in turn at the three people sitting round the table. Lady Tamplin, full of practical schemes; Mr. Evans, beaming with naive appreciation, and Lenox with a queer crooked smile on her dark face.

“Marvellous luck,” murmured Chubby “I wish I could have gone along with you – and seen – all the exhibits.” His tone was wistful and childlike.

Katherine said nothing. The police had laid no injunctions of secrecy upon her, and it was clearly impossible to suppress the bare facts or try to keep them from her hostess. But she did rather wish it had been possible to do so.

“Yes,” said Lady Tamplin, coming suddenly out of her reverie, “I do think something might be done. A little account, you know, cleverly written up. An eyewitness, a feminine touch: 'How I chatted with the dead woman, little thinking-' that sort of thing, you know.”

“Rot!” said Lenox.

“You have no idea,” said Lady Tamplin in a soft, wistful voice, “what newspapers will pay for a little titbit! Written, of course, by some one of really unimpeachable social position. You would not like to do it yourself, I dare say, Katherine dear, but just givme the bare bones of it, and I will manage the whole thing for you. Mr. de Haviland is a special friend of mine. We have a littis understanding together. A most delightful man – not at all reporterish.