The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 27
CHAPTER XXVII
INTERVIEW WITH MIRELLE
When Knighton left Katherine he went in search of Hercule Poirot, whom he found in the Rooms, jauntily placing the minimum stake on the even numbers. As Knighton joined him, the number thirty-three turned up, and Poirot's stake was swept away.
"Bad luck!" said Knighton; "are you going to stake again?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Not at present."
"Do you feel the fascination of gambling?" asked Knighton curiously.
"Not at roulette."
Knighton shot a swift glance at him. His own face became troubled. He spoke haltingly, with a touch of deference.
"I wonder, are you busy, M. Poirot? There is something I would like to ask you about."
"I am at your disposal. Shall we go outside? It is pleasant in the sunshine."
They strolled out together, and Knighton drew a deep breath.
"I love the Riviera," he said. "I came here first twelve years ago, during the War, when I was sent to Lady Tamplin's Hospital. It was like Paradise, coming from Flanders to this."
"It must have been," said Poirot.
"How long ago the War seems now!" mused Knighton.
They walked on in silence for some little way.
"You have something on your mind?" said Poirot.
Knighton looked at him in some surprise.
"You are quite right," he confessed. "I don’t know how you knew it, though."
"It showed itself only too plainly," said Poirot drily.
"I did not know that I was so transparent."
"It is my business to observe the physiognomy," the little man explained, with dignity.
"I will tell you, M. Poirot. You have heard of this dancer woman—Mirelle?"
"She who is the chère amie of M. Derek Kettering?"
"Yes, that is the one; and, knowing this, you will understand that M. Van Aldin is naturally prejudiced against her. She wrote to him, asking for an interview. He told me to dictate a curt refusal, which of course I did. This morning she came to the hotel and sent up her card, saying that it was urgent and vital that she should see Mr. Van Aldin at once."
"You interest me," said Poirot.
"Mr. Van Aldin was furious. He told me what message to send down to her. I ventured to disagree with him. It seemed to me both likely and probable that this woman Mirelle might give us valuable information. We know that she was on the Blue Train, and she may have seen or heard something that it might be vital for us to know. Don’t you agree with me, M. Poirot?"
"I do," said Poirot drily. "M. Van Aldin, if I may say so, behaved exceedingly foolishly."
"I am glad you take that view of the matter," said the secretary. "Now I am going to tell you something, M. Poirot. So strongly did I feel the unwisdom of Mr. Van Aldin's attitude that I went down privately and had an interview with the lady."
"Eh bien?"
"The difficulty was that she insisted on seeing Mr. Van Aldin himself. I softened his message as much as I possibly could. In fact—to be candid—I gave it in a very different form. I said that Mr. Van Aldin was too busy to see her at present, but that she might make any communication she wished to me. That, however, she could not bring herself to do, and she left without saying anything further. But I have a strong impression, M. Poirot that that woman knows something."
"This is serious," said Poirot quietly. "You know where she is staying?"
"Yes." Knighton mentioned the name of the hotel.
"Good," said Poirot; "we will go there immediately."
The secretary looked doubtful.
"And Mr. Van Aldin?" he queried doubtfully.
"M. Van Aldin is an obstinate man," said Poirot drily. "I do not argue with obstinate men. I act in spite of them. We will go and see the lady immediately. I will tell her that you are empowered by M. Van Aldin to act for him, and you will guard yourself well from contradicting me."
Knighton still looked slightly doubtful, but Poirot took no notice of his hesitation.
At the hotel, they were told that Mademoiselle was in, and Poirot sent up both his and Knighton's cards, with "From Mr. Van Aldin" pencilled upon them.
Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle would receive them.
When they were ushered into the dancer's apartments, Poirot immediately took the lead.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing very low, "we are here on behalf of M. Van Aldin."
"Ah! And why did he not come himself?"
"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously; "the Riviera throat, it has him in its grip, but me, I am empowered to act for him, as is Major Knighton, his secretary. Unless, of course. Mademoiselle would prefer to wait a fortnight or so."
If there was one thing of which Poirot was tolerably certain, it was that to a temperament such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait" was anathema.
"Eh bien, I will speak, Messieurs," she cried. "I have been patient. I have held my hand. And for what? That I should be insulted! Yes, insulted! Ah! Does he think to treat Mirelle like that? To throw her off like an old glove. I tell you never has a man tired of me. Always it is I who tire of them."
She paced up and down the room, her slender body trembling with rage. A small table impeded her free passage and she flung it from her into a corner, where it splintered against the wall.
"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"
Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies she flung It into the grate, where it smashed into a hundred pieces.
Knighton was looking at her with cold British disapproval. He felt embarrassed and ill at ease. Poirot, on the other hand, with twinkling eyes was thoroughly enjoying the scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can be seen—Madame has a temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist has a temperament. I told Dereek to beware, and he would not listen." She whirled round on Poirot suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that English miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"On m'a dit" he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."
Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There—now you have it! He told me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an impasse—zut! he took the easiest way out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that—er—statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that, Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was panting, and her eyes, half defiant, half frightened, went from the face of one man to the other.
"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle," said the detective. "You realize how serious?"
"Certainly I do."
"That is well," said Poirot. "Then you understand, Mademoiselle, that no time must be lost. You will, perhaps accompany us immediately to the office of the Examining Magistrate."
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen, she had no loophole for escape.
"Very well," she muttered. "I will fetch a coat."
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton exchanged glances.
"It is necessary to act while—how do you say it?—the iron is hot," murmured Poirot. "She is temperamental ; in an hour's time, maybe, she will repent, and she will wish to draw back. We must prevent that at all costs."
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sand-coloured velvet wrap trimmed with leopard skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and dangerous. Her eyes still flashed with anger and determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate together. A few brief introductory words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle Mirelle was courteously entreated to tell her tale. This she did in much the same words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more soberness of manner.
"This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège slowly. He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked keenly and searchingly at the dancer through them.
"You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually boasted of the crime to you beforehand?"
"Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said. If she were to die it must be an accident—he would arrange it all."
"You are aware, Mademoiselle," said M. Carrège sternly, "that you are making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?"
"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I take that statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know men. Monsieur; they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one were to take all they said au pied de la lettre"
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.
"We are to take it, then, that you regarded M. Kettering's threats as mere idle words? May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up your engage ments in London and come out to the Riviera?"
Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that you accompanied him to Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself, Monsieur," she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men. They said nothing.
"When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?"
"As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife's compartment just before the tram drew into Lyons. There was a look on his face—ah! at the moment I could not understand it—a look haunted and terrible. I shall never forget"
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant gesture.
"Quite so," said M. Carrège.
"Afterwards, when I found that Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons, then—then I knew!"
"And still—you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was clearly enjoying herself in the rôle she was playing.
"Shall I betray my lover?" she asked. "Ah no; do not ask a woman to do that."
"Yet now" hinted M. Caux.
"Now it is different. He has betrayed me! Shall I suffer that in silence. . .?"
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly. "And now, Mademoiselle, perhaps you will read over the statement of what you have told us, see that it is correct, and sign it."
Mirelie wasted no time on the document.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct." She rose to her feet. "You require me no longer, Messieurs?"
"At present, no, Mademoiselle."
"And Dereek will be arrested?"
"At once, Mademoiselle."
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur draperies closer about her.
"He should have thought of this before he insulted me," she cried.
"There is one little matter"—Poirot coughed apologetically—"just a matter of detail."
"Yes?"
"What makes you think Madame Kettering was dead when the train left Lyons?"
Mirelle stared.
"But she was dead."
"Was she?"
"Yes, of course. I"
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was regarding her intently, and he saw the wary look that came into her eyes.
"I have been told so. Everybody says so."
"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that the fact had been mentioned outside the Examining Magistrate's office."
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
"One hears those things," she said vaguely; "they get about. Somebody told me. I can't remember who it was."
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang forward to open it for her, and as he did so, Poirot's voice rose gently once more.
"And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle. Can you tell me anything about those?"
"The jewels? What jewels?"
"The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since you hear so much, you must have heard of them."
"I know nothing about any jewels," said Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her. M. Caux came back to his chair; the Examining Magistrate sighed.
"What a fury!" he said, "but diablement chic, I wonder if she is telling the truth? I think so."
"There is some truth in her story, certainly," said Poirot. "We have confirmation of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down the corridor a short time before the train reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go into his wife's compartment."
"The case against him seems quite clear," said the Commissary, sighing; "it is a thousand pities," he murmured.
"How do you mean?" asked Poirot.
"It has been the ambition of my life to lay the Comte de la Roche by the heels. This time, ma foi, I thought we had got him. This other—it is not nearly so satisfactory."
M. Carrège rubbed his nose.
"If anything goes wrong," he observed cautiously, "it will be most awkward. M. Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get into the newspapers. If we have made a mistake" He shrugged his shoulders forebodingly.
"The jewels now," said the Commissary, "what do you think he has done with them?"
"He took them for a plant, of course," said M. Carrège; "they must have been a great inconvenience to him and very awkward to dispose of."
Poirot smiled.
"I have an idea of my own about the jewels. Tell me, Messieurs, what do you know of a man called the Marquis?"
The Commissary leant forward excitedly.
"The Marquis," he said, "the Marquis? Do you think he is mixed up in this affair, M. Poirot?"
"I ask you what you know of him."
The Commissary made an expressive grimace.
"Not as much as we should like to," he observed ruefully. "He works behind the scenes, you understand. He has underlings who do his dirty work for him. But he is some one high up. That we are sure of. He does not come from the criminal classes."
"A Frenchman?" "Y—es. At least we believe so. But we are not sure. He has worked in France, in England, in America. There was a series of robberies in Switzerland last autumn which were laid at his door. By all accounts he is a grand seigneur, speaking French and English with equal perfection and his origin is a mystery."
Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.
"Can you tell us nothing more, M. Poirot," urged the Commissary.
"At present, no," said Poirot, "but I may have news awaiting me at my hotel."
M. Carrège looked uncomfortable. "If the Marquis is concerned in this" he began, and then stopped.
"It upsets our ideas," complained M. Caux.
"It does not upset mine," said Poirot. "On the contrary, I think it agrees with them very well. Au revoir, Messieurs; if news of any importance comes to me I will communicate it to you immediately."
He walked back to his hotel with a grave face. In his absence a telegram had come to him. Taking a paper-cutter from his pocket, he slit it open. It was a long telegram, and he read it over twice before slowly putting it in his pocket. Upstairs, George was awaiting his master.
"I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued. Will you order for me a small pot of chocolate?"
The chocolate was duly ordered and brought, and George set it at the little table at his master's elbow As he was preparing to retire, Poirot spoke;
"I believe, Georges, that you have a good knowledge of the English aristocracy?" murmured Poirot.
George smiled apologetically.
"I think that I might say that I have, sir," he replied.
"I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are invariably drawn from the lower orders."
"Not always, sir. There was great trouble with one of the Duke of Devize's younger sons. He left Eton under a cloud, and after that he caused great anxiety on several occasions. The police would not accept the view that it was kleptomania. A very clever young gentleman, sir, but vicious through and through, if you take my meaning. His Grace shipped him to Australia, and I hear he was convicted out there under another name. Very odd, sir, but there it is. The young gentleman, I need hardly say, was not in want financially."
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
"Love of excitement," he murmured, "and a little kink in the brain somewhere. I wonder now"
He drew out the telegram from his pocket and read it again.
"Then there was Lady Mary Fox's daughter," continued the valet in a mood of reminiscence. "Swindled tradespeople something shocking, she did. Very worrying to the best families, if I may say so, and there are many other queer cases I could mention."
"You have a wide experience, Georges," murmured Poirot. "I often wonder having lived so exclusively with titled families that you demean yourself by coming as a valet to me. I put it down to love of excitement on your part."
"Not exactly, sir," said George. "I happened to see in Society Snippets that you had been received at Buckingham Palace. That was just when I was looking for a new situation. His Majesty, so it said, had been most gracious and friendly and thought very highly of your abilities."
"Ah," said Poirot, "one always likes to know the reason for things."
He remained in thought for a few moments and then said:
"You rang up Mademoiselle Papopolous?"
"Yes, sir; she and her father will be pleased to dine with you to-night."
"Ah," said Poirot thoughtfully. He drank off his chocolate, set the cup and saucer neatly in the middle of the tray, and spoke gently, more to himself than to the valet.
"The squirrel, my good Georges, collects nuts. He stores them up in the autumn so that they may be of advantage to him later. To make a success of humanity, Georges, we must profit by the lessons of those below us in the animal kingdom. I have always done so. I have been the cat, watching at the mouse hole. I have been the good dog following up the scent, and not taking my nose from the trail. And also, my good Georges, I have been the squirrel. I have stored away the little fact here, the little fact there. I go now to my store and I take out one particular nut, a nut that I stored away—let me see, seventeen years ago. You follow me, Georges?"
"I should hardly have thought, sir," said George, "that nuts would have kept so long as that, though I know one can do wonders with preserving bottles."
Poirot looked at him and smiled.