The Mystery of the Blue Train

standstill before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest extracted the small brown paper parcel and hurried into the post office. Two minutes later he was driving once more in the direction of Mentone. When the grey car arrived there, the Comte was drinking English five o'clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels.

Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once more at eleven o'clock. Hippolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed face.

“Ah! Monsieur le Comte has arrived. Monsieur le Comte did not telephone me, by any chance?”

The Comte shook his head.

“And yet at three o'clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte, to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco.”

“Really,” said the Comte; “and you went?”

“Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur le Comte. He had not been there.”

“Ah” said the Comte, “doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her afternoon marketing?”

“That is so, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Ah, well,” said the Comte, “it is of no importance. A mistake.”

He went upstairs, smiling to himself.

Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round. Everything seemed as usual. He opened various drawers and cupboards. Then he nodded to himself. Things had been replaced almost exactly as he had left them, but not quite. It was evident that a very thorough search had been made.

He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring. The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it. He nodded his head several times.

“They are excellent, our French police,” he murmured to himself – “excellent. Nothing escapes them.”

Chapter 20. Katherine Makes a Friend

On the following morning Katherine and Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa Marguerite. Something in the nature of a friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age. But for Lenox, Katherine would have found life at the Villa Marguerite quite intolerable. The Kettering case was the topic of the moment. Lady Tamplin frankly exploited her guest's connection with the affair for all it was worth. The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine could administer quite failed to pierce Lady Tamplin's self-esteem. Lenox adopted a detached attitude, seemingly amused at her mother's manoeuvres, and yet with a sympathetic understanding of Katherine's feelings. The situation was not helped by Chubby, whose naive delight was unquenchable, and who introduced Katherine to all and sundry as:

“This is Miss Grey. You know that Blue Train business? She was in it up to the ears! Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few hours before the murder! Bit of luck for her, eh?”

A few remarks of this kind had provoked Katherine that morning to an unusually tart rejoinder, and when they were alone together Lenox observed in her slow drawl:

“Not used to exploitation, are you? You have a lot to learn, Katherine.”

“I am sorry I lost my temper. I don't, as a rule.”

“It is about time you learnt to blow off steam. Chubby is only an ass; there is no harm in him. Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper with her until Kingdom come, and it won't make any impression. She will open large, sad blue eyes at you and not care a bit.”

Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:

“I am rather like Chubby. I delight in a good murder, and besides – well, knowing Derek makes a difference.”

Catherine nodded.

“So you lunched with him yesterday,” Pursued Lenox reflectively. “Do you like him, Katherine?”

Katherine considered for a minute or two.

“I don't know,” she said very slowly. “He is very attractive.”

“Yes, he is attractive.”

“What don't you like about him?”

Katherine did not reply to the question or at any rate not directly. “He spoke of his wife's death,” she said. “He said he would not pretend that it had been anything but a bit of most marvellous luck for him.”

“And that shocked you, I suppose,” said Lenox. She paused, and then added in rather a queer tone of voice: “He likes you, Katherine.”

“He gave me a very good lunch,” said Katherine, smiling.

Lenox refused to be side-tracked.

“I saw it the night he came here,” she said thoughtfully. “The way he looked at you; and you are not his usual type – just the opposite. Well, I suppose it is like religion – you get it at a certain age.”

“Mademoiselle is wanted at the telephone,” said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon. “M. Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her.”

“More blood and thunder. Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective.”

M. Hercule Poirot's voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine's ear.

“That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks? Bon. Mademoiselle, I have a word for you from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or at his hotel, whichever you prefer.”

Katherine reflected for a moment, but she decided that for Van Aldin to come to the Villa Marguerite would be both painful and unnecessary. Lady Tamplin would have hailed his advent with far too much delight. She never lost a chance of cultivating millionaires. She told Poirot that she would much rather come to Nice.

“Excellent, Mademoiselle. I will call for you myself in an auto. Shall we say in about three-quarters of an hour?”

Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared. Katherine was waiting for him, and they drove off at once.

“Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?”

She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was conflrmed in her first impression that there wss something very attractive about M. Hercule Poirot.

“This is our own roman policier, is it,” said Poirot. “I made you the promise that we should study it together. And me I always keep my promises.”

“You are too kind,” murmured Katherine.

“Ah, you mock yourself at me; but do you want to hear the developments of the case or do you not?”

Katherine admitted that she did, and Poirot proceeded to sketch for her a thumbnail portrait of the Comte de la Roche.

“You think he killed her,” said Katherine thoughtfully.

“That is the theory,” said Poirot guardedly.

“Do you yourself believe that?”

“I did not say so. And you, Mademoiselle, what do you think?”

Katherine shook her head.

“How should I know? I don't know anything about those things, but I should say that-”

“Yes,” said Poirot encouragingly.

“Well – from what you say the Count does not sound the kind of man who would actually kill anybody.”

“Ah! Very good,” cried Poirot, “you agree with me, that is just what I have said.” He looked at her sharply. “But tell me, you have met Mr. Derek Kettering?”

“I met him at Lady Tamplin's, and I lunched with him yesterday.”

“A mauvais sujet,” said Poirot, shaking his head; “but les femmes – they like that, eh?”

He twinkled at Katherine and she laughed.

“He is the kind of man one would notice anywhere,” continued Poirot. “Doubtless you observed him on the