The Mystery of the Blue Train

your wife just before the train got into Lyons that night. And I know more than that. I know that when you came out of her compartment she was dead.”

He stared at her. Then, like a man in a dream he turned very slowly and went out of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.

Chapter 26. A Warning

“And so it is,” said Poirot, “that we are the good friends and have no secrets from each other.”

Katherine turned her head to look at him. There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of seriousness, which she had not heard before.

They were sitting in the gardens of Monte Carlo. Katherine had come over with her friends, and they had run into Knighton and Poirot almost immediately on arrival. Lady Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most of which Katherine had a faint suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin with her hand on the Young man's arm. Knighton had thrown a couple of glances back over his shoulder, and Poirot's eyes twinkled a little as he saw them.

“Of course we are friends,” said Katherine.

“From the beginning we have been sympathetic to each other,” mused Poirot.

“When you told me that a roman policier occurs in real life.”

“And I was right, was I not?' he challenged her, with an emphatic forefinger. 'Here we are, plunged in the middle of one. That is natural for me – it is my metier – but for you it is different. Yes,' he added in a reflective tone, 'for you it is different.”

She looked sharply at him. It was as though he were warning her, pointing out to her some menace that she had not seen.

“Why do you say that I am in the middle of it? It is true that I had that conversation with Mrs Kettering just before she died, but now – now all that is over. I am not connected with the case any more.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, can we ever say, 'I have finished with this or that'?”

Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.

“What is it?' she asked. “You are trying to tell me something – to convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out.”

Poirot looked at her sadly. “Ah, mais c'est anglais ca,” he murmured, “everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined. But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are the things that are not yet, but which cast their shadow before.”

He dabbed his brow with a very large silk pocket-handkerchief and murmured:

“Ah, but it is that I become poetical. Let us, as you say, speak only of facts. And, speaking of facts, tell me what you think of Major Knighton.”

“I like him very much indeed,' said Katherine warmly; 'he is quite delightful.”

Poirot sighed.

“What is the matter?” asked Katherine.

“You reply so heartily,' said Poirot. “If you had said in an indifferent voice, 'Oh, quite nice,' eh bien, do you know I should have been better pleased.”

Katharine did not answer. She felt slightly uncomfortable. Poirot went on dreamily:

“And yet, who knows? With les femmes, they have so many ways of concealing what they feel – and heartiness is perhaps as good a way as any other.”

He sighed.

“I don't see-” began Katherine.

He interrupted her.

“You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am an old man and now and then – not very often – I come across some one whose welfare is dear to me. We are friends. Mademoiselle. You have said so yourself. And it is just this – I should like to see you happy.”

Katherine stared very straight in front of her. She had a cretonne sunshade with her, and with its point she traced little designs in the gravel at her feet.

“I have asked you a question about Major Knighton, now I will ask you another. Do you like Mr. Derek Kettering?”

“I hardly know him,” said Katherine.

“That is not an answer, that.”

“I think it is.”

He looked at her, struck by something in her tone. Then he nodded his head gravely and slowly.

“Perhaps you are right. Mademoiselle. See you, I who speak to you have seen much of the world, and I know that there are two things which are true. A good man may be ruined by his love for a bad woman – but the other way holds good also. A bad man may equally be ruined by his love for a good woman.”

Katherine looked up sharply.

“When you say ruined-”

“I mean from his point of view. One must be wholehearted in crime as in everything else.”

“You are trying to warn me,” said Katherine in a low voice. “Against whom?”

“I cannot look into your heart. Mademoiselle; I do not think you would let me if I could. I will just say this. There are men who have a strange fascination for women.”

“The Comte de la Roche,” said Katherine, with a smile.

“There are others – more dangerous than the Comte de la Roche. They have qualities that appeal – recklessness, daring, audacity. You are fascinated. Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more than that. I hope so. This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels is genuine enough, but all me same-”

“Yes?”

He got up and stood looking down at her. Then he spoke in a low, distinct voice:

“You could, perhaps, love a thief. Mademoiselle, but not a murderer.”

He wheeled sharply away on that and left her sitting there.

He heard the little gasp she gave and paid no attention. He had said what he meant to say. He left her there to digest that last unmistakable phrase.

Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino into the sunshine, saw her sitting alone on the bench and joined her.

“I have been gambling,” he said, with a light laugh, “gambling unsuccessfully. I have lost everything – everything, that is, that I have with me.”

Katherine looked at him with a troubled face. She was aware at once of something new in his manner, some hidden excitement that betrayed itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.

“I should think you were always a gambler. The spirit of gambling appeals to you.”

“Every day and in every way a gambler? You are about right. Don't you find something stimulating in it? To risk all on one throw – there is nothing like it.”

Calm and stolid as she believed herself to be, Katherine felt a faint answering thrill.

“I want to talk to you,” went on Derek, “and who knows when I may have another opportunity? There is an idea going about iat I murdered my wife – no, please don't iterrupt. It is absurd, of course.” He mused for a minute or two, then went on, speaking more deliberately. “In dealing with the police and Local Authorities here I have had to pretend to – well – a certain decency. I prefer not to pretend with you. I meant to marry money. I was on the look out for money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin. She had the look of a slim Madonna about her, and I – well – I made all sorts of good resolutions – and was bitterly disillusioned. My wife was in love with another man when she married me. She never cared for me in the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the thing was a perfectly respectable bargain. She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money. The trouble arose simply through Ruth's American blood. Without caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually dancing attendance. Time and again she as good as told me that she had bought me and that I belonged to her. The result was that I behaved abominably to her. My father-in-law will tell you that, and he is quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I was faced with absolute