“No.”
“Are you crazy, M. Poirot, or am I?”
“Neither of us is crazy,” said the detective. “You ask me a question; I answer it. You say have I not shown you the jewels day? I reply – no. What I showed you, an Aldin, was a first-class imitation, to be distinguished except by an expert from the real ones.”
Chapter 24. Poirot Gives Advice
It took the millionaire some few minutes to take the thing in. He stared at Poirot as though dumbfounded. The little Belgian nodded at him gently.
“Yes,” he said, “it alters the position, does it not?”
“Imitation!”
He leaned forward.
“All along, M. Poirot, you have had this idea? All along this is what you have been driving at? You never believed that the Comte de la Roche was the murderer?”
“I have had doubts,” said Poirot quietly. “I said as much to you. Robbery with violence and murder” – he shook his head energetically – “no, it is difficult to picture. It does not harmonize with the personality of the Comte de la Roche.”
“But you believe that he meant to steal the rubies?”
“Certainly. There is no doubt as to that. See, I will recount to you the affair as I see it. The Comte knew of the rubies and he laid his plans accordingly. He made up a romantic story of a book he was writing, so as to induce your daughter to bring them with her. He provided himself with an exact duplicate. It is clear, is it not, that substitution is what he was after. Madame, your daughter, was not an expert on jewels. It would probably be a long time before she discovered what had occurred. When she did so – well – I do not think she would prosecute the Comte. Too much would come out. He would have in his possession various letters others. Oh yes, a very safe scheme from the Comte's point of view – one that he has probably carried out before.”
“It seems clear enough, yes,” said Van Aldin musingly.
“It accords with the personality of the Comte de la Roche,” said Poirot.
“Yes, but now – ” Van Aldin looked searchingly at the other. “What actually happened? Tell me that, M. Poirot.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“It is quite simple,” he said; “some one stepped in ahead of the Comte.”
There was a long pause.
Van Aldin seemed to be turning things over in his mind. When he spoke it was without beating about the bush.
“How long have you suspected my son-in-law, M. Poirot?”
“From the very first. He had the motive and the opportunity. Every one took for granted that the man in Madame's compartment in Paris was the Comte de la Roche. I thought so, too. Then you happened to mention that you had once mistaken the Comte for your son-in-law. That told me that they were of the same height and build, and alike in colouring. It put some curious ideas in my head. The maid had only been with your daughter a short time. It was unlikely that she would know Mr. Kettering well by sight, since he had not been living in Curzon Street; also the man was careful to keep his face turned away.”
“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 him – “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
“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 around. 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 ^ttly 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
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.”
