The Mystery of the Blue Train

It was close on midnight when a man crossed the Place de la Concorde. In spite of the handsome fur coat which garbed his meagre form, there was something essentially weak and paltry about him.

A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous part, or rise to prominence in any sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous as he seemed, played a prominent part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats.

Even now, an Embassy awaited his return. But he had business to do first⁠—business of which the Embassy was not officially cognizant. His face gleamed white and sharp in the moonlight. There was the least hint of a curve in the thin nose. His father had been a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was business such as his father would have loved that took him abroad tonight.

He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered one of the less reputable quarters of Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated house and made his way up to an apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely time to knock before the door was opened by a woman who had evidently been awaiting his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but helped him off with his overcoat and then led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting-room. The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise, the girl’s face with its mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance.

A dinner basket was being handed up and received through the window by the maid.

When the train started once more, and dinner was announced by a violent ringing of bells, Katherine went along to it much relieved in mind. Her vis-à-vis tonight was of an entirely different kind⁠—a small man, distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly waxed moustache and an egg-shaped head which he carried rather on one side. Katherine had taken in a book to dinner with her. She found the little man’s eyes fixed upon it with a kind of twinkling amusement.

“I see, Madame, that you have a roman policier. You are fond of such things?”

“They amuse me,” Katherine admitted.

The little man nodded with the air of complete understanding.

“They have a good sale always, so I am told. Now why is that, eh, Mademoiselle? I ask of you as a student of human nature⁠—why should that be?”

Katherine felt more and more amused.

“Perhaps they give one the illusion of living an exciting life,” she suggested.

He nodded gravely.

“Yes; there is something in that.”

“Of course, one knows that such things don’t really happen,” Katherine was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.

“Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I who speak to you⁠—they have happened to me.”

She threw him a quick, interested glance.

“Some day, who knows, you might be in the thick of things,” he went on. “It is all chance.”

“I don’t think it is likely,” said Katherine. “Nothing of that kind ever happens to me.”

He leaned forward.

“Would you like it to?”

The question startled her, and she drew in her breath sharply.

“Then perhaps you will give it to me.”

The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a minute or two without speaking.

“Madame,” he said at last, “the reason is very simple. The lady in question was found dead in her compartment this morning.”

“Dead!” gasped Katherine. “What was it⁠—heart failure?”

“No,” said the Commissary in a reflective, dreamy voice. “No⁠—she was murdered.”

“Murdered!” cried Katherine.

“So you see, Madame, why we are anxious for any information we can possibly get.”

“But surely her maid⁠—”

“The maid has disappeared.”

“Oh!” Katherine paused to assemble her thoughts.

“Since the conductor had seen you talking with her in her compartment, he quite naturally reported the fact to the police, and that is why, Madame, we have detained you, in the hope of gaining some information.”

“I am very sorry,” said Katherine; “I don’t even know her name.”

“Her name is Kettering. That we know from her passport and from the labels on her luggage. If we⁠—”

There was a knock on the compartment door. M. Caux frowned. He opened it about six inches.

“What is the matter?” he said peremptorily. “I cannot be disturbed.”

The egg-shaped head of Katherine’s dinner acquaintance showed itself in the aperture. On his face was a beaming smile.

“My name,” he said, “is Hercule Poirot.”

“Not,” the Commissary stammered, “not the Hercule Poirot?”

“Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot.”

They went out into the corridor, and M. Caux unlocked the door of the dead woman’s compartment. The blinds on the far side had been drawn halfway up to admit light. The dead woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have thought her asleep. The bedclothes were drawn up over her, and her head was turned to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand on her shoulder and turned the body back so that the face came into view. Katherine flinched a little and dug her nails into her palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the features almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.

“When was that done, I wonder?” he demanded. “Before death or after?”

“The doctor says after,” said M. Caux.

“Strange,” said Poirot, drawing his brows together. He turned to Katherine. “Be brave, Mademoiselle; look at her well. Are you sure that this is the woman you talked to in the train yesterday?”

Katherine had good nerves. She steeled herself to look long and earnestly at the recumbent figure. Then she leaned forward and took up the dead woman’s hand.

“I am quite sure,” she replied at length. “The face is too disfigured to recognise, but the build and carriage and hair are exact, and besides I noticed this”⁠—she pointed to a tiny mole on the dead woman’s wrist⁠—“while I was talking to her.”

“Bon,” approved Poirot. “You are an excellent witness, Mademoiselle. There is, then, no question as to the identity, but it is strange, all the same.” He frowned down on the dead woman in perplexity.

As Derek Kettering passed the car, Mirelle leant out.

“Dereek⁠—I must speak to you for a moment⁠—”

But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight on without stopping.

When he got back to his hotel, the concierge detached himself from his wooden pen and accosted him.

“A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur.”

“Who is it?” asked Derek.

“He did not give his name, Monsieur, but he said his business with you was important, and that he would wait.”

“Where is he?”

“In the little salon, Monsieur. He preferred it to the lounge, he said, as being more private.”

Derek nodded, and turned his steps in that direction.

The small salon was empty except for the visitor, who rose and bowed with easy foreign grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had only seen the Comte de la Roche once, but found no difficulty in recognising that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned angrily. Of all the consummate impertinence!

“The Comte de la Roche, is it not?” he said. “I am afraid you have wasted your time in coming here.”

“I hope not,” said the Comte agreeably. His white teeth glittered.

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 realisation 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.