The Mystery of the Blue Train

Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a haughty indifference of manner.

“In such matters I please myself. Monsieur,” she said.

That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men. They said nothing.

“When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?”

“As I tell you. Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife's compartment just before the train drew into Lyons. There was a look on his face – ah! at the moment I could not understand it – a look haunted and terrible. I shall never forget it.”

Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant gesture.

“Quite so,” said M. Carrege.

“Afterwards, when I found that Madame

Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons, then – then I knew!”

“And still – you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle,” said the Commissary mildly.

Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in the role she was playing.

“Shall I betray my lover?” she asked. “Ah no; do not ask a woman to do that.”

“Yet now-” hinted M. Caux.

“Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in silence…?”

The Examining Magistrate checked her.

“Quite so, quite so,” he murmured soothingly. “And now. Mademoiselle, perhaps you will read over the statement of what you have told us, see that it is correct, and sign it.”

Mirelle wasted no time on the document.

“Yes, yes,” she said, “it is correct.” She rose to her feet. “You require me no longer, Messieurs?”

“At present, no. Mademoiselle.”

“And Dereek will be arrested?”

“At once. Mademoiselle.”

Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.

“He should have thought of this before he insulted me,” she cried.

“There is one little matter” – Poirot coughed apologetically – “just a matter of detail.”

“Yes?”

“What makes you think Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons?”

Mirelle stared.

“But she was dead.”

“Was she?”

“Yes, of course. I-”

She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was regarding her intently, and he saw the wary look that came into her eyes.

“I have been told so. Everybody says so.”

“Oh,” said Poirot, “I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned outside the Examining Magistrate's office.”

Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.

“One hears those things,” she said vaguely; “they get about. Somebody told me. I can't remember who it was.”

She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang forward to open it for her, and as he did so, Poiro's voice rose gently once more.

“And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle. Can you tell me anything about those?”

“The jewels? What jewels?”

“The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since you hear so much, you must have heard of them.”

“I know nothing about any jewels,” said Mirelle sharply.

She went out, closing the door behind her.

M. Caux came back to his chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.

“What a fury!” he said, “but diablement chic, I wonder if she is telling the truth? I think so.”

“There is some truth in her story, certainly,” said Poirot. “We have confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor a short time before the train reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go into his wife's compartment.”

“The case against him seems quite clear,” said the Commissary, sighing; “it is a thousand pities,” he murmured.

“How do you mean?” asked Poirot.

“It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche by the heels. This time, ma foi, I thought we had got him. This other – it is not nearly so satisfactory.”

M. Carrege rubbed his nose.

“If anything goes wrong,” he observed cautiously, “it will be most awkward. M. Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get into the newspapers. If we have made a mistake-” He shrugged his shoulders forebodingly.

“The jewels now,” said the Commissary, “what do you think he has done with them?”

“He took them for a plant, of course,” said M. Carrege; “they must have been a great inconvenience to him and very awkward to dispose of.”

Poirot smiled.

“I have an idea of my own about the jewels. Tell me. Messieurs, what do you know of a man called the Marquis?”

The Commissary leant forward excitedly.

“The Marquis,” he said, “the Marquis? Do you think he is mixed up in this affair, M. Poirot?”

“I ask you what you know of him.”

The Commissary made an expressive grimace.

“Not as much as we should like to,” he observed ruefully. “He works behind the scenes, you understand. He has underlings who do his dirty work for him. But he is some one high up. That we are sure of. He does not come from the criminal classes.”

“A Frenchman?”

“Y-es. At least we believe so. But we are not sure. He has worked in France, in England, in America. There was a series of robberies in Switzerland last autumn which were laid at his door. By all accounts he is a grand seigneur, speaking French and English with equal perfection and his origin is a mystery.”

Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.

“Can you tell us nothing more, M. Poirot,” urged the Commissary.

“At present, no,” said Poirot, “but I may have news awaiting me at my hotel.”

M. Carrege looked uncomfortable. “If the Marquis is concerned in this-” he began, and then stopped.

“It upsets our ideas,” complained M. Caux.

“It does not upset mine,” said Poirot. “On the contrary, I think it agrees with them very well. Au revoir. Messieurs; if news of any importance comes to me I will communicate it to you immediately.”

He walked back to his hotel with a grave face. In his absence a telegram had come to him. Taking a paper- cutter from his pocket, he slit it open. It was a long telegram, and he read it over twice before slowly putting it in his pocket. Upstairs, George was awaiting his master.

“I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued. Will you order for me a small pot of chocolate?”

The chocolate was duly ordered and brought, and George set it at the little table at his master's elbow. As he was preparing to retire, Poirot spoke:

“I believe, Georges, that you have a good knowledge of the English aristocracy?” murmured Poirot.

George smiled apologetically.

“I think that I might say that I have, sir,” he replied.

“I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are invariably drawn from the lower orders.”

“Not always, sir. There was great trouble with one of the Duke of Devize's younger sons. He left Eton under a