is assuredly a thing that oysters do not do. You suspect, do you not, that I am not satisfied with the case against Derek Kettering?”
“That is what I have been wondering. I thought, in Nice, that you had finished with the case.”
“You do not say all that you mean. Mademoiselle. But I admit everything. It was I – my researches – which placed Derek Kettering where he is now. But for me the Examining Magistrate would still be vainly trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de la Roche.
He broke off suddenly. “Tell me. Mademoiselle, have you heard from Mademoiselle Lenox lately?”
“One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I think, annoyed with me for coming back to England.”
Poirot nodded.
“I had an interview with her the night that Monsieur Kettering was arrested. It was an interesting interview in more ways than one.”
Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not interrupt his train of thought.
“Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I am now on delicate ground, yet I will say this to you. There is, I think, some one who loves Monsieur Kettering – correct me if I am wrong – and for her sake – well – for her sake I hope that I am right and the police are wrong. You know who that some one is?”
There was a pause, then Katherine said:
“Yes – I think I know.”
Poirot leant across the table towards her.
“I am not satisfied. Mademoiselle; no, I am not satisfied. The facts, the main facts, led straight to Monsieur Kettering. But there is one thing that has been left out of account.”
“And what is that?”
“The disfigured face of the victim. I have asked myself. Mademoiselle, a hundred times, 'Was Derek Kettering the kind of man who would deal that smashing blow after having committed murder? What end would it serve? What purpose would it accomplish?' Was it a likely action for one of Monsieur Kettering's temperament? And, Mademoiselle, the answer to these questions is profoundly unsatisfactory. Again and again I go back to that one point – why? And the only things I have to help me to a solution of the problem are these.”
He whipped out his pocket-book and extracted something from it which he held between his finger and thumb.
“Do you remember. Mademoiselle? You saw me take these hairs from the rug in the railway carriage.”
Katherine leant forward, scrutinizing the hairs keenly.
Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.
“They suggest nothing to you, I see that, Mademoiselle. And yet – I think somehow that you see a good deal.”
“I have had ideas,” said Katherine slowly, “curious ideas. That is why I ask you what you were doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot.”
“When I wrote to you-”
“From the Ritz?”
A curious smile came over Poirot's face.
“Yes, as you say, from the Ritz. I am a luxurious person sometimes – when a millionaire pays.”
“The Russian Embassy,” said Katherine, frowning. “No, I don't see where that comes in.”
“It does not come in directly. Mademoiselle. I went there to get certain information. I saw a particular personage and I threatened him – yes. Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him.”
“With the police?”
“No,” said Poirot drily, “with the Press – a much more deadly weapon.”
He looked at Katherine and she smiled at him, just shaking her head.
“Are you not just turning back into an oyster again. Monsieur Poirot?”
“No, no; I do not wish to make mysteries. See, I will tell you everything. I suspect this man of being the active party in the sale of the jewels of Monsieur Van Aldin. I tax him with it, and in the end I get the whole story out of him. I learn where the jewels were handed over, and I learn, too, of the man who paced up and down outside in the street – a man with a venerable head of white hair, but who walked with the light, springy step of a young man – and I give that man a name in my own mind – the name of 'Monsieur le Marquis.'”
“And now you have come to London to see Mr. Van Aldin?”
“Not entirely for that reason. I had other work to do. Since I have been in London I have seen two more people – a theatrical agent and a Harley Street doctor. From each of them I have got certain information. Put these things together. Mademoiselle, and see if you can make of them the same as I do.”
“I?”
“Yes, you. I will tell you one thing. Mademoiselle. There has been a doubt all along in my mind as to whether the robbery and the murder were done by the same person. For a long time I was not sure-”
“And now?”
“And now I
There was a silence. Then Katherine lifted her head. Her eyes were shining.
“I am not clever like you. Monsieur Poirot. Half the things that you have been telling me don't seem to me to point anywhere at all. The ideas that came to me came from such an entirely different angle-”
“Ah, but that is always so,” said Poirot quietly. “A mirror shows the truth, but every one stands in a different place for looking into the mirror.”
“My ideas may be absurd – they may be entirely different from yours, but-”
“Yes?”
“Tell me, does this help you at all?”
He took a newspaper cutting from her outstretched hand. He read it and, looking up, he nodded gravely.
“As I told you. Mademoiselle, one stands at a different angle for looking into the mirror, but it is the same mirror and the same things are reflected there.”
Katherine got up. “I must rush,” she said. “I have only just time to catch my train. Monsieur Poirot-”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“It – it mustn't be much longer, you understand. I – I can't go on much longer.”
There was a break in her voice.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
“Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not fail now; the end is very near.”
Chapter 33. A New Theory
“Monsieur Poirot wants to see you, sir.”
“Damn the fellow!” said Van Aldin.
Knighton remained sympathetically silent.
Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced up and down.
“I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers this morning?”
“I have glanced at them, sir.”
“Still at it hammer and tongs?”
“I am afraid so, sir.”
The millionaire sat down again and pressed his hand to his forehead.
“If I had had an idea of this,” he groaned. “I wish to God I had never got that little Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth's murderer – that was all I thought about.”
“You wouldn't have liked your son-in-law to go scot free?”
Van Aldin sighed.
“I would have preferred to take the law into my own hands.”
“I don't think that would have been a very wise proceeding, sir.”
