Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the I blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things – and yet – home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
“Hello, Katherine,” said Lenox. “I say – what is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her handbag.
“You looked rather queer,” said Lenox. “I say – I hope you don't mind – I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me.”
“Did you want to see him then?” asked Katherine.
“Yes,” said Lenox. “I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's.”
“All right,” said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint.
“I have ordered the car,” said Lenox, “and I have told Mother some lie or other – unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot.”
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughLer; yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, md Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting 3n the terrace sipping their coffee she sudienly attacked Poirot bluntly.
“How are things going? You know what I mean?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “They take their course,” he said.
“And you are just letting them take their course?”
He looked at Lenox a little sadly.
“You are young. Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried –
“Nonsense!” said Lenox. “You are not old.”
“Ah, it is pretty what you say there.”
“Here is Major Knighton,” said Lenox.
Katherine looked round quickly and then turned back again.
“He is with Mr. Van Aldin,” continued Lenox. “There is something I want to ask Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute.”
Left alone together, Poirot bent forward and murmured to Katherine:
“You are
“Just as far as England, no farther.”
Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the letter she had received that morning and handed it across to him to read.
“That is the first word that has come to me from my old life; somehow or other – it hurts.”
He read it through and then handed it back to her.
“So you are going back to St. Mary Mead?” he said slowly.
“No, I am not,” said Katherine; “why should I?”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “it is my mistake. You, will excuse me one little minute.”
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside.
“M. Van Aldin looks ill,” he said.
“Do you wonder?” asked Knighton. “The scandal of Derek Kettering's arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth.”
“He should go back to England,” said Poirot.
“We are going the day after tomorrow.”
“That is good news,” said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting.
“I wish,” he murmured, “that you could tell Miss Grey that.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you – I mean that M. Van Aldin is returning to England.”
Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he readily crossed the terrace and joined Katherine.
Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of the head, and then joined Lenox and the American. After a minute or two they joined the others. Conversation was general for a few minutes, then the millionaire and his secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to take his departure.
“A thousand thanks for your hospitality, Mesdemoiselles,” he cried; “it has been a I most charming luncheon.
He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her underlip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth had a suspicious twitch.
“And I shall do it,” he said gravely. “Oh yes, I shall succeed.”
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's voice made him turn.
“M. Poirot, I – I want to tell you. I think you were right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately.”
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
“I see,” he said gravely.
“I don't believe you do,” said Katherine.
“I know more than you think. Mademoiselle,” he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes.
Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. Chancing to look out of the window, Hipolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to ie hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hippolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he called
“It is not the police again?” said Marie anxiously.
“Look for yourself,” said Hippolyte.
Marie looked.
“Certainly not the police,” she declared. “I am glad.”
“They have not really worried us much,” said Hippolyte. “In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte's warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wine-shop to be what he was.”
The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door.
