“Oh, well,” she said at last, “it would not have done. I am too young for Derek; he is like a kid that has never grown up. He wants the Madonna touch.”
There was a long silence, then Lenox turned to him quickly and impulsively. “But I
“Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave me the first inkling of the truth when you said that the person who committed the crime need not have been on the train at all. Before that, I could not see how the thing had been done.”
Lenox drew a deep breath.
“I am glad,” she said; “at any rate – that is something.”
From far behind them there came a long drawn-out scream of an engine's whistle.
“That is that damned Blue Train,” said Lenox. “Trains are relentless things, aren't they. Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die, but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know what I mean.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good thing that that is so.”
“Why?”
“Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a proverb about that in your language. Mademoiselle.”
“'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'” Lenox laughed. “That is not going to be true for me.”
“Yes – yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know. Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is
The whistle of the engine came again.
“Trust the train. Mademoiselle,” murmured Poirot again. “And trust Hercule Poirot. He
