The Mystery of the Blue Train

assistant can lift his eyes to his master's daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they must occasionally talk of things that interest them both – such as that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous' possession. And since, as you say. Mademoiselle, the young are foolish and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards when it is gone – when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas! the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The priceless heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions.”

Zia turned on him fiercely.

“You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it – was it Antonio?”

Poirot shook his head.

“No one told me,” he said quietly. “I guessed. It was a good guess, was it not, I Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”

The girl walked along beside him for some ninutes in silence. Then she said in a hard roice:

“Well, what are you going to do about it, are you going to tell my father?”

“No,” said Poirot sharply. “Certainly not.”

She looked at him curiously.

“You want something from me?”

“I want your help. Mademoiselle.”

“What makes you think that I can help you?”

“I do not think so. I only hope so.”

“And if I do not help you, then – you will tell my father?”

“But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea. Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it.”

“If I refuse to help you-” began the girl slowly.

“Then you refuse, and that is that.”

“Then why-” she stopped.

“Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them, they will do it. I was generous once to you. Mademoiselle. When I might have spoken, I held my tongue.”

There was another silence; then the girl said, “My father gave you a hint the other day.”

“It was very kind of him.”

“I do not think,” said Zia slowly, “that there is anything that I can add to that.”

If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it. Not a muscle of his face changed.

“Eh bien!” he said cheerfully, “then we must talk of other things.”

And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was distraite, however, and her answers were mechanical and not always to the point. It was when they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a decision.

“M. Poirot?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle?”

“I – I should like to help you if I could.”

“You are very amiable. Mademoiselle – very amiable.”

Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content to wait and let her take her own time.

“Ah bah,” said Zia, “after all, why should I not tell you? My father is cautious – very cautious in everything he says. But I know that with you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you. You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was.”

“The Marquis?” murmured Poirot softly.

“Yes, the Marquis.”

“Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?”

“Once,” said the girl. “But not very well,” she added. “It was through a keyhole.”

“That always presents difficulties,” said Poirot sympathetically, “but all the same you saw him. You would know him again?”

Zia shook her head.

“He wore a mask,” she explained.

“Young or old?”

“He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, I and so was his voice.”

“His voice?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Ah, his voice! Would you know it again Mademoiselle Zia?”

“I might,” said the girl.

“You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole.”

Zia nodded.

“Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much – he is not the ordinary thief – he is more like a figure of history or romance.”

“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “yes; perhaps so.”

“But it is not this that I meant to tell you,” said Zia. “It was just one other little fact that I thought might be – well – useful to you.”

“Yes?” said Poirot encouragingly.

“The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I did not see the person who handed them over, but-”

“Yes?”

“I know one thing. It was a woman.”

Chapter 29. A Letter from Home

Dear Katherine, Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen- headed than I suppose.

Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is – all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Anne was no good – skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist – a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman. Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St. Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there – there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if things should go ill with you – and that is always possible, I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to