Agatha Christie

“ Lenox looked very straight out across the sea, and her face, in its ugly rigidity, had for the moment a tragic beauty.
"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 did help, Monsieur Poirot—at any rate I did help."
"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. ”

“ Van Aldin greeted Katherine very courteously, but was clearly in a bad humour.
"You seem fond of watching tennis, M. Poirot," he growled.
"It is a pleasure to me, yes," cried Poirot placidly.
"It is as well you are in France," said Van Aldin. "We are made of sterner stuff in the States. Business comes before pleasure there."
Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he smiled gently and confidingly at the irate millionaire.
"Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you. Every one has his own methods. Me, I have always found it a delightful and pleasing idea to combine business and pleasure together." ”

“ "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. ”

“ 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?" ”

“ The Mediterranean was at its bluest. Poirot sat on the terrace with Lenox Tamplin. He had just finished telling her the same story he had told to Van Aldin two days before. Lenox had listened to him with absorbed attention, her brows knitted and her eyes sombre.
When he had finished she said simply:
"And Derek?"
"He was released yesterday."
"And he has gone—where?"
"He left Nice last night."
"For St. Mary Mead?"
"Yes, for St. Mary Mead."
There was a pause.
"I was wrong about Katherine," said Lenox. "I thought she did not care."
"She is very reserved. She trusts no one." ”

“ An exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face turned as white as chalk.
"My God!" he breathed, "the rubies."
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and beamed placidly. Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand so heartily that the little man winced with pain.
"This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for all, you are the goods."
"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly. ”

“ She paused, and then added in rather a queer tone of voice: "He likes you, Katherine."
"He gave me a very good lunch," said Katherine, smiling.
Lenox refused to be side-tracked.
"I saw it the night he came here," she said thoughtfully. "The way he looked at you; and you are not his usual type—just the opposite. Well, I suppose it is like religion—you get it at a certain age."
"Mademoiselle is wanted at the telephone," said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon. "M. Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her."
"More blood and thunder. Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective." ”

“ Poirot was quick to take the hint. Papopolous had already murmured: "Certainly—but certainly," and Poirot withdrew forthwith.
He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they strolled out into the gardens.
"This is where the suicides take place," said Zia.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is said. Men are foolish, are they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air, it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave all that simply because one has no money—or because the heart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?" ”

“ They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte, that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering."
"I!—the murderer of Madame Kettering? Bah! But how absurd!"
He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further.
"But yes," she insisted; "it is as I tell you."
"It amuses people to talk," murmured the Comte indifferently. "It would be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously."
"You do not understand." Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing. "It is not the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the police." ”

“ She was of the order of people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been her vis-à-vis in the Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.
"This is quite a coincidence," said Mrs. Kettering.
"I know," said Katherine; "it is odd the way things happen." ”

“ Derek Kettering went straight to the Negresco, where he ordered a couple of cocktails and disposed of them rapidly; then he stared moodily out over the dazzling blue sea. He noted the passers-by mechanically—a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw anything worth while nowadays. Then he corrected this last impression rapidly, as a woman placed herself at a table a little distance away from him. She was wearing a marvellous confection of orange and black, with a little hat that shaded her face. He ordered a third cocktail ”

“ Who was the man in the train at Paris? Derek Kettering or the Comte de la Roche?"
"That is the simplicity of the whole thing. There was no man. Ah—mille tonnerres!—do you not see the cleverness of it all? Whose word have we for it that there ever was a man there? Only Ada Mason's. And we believe in Ada Mason because of Knighton's evidence that she was left behind in Paris."
"But Ruth herself told the conductor that she had left her maid behind there," demurred Van Aldin. ”

“ The Marquis was last heard of as engineering various jewel robberies in Switzerland, and it was in Switzerland that you had come across Major Knighton; and it was at precisely that time that the first rumours were going round of your being in treaty for the famous rubies."
"But why murder?" murmured Van Aldin brokenly. "Surely a clever thief could have stolen the jewels without running his head into a noose."
Poirot shook his head. "This is not the first murder that lies to the Marquis's charge. He is a killer by instinct; he believes, too, in leaving no evidence behind him. ”

“ The Comte's charm of manner was usually wasted on his own sex. All men, without exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering was already conscious of a distinct longing to kick the Count bodily out of the room. It was only the realization that scandal would be unfortunate just at present that restrained him. He marvelled anew that Ruth could have cared, as she certainly had, for this fellow. A bounder, and worse than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the Count's exquisitely manicured hands. ”

“ But Mademoiselle Katherine has spent a great deal of her life listening, and those who have listened do not find it easy to talk; they keep their sorrows and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she really cared for Knighton. I ought to have known better. I suppose I thought so because—well, I hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little friendly squeeze. "Courage, Mademoiselle," he said gently. ”

“ Chubby rushed up to Katherine, pressed a cocktail upon her, and took her under his wing.
"Oh, here you are, Derek," cried Lady Tamplin, as the door opened to admit the last comer. "Now at last we can have something to eat. I am starving."
Katherine looked across the room. She was startled. So this—was Derek, and she realized that she was not surprised. She had always known that she would some day meet the man whom she had seen three times by such a curious chain of coincidences. She thought, too, that he recognized her. ”

“ Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her nerves were not completely under control this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese lacquer red, she had been walking along the crowded platform of Victoria deep in thought, and her father's sudden appearance and hearty greeting had an unlooked-for effect upon her.
"Why, Ruth, how you jumped!"
"I didn't expect to see you, I suppose, Dad. You said good-bye to me last night and said you had a conference this morning."
"So I have," said Van Aldin, "but you are more to me than any number of darned conferences. ”

“ 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?" ”

“ I have brought you a present from Paris."
"For me? Something very nice?"
"I hope you'll think so," said Van Aldin, smiling.
He took the parcel from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She unwrapped it eagerly, and snapped open the case. A long-drawn "Oh!" came from her lips. Ruth Kettering loved jewels—always had done so.
"Dad, how—how wonderful!"
"Rather in a class by themselves, aren't they?" said the millionaire, with satisfaction. "You like them, eh?"
"Like them? Dad, they're unique. How did you get hold of them?" ”

“ Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not quite a woman. You were very delicious, very charming, Mademoiselle Zia; others thought so too, without doubt."
"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and a little fool."
"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told."
If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily: "It was a curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true inwardness of it." ”

“ Katherine shook her head. "You are quite right, I know, but I should like it done all the same."
"They will grab at the money and abuse you all the more afterwards."
"Well," said Katherine, "let them if they like. We all have our own ways of enjoying ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs. Harfield's only relatives, and though they despised her as a poor relation and paid no attention to her when she was alive, it seems to me unfair that they should be cut off with nothing." ”

“ Naturally, if he committed the crime he will have an alibi. A man with the Comte's experience does not neglect to take precautions. No, I said if for a very different reason."
"And what was that?"
Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger. "The psychology."
"Eh?" said the Commissary.
"The psychology is at fault. The Comte is a scoundrel—yes. The Comte is a swindler—yes. The Comte preys upon women—yes. He proposes to steal Madame's jewels—again yes. Is he the kind of man to commit murder? I say no! A man of the type of the Comte is always a coward; he takes no risks. ”

“ M. Carrège leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.
"You do not perhaps know, Monsieur le Comte"—he paused—"that Madame Kettering was murdered?"
"Murdered? Mon Dieu, how terrible!"
The surprise and the sorrow were excellently done—so well done, indeed, as to seem wholly natural.
"Madame Kettering was strangled between Paris and Lyons," continued M. Carrège, "and her jewels were stolen."
"It is iniquitous!" cried the Count warmly; "the police should do something about these train bandits. Nowadays no one is safe." ”

“ Knighton laughed, his face broke into his attractive boyish smile.
"You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know that any one who has a perfect alibi is always open to grave suspicion."
"Do you think that real life is like that?" asked Katherine, smiling.
"Why not? Fiction is founded on fact."
"But is rather superior to it," suggested Katherine.
"Perhaps. Anyway, if I was a criminal I should not like to have Hercule Poirot on my track." ”

“ He twinkled at Katherine and she laughed.
"He is the kind of man one would notice anywhere," continued Poirot. "Doubtless you observed him on the Blue Train?"
"Yes, I noticed him."
"In the restaurant car?"
"No. I didn't notice him at meals at all. I only saw him once—going into his wife's compartment."
Poirot nodded. "A strange business," he murmured. "I believe you said you were awake, Mademoiselle, and looked out of your window at Lyons? You saw no tall dark man such as the Comte de la Roche leave the train?"
Katherine shook her head. "I don't think I saw any one at all," she said. ”