# The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 26

CHAPTER XXVI
A WARNING
"And so it is," said Poirot, "that we are the good friends and have no secrets from each other."
Katherine turned her head to look at him. There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of seriousness, which she had not heard before.
They were sitting in the gardens of Monte Carlo. Katherine had come over with her friends, and they had run into Knighton and Poirot almost immediately on arrival. Lady Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most of which Katherine had a faint suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin with her hand on the young man's arm. Knighton had thrown a couple of glances back over his shoulder, and Poirot's eyes twinkled a little as he saw them.
"Of course we are friends," said Katherine . "From the beginning we have been sympathetic to each other," mused Poirot.
"When you told me that a 'Roman Policier' occurs in real life."
"And I was right, was I not?" he challenged her, with an emphatic forefinger. "Here we are, plunged in the middle of one. That is natural for me—it is my métier—but for you it is different. Yes," he added in a reflective tone, "for you it is different."
She looked sharply at him. It was as though he were ​warning her, pointing out to her some menace that she had not seen.
"Why do you say that I am in the middle of it? It is true that I had that conversation with Mrs. Kettering just before she died, but now—now all that is over. I am not connected with the case any more."
"Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, can we ever say, 'I have finished with this or that'?"
Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.
"What is it?" she asked. "You are trying to tell me something—to convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out."
Poirot looked at her sadly. "Ah, mais c'est Anglais ça," he murmured, "everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined. But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are the things that are not yet, but which cast their shadow before."
He dabbed his brow with a very large silk pocket-handkerchief and murmured:
"Ah, but it is that I become poetical. Let us, as you say, speak only of facts. And, speaking of facts, tell me what you think of Major Knighton."
"I like him very much indeed," said Katherine warmly; "he is quite delightful."
Poirot sighed.
"What is the matter?" asked Katherine.
"You reply so heartily," said Poirot. "If you had said in an indifferent voice, 'Oh, quite nice,' eh bien, do you know I should have been better pleased."
Katherine did not answer. She felt slightly uncomfortable. Poirot went on dreamily: ​"And yet, who knows? With les femmes, they have so many ways of concealing what they feel—and heartiness is perhaps as good a way as any other."
He sighed.
"I don’t see——" began Katherine.
He interrupted her.
"You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am an old man, and now and then—not very often—I come across some one whose welfare is dear to me. We are friends, Mademoiselle. You have said so yourself. And it is just this—I should like to see you happy."
Katherine stared very straight in front of her. She had a cretonne sunshade with her, and with its point she traced little designs in the gravel at her feet.
"I have asked you a question about Major Knighton, now I will ask you another. Do you like Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I hardly know him," said Katherine.
"That is not an answer, that."
"I think it is."
He looked at her, struck by something in her tone. Then he nodded his head gravely and slowly.
"Perhaps you are right, Mademoiselle. See you, I who speak to you have seen much of the world, and I know that there are two things which are true. A good man may be ruined by his love for a bad woman—but the other way holds good also. A bad man may equally be ruined by his love for a good woman."
Katherine looked up sharply.
"When you say ruined——"
​"I mean from his point of view. One must be wholehearted in crime as in everything else."
"You are trying to warn me," said Katherine in a low voice. "Against whom?"
"I cannot look into your heart, Mademoiselle; I do not think you would let me if I could. I will just say this. There are men who have a strange fascination for women."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine, with a smile.
"There are others—more dangerous than the Comte de la Roche. They have qualities that appeal—recklessness, daring, audacity. You are fascinated. Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more than that. I hope so. This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels is genuine enough, but all the same——"
"Yes?"
He got up and stood looking down at her. Then he spoke in a low, distinct voice:
"You could, perhaps, love a thief, Mademoiselle, but not a murderer."
He wheeled sharply away on that and left her sitting there.
He heard the little gasp she gave and paid no attention. He had said what he meant to say. He left her there to digest that last unmistakable phrase.
Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino into the sunshine, saw her sitting alone on the bench and joined her.
"I have been gambling," he said, with a light laugh, ​"gambling unsuccessfully. I have lost everything—everything, that is, that I have with me."
Katherine looked at him with a troubled face. She was aware at once of something new in his manner, some hidden excitement that betrayed itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.
"I should think you were always a gambler. The spirit of gambling appeals to you."
"Every day and in every way a gambler? You are about right. Don't you find something stimulating in it? To risk all on one throw—there is nothing like it."
Calm and stolid as she believed herself to be, Katherine felt a faint answering thrill.
"I want to talk to you," went on Derek, "and who knows when I may have another opportunity? There is an idea going about that I murdered my wife—no, please don't interrupt. It is absurd, of course." He paused for a minute or two, then went on, speaking more deliberately. "In dealing with the police and Local Authorities here I have had to pretend to—well—a certain decency. I prefer not to pretend with you. I meant to marry money. I was on the look out for money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin. She had the look of a slim Madonna about her, and I—well—I made all sorts of good resolutions—and was bitterly disillusioned. My wife was in love with another man when she married me. She never cared for me in the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the thing was a perfectly respectable bargain. She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money. The trouble arose simply through Ruth's American blood. Without caring a pin for me, ​she would have liked me to be continually dancing attendance. Time and again she as good as told me that she had bought pie and that I belonged to her. The result was that I behaved abominably to her. My father-in-law will tell you that, and he is quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I was faced with absolute disaster." He laughed suddenly. "One is faced with absolute disaster when one is up against a man like Rufus Van Aldin."
"And then?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered—very providentially."
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh hurt Katherine. She winced.
"Yes," said Derek, "that wasn't in very good taste. But it is quite true. Now I am going to tell you something more. From the very first moment I saw you I knew you were the only woman in the world for me. I was—afraid of you. I thought you might bring me bad luck."
"Bad luck?" said Katherine sharply.
He stared at her. "Why do you repeat it like that? What have you got in your mind?"
"I was thinking of things that people have said to me."
Derek grinned suddenly. "They will say a lot to you about me, my dear, and most of it will be true. Yes, and worse things too—things that I shall never tell you. I have been a gambler always—and I have taken some long odds. I shan't confess to you now or at any other time. The past is done with. There is one thing ​I do wish you to believe. I swear to you solemnly that I did not kill my wife."
He said the words earnestly enough, yet there was somehow a theatrical touch about them. He met her troubled gaze and went on:
"I know. I lied the other day. It was my wife's compartment I went into."
"Ah," said Katherine.
"It's difficult to explain just why I went in, but I’ll try. I did it on an impulse. You see, I was more or less spying on my wife. I kept out of sight on the train. Mirelle had told me that my wife was meeting the Comte de la Roche in Paris. Well, as far as I had seen, that was not so. I felt ashamed, and I thought suddenly that it would be a good thing to have it out with her once and for all, so I pushed open the door and went in."
He paused.
"Yes," said Katherine gently.
"Ruth was lying on the bunk asleep—her face was turned away from me—I could only see the back of her head. I could have waked her up, of course. But suddenly I felt a reaction. What, after all, was there to say that we hadn't both of us said a hundred times before? She looked so peaceful lying there. I left the compartment as quietly as I could."
"Why lie about it to the police asked Katherine.
"Because I'm not a complete fool. I've realized from the beginning that, from the point of view of motive, I'm the ideal murderer. If I once admitted that I had been in her compartment just before she was ​murdered, I'd do for myself once and for all."
"I see."
Did she see? She could not have told herself. She was feeling the magnetic attraction of Derek's personality, but there was something in her that resisted, that held back. . .
"Katherine——"
"I——"
"You know that I care for you. Do—do you care for me?"
"I—I don't know."
Weakness there. Either she knew or she did not know. If—if only—
She cast a look round desperately as though seeking something that would help her. A soft colour rose in her cheeks as a tall fair man with a limp came hurry­ ing along the path towards them—Major Knighton.
There was relief and an unexpected warmth in her voice as she greeted him.
Derek stood up scowling, his face black as a thundercloud.
"Lady Tamplin having a flutter?" he said easily. "I must join her and give her the benefit of my system."
He swung round on his heel and left them together.
Katherine sat down again. Her heart was beating rapidly and unevenly, but as she sat there talking commonplaces to the quiet, rather shy man beside her, her self-command came back.
Then she realized with a shock that Knighton also was laying bare his heart, much as Derek had done, but in a very different manner.
​He was shy and stammering. The words came haltingly with no eloquence to hack them.
"From the first moment I saw you—I—I ought not to have spoken so soon—but Mr. Van Aldin may leave here any day, and I might not have another chance. I know you can't care for me so soon—that is impossible. I dare say it is presumption anyway on my part. I have private means, but not very much—no, please don't answer now. I know what your answer would be. But in case I went away suddenly I just wanted you to know—that I care."
She was shaken—touched. His manner was so gentle and appealing.
"There's one thing more. I just wanted to say that if—if you are ever in trouble, anything that I can do——"
He took her hand in his, held it tightly for a minute, then dropped it and walked rapidly away towards the Casino without looking back.
Katherine sat perfectly still, looking after him. Derek Kettering—Richard Knighton—two men so different—so very different. There was something kind about Knighton, kind and trustworthy. As to Derek——
Then suddenly Katherine had a very curious sensation. She felt that she was no longer sitting alone on the seat in the Casino gardens, but that some one was standing beside her, and that that some one was the dead woman, Ruth Kettering. She had a further impression that Ruth wanted—badly—to tell her something. The impression was so curious, so vivid, that it ​could not be driven away. She felt absolutely certain that the spirit of Ruth Kettering was trying to convey something of vital importance to her. The impression faded. Katherine got up, trembling a little. What was it that Ruth Kettering had wanted so badly to say?