The Mystery of the Blue Train

“All the same – are you sure the fellow wants to see me?”

“Yes, Mr. Van Aldin. He is very urgent about it.”

“Then I suppose he will have to. He can come along this morning if he likes.”

It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot who was ushered in. He did not seem to see any lack of cordiality in the millionaire's manner, and chatted pleasantly about various trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name of an eminent surgeon.

“No, no, pas la guerre – a memory of my days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally Apache.”

He touched his left shoulder and winced realistically.

“I always consider you a lucky man. Monsieur Van Aldin, you are not like our popular idea of American millionaires, martyrs to the dyspepsia.”

“I am pretty tough,” said Van Aldin. “I lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare and not too much of it.”

“You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?” inquired Poirot, innocently turning to the secretary.

“I – yes; once or twice,” said Knighton.

He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed in surprise:

“Funny you never mentioned to me that you had seen her, Knighton?”

“I didn't think you would be interested, sir.”

“I like that girl very much,” said Van Aldin.

“It is a thousand pities that she should have buried herself once more in St. Mary Mead,” said Poirot.

“It is very fine of her,” said Knighton hotly. “There are very few people who would bury themselves down there to look after a cantankerous old woman who has no earthly claim on her.”

“I am silent,” said Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little; “but all the same I say it is a pity. And now. Messieurs, let us come to business.”

Both the other men looked at him in some surprise.

“You must not be shocked or alarmed at what I am about to say. Supposing, Monsieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur Derek Kettering did not murder his wife?”

“What?”

Both men stared at him in blank surprise. “Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Derek 1 Kettering did not murder his wife?”

“Are you mad. Monsieur Poirot?”

It was Van Aldin who spoke.

“No,” said Poirot, “I am not mad. I am eccentric, perhaps – at least certain people say so; but as regards my profession, I am very much, as one says, 'all there.” I ask you, I Monsieur Van Aldin, whether you would be glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the case?”

Van Aldin stared at him.

“Naturally I should be glad,” he said at last. “Is this an exercise in suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts heir hind it?”

Poirot looked at the ceiling.

“There is an off-chance,” he said quietly, “that it might be the Comte de la Roche after all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting his alibi.”

“How did you manage that?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.

“I have my own methods. The exercise of a little tact, a little cleverness – and the thing is done.”

“But the rubies,” said Van Aldin, “these rubies that the Count had in his possession were false.”

“And clearly he would not have committed the crime except for the rubies. But you are overlooking one point. Monsieur Van Aldin. Where the rubies were concerned, some one might have been before him.”

“But this is an entirely new theory,” cried Knighton.

“Do you really believe all this rigmarole, Monsieur Poirot?” demanded the millionaire.

“The thing is not proved,” said Poirot quietly. “It is as yet only a theory, but I tell you this, Monsieur Van Aldin, the facts are worth investigating. You must come out with me to the south of France and go into the case on the spot.”

“You really think this is necessary – that I should go, I mean.”

“I thought it would be what you yourself would wish,” said Poirot.

There was a hint of reproach in his tone which was not lost upon the other.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “When do you wish to start, Monsieur Poirot?”

“You are very busy at present, sir,” murmured Knighton.

But the millionaire had now made up his mind, and he waved the other's objections aside.

“I guess this business comes first,” he said. “All right, Monsieur Poirot, to-morrow. What train?”

“We will go, I think, by the Blue Train,” said Poirot, and he smiled.

Chapter 34. The Blue Train Again

“The millionaire's train,” as it is sometimes called, swung round a curve of line at what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin, Knighton and Poirot sat together in silence. Knighton and Van Aldin had two compartments connecting with each other, as Ruth Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful journey. Poirot's own compartment was further along the coach.

The journey was a painful one for Van Aldin, recalling as it did the most agonizing memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed occasionally in low tones without disturbing him.

When, however, the train had completed its slow journey round the ceinture and reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became suddenly galvanized into activity. Van Aldin realized that part of his object in travelling by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime. Poirot himself acted every part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly shut into her own compartment, Mrs. Kettering, recognizing her husband with surprise and a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering discovering that his wife was travelling on the train. He tested various possibilities, such as the best way for a person to conceal himself in the second compartment.

Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He clutched at Van Aldin's arm.

“Mon Dieu, but that is something I have not thought of! We must break our journey in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once.”

Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the train. Van Aldin and Knighton, bewildered but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having once formed his opinion of Poirot's ability was slow to part from it. At the barrier they were held up. Their tickets were in charge of the conductor of the train, a fact which all three of them had forgotten.

Poirot's explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they produced no effect upon the stolid-faced official.

“Let us get quit of this,” said Van Aldin abruptly. “I gather you are in a hurry. Monsieur Poirot. For God's sake pay the fares from Calais and let us get right on with whatever you have got in your mind.”

But Poirot's flood of language had suddenly stopped dead, and he had the appearance of a man turned to stone. His arm still outflung in an impassioned gesture, remained there as though stricken with paralysis.

“I have been an imbecile,” he said simply. “Ma foi, I lose my head nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With reasonable luck the train will not have gone.”

They were only just in time, the train moving off as Knighton, the last of the three, swung himself and his suit-case on board.

The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly, and assisted them to carry their luggage back to their compartments. Van Aldin said nothing, but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot's extraordinary conduct. Alone with Knighton for a moment or two, he remarked:

“This is a wildgoose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He has got brains up to a point, but any man who loses his head and scuttles round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly darned good.”