# The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV
THE COMTE DE LA ROCHE
"Van Aldin read the letter through in silence. His face turned a dull angry crimson. The men watching him saw the veins start out on his forehead, and his big hands clench themselves unconsciously. He handed back the letter without a word. M. Carrège was looking with close attention at his desk, M. Caux's eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, and M. Hercule Poirot was tenderly brushing a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. With the greatest tact they none of them looked at Van Aldin.
It was M. Carrège, mindful of his status and his duties, who tackled the unpleasant subject.
"Perhaps, Monsieur," he murmured, "you are aware by whom—er—this letter was written?"
"Yes, I know," said Van Aldin heavily.
"Ah?" said the Magistrate inquiringly.
"A scoundrel who calls himself the Comte de la Roche."
There was a pause; then M. Poirot leaned forward, straightened a ruler on the judge's desk, and addressed the millionaire directly.
"M. Van Aldin, we are all sensible, deeply sensible, of the pain it must give you to speak of these matters, but believe me. Monsieur, it is not the time for concealments. If justice is to be done, we must know every​thing. If you will reflect a little minute you will realize the truth of that clearly for yourself."
Van Aldin was silent for a moment or two, then almost reluctantly he nodded his head in agreement.
"You are quite right, M. Poirot," he said. "Painful as it is, I have no right to keep anything back."
The Commissary gave a sigh of relief, and the Examining Magistrate leaned back in his chair and adjusted a pince-nez on his long thin nose.
"Perhaps you will tell us in your own words, M. Van Aldin," he said, "all that you know of this gentleman."
"It began eleven or twelve years ago—in Paris. My daughter was a young girl then, full of foolish, romantic notions, like all young girls are. Unknown to me, she made the acquaintance of this Comte de la Roche. You have heard of him, perhaps?"
The Commissary and Poirot nodded in assent.
"He calls himself the Comte de la Roche," continued Van Aldin, "but I doubt if he has any right to the title."
"You would not have found his name in the Almanac de Gotha," agreed the Commissary.
"I discovered as much," said Van Aldin. "The man was a good-looking, plausible scoundrel, with a fatal fascination for women. Ruth was infatuated with him, but I soon put a stop to the whole affair. The man was no better than a common swindler."
"You are quite right," said the Commissary. "The Comte de la Roche is well known to us. If it were possible, we should have laid him by the heels before now, but ma foi! it is not easy; the fellow is cunning, his affairs are always conducted with ladies of high ​social position. If he obtains money from them under false pretences or as the fruit of blackmail, eh bien! naturally they will not prosecute. To look foolish in the eyes of the world, oh no, that would never do, and he has an extraordinary power over women."
"That is so," said the millionaire heavily. "Well, as I told you, I broke the affair up pretty sharply. I told Ruth exactly what he was, and she had, perforce, to believe me. About a year afterwards, she met her present husband and married him. As far as I knew, that was the end of the matter; but only a week ago, I discovered, to my amazement, that my daughter had resumed her acquaintance with the Comte de la Roche. She had been meeting him frequently in London and Paris. I remonstrated with her on her imprudence, for I may tell you gentlemen, that, on my insistence, she was preparing to bring a suit for divorce against her husband."
"That is interesting," murmured Poirot softly, his eyes on the ceiling.
Van Aldin looked at him sharply, and then went on.
"I pointed out to her the folly of continuing to see the Comte under the circumstances. I thought she agreed with me."
The Examining Magistrate coughed delicately.
"But according to this letter——" he began, and then stopped.
Van Aidin’s jaw set itself squarely.
"I know. It's no good mincing matters. However unpleasant, we have got to face facts. It seems clear that Ruth had arranged to go to Paris and meet de la Roche there. After my warnings to her, however, ​she must have written to the Count suggesting a change of rendezvous."
"The Isles d'Or," said the Commissary thoughtfully, "are situated just opposite Hyères, a remote and idyllic spot."
Van Aldin nodded.
"My God! How could Ruth be such a fool?" he exclaimed bitterly. "All this talk about writing a book on jewels! Why, he must have been after the rubies from the first."
"There are some very famous rubies," said Poirot, "originally part of the Crown jewels of Russia; they are unique in character, and their value is almost fabulous. There has been a rumour that they have lately passed into the possession of an American. Are we right in concluding, Monsieur, that you were the purchaser?"
"Yes," said Van Aldin. "They came into my possession in Paris about ten days ago."
"Pardon me. Monsieur, but you have been negotiating for their purchase for some time?"
"A little over two months. Why?"
"These things become known," said Poirot. "There is always a pretty formidable crowd on the track of jewels such as these."
A spasm distorted the other's face.
"I remember," he said brokenly, "a joke I made to Ruth when I gave them to her. I told her not to take them to the Riviera with her, as I could not afford to have her robbed and murdered for the sake of the jewels. My God! the things one says—never dreaming or knowing they will come true."
​There was a sympathetic silence, and then Poirot spoke in a detached manner.
"Let us arrange our facts with order and precision. According to our present theory, this is how they run. The Comte de la Roche knows of your purchase of these jewels. By an easy stratagem he induces Madame Kettering to bring the stones with her. He, then, is the man Mason saw in the train at Paris."
The other three nodded in agreement.
"Madame is surprised to see him, but she deals with the situation promptly. Mason is got out of the way; a dinner basket is ordered. We know from the conductor that he made up the berth for the first compartment, but he did not go into the second compartment, and that a man could quite well have been concealed from him. So far the Comte could have been hidden to a marvel. No one knows of his presence on the train except Madame; he has been careful that the maid did not see his face. All that she could say is that he was tall and dark. It is all most conveniently vague. They are alone—and the train rushes through the night. There would be no outcry, no struggle, for the man is, so she thinks, her lover."
He turned gently to Van Aldin.
"Death, Monseiur, must have been almost instantaneous. We will pass over that quickly. The Comte takes the jewel-case which lies ready to his hand. Shortly afterwards the train draws into Lyons."
M. Carrège nodded his approval.
"Precisely. The conductor without descends. It would be easy for our man to leave the train unseen; ​it would be easy to catch a train back to Paris or anywhere he pleases. And the crime would be put down as an ordinary train robbery. But for the letter found in Madame's bag, the Comte would not have been mentioned."
"It was an oversight on his part not to search that bag," declared the Commissary.
"Without doubt he thought she had destroyed that letter. It was—pardon me, Monsieur—it was an indiscretion of the first water to keep it."
"And yet," murmured Poirot, "it was an indiscretion the Comte might have foreseen."
"You mean?"
"I mean we are all agreed on one point, and that is that the Comte de la Roche knows one subject à fond: Women. How was it that, knowing women as he does, he did not foresee that Madame would have kept that letter?"
"Yes—yes," said the Examining Magistrate doubtfully, "there is something in what you say. But at such times, you understand, a man is not master of himself. He does not reason calmly. Mon Dieu!” he added, with feeling, "if our criminals kept their heads and acted with intelligence, how should we capture them?"
Poirot smiled to himself.
"It seems to me a clear case," said the other, "but a difficult one to prove. The Comte is a slippery customer, and unless the maid can identify him——"
"Which is most unlikely," said Poirot.
"True, true." The Examining Magistrate rubbed his chin. "It is going to be difficult."
​"If he did indeed commit the crime——" began Poirot. M. Caux interrupted.
“If—you say if."
"Yes, Monseiur le Juge, I say if."
The other looked at him sharply. "You are right," he said at last, "we go too fast. It is possible that the Comte may have an alibi. Then we should look foolish."
"Ah, ça par exemple," replied Poirot, "that is of no importance whatever. 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. He plays the safe, the mean, what the English call the low-down game; but murder, a hundred times no!" He shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
The Examining Magistrate, however, did not seem disposed to agree with him.
"The day always comes when such gentry lose their heads and go too far," he observed sagely. “Doubtless that is the case here. Without wishing to disagree with you, M. Poirot——"
​"It was only an opinion," Poirot hastened to explain. "The case is, of course, in your hands, and you will do what seems fit to you."
"I am satisfied in my own mind that the Comte de la Roche is the man we need to get hold of," said M. Carrège. "You agree with me. Monsieur le Commissaire?
"Perfectly."
"And you, M. Van Aldin?"
"Yes," said the millionaire. "Yes; the man is a thorough-paced villain, no doubt about it."
"It will be difficult to lay hands on him, I am afraid," said the Magistrate, "but we will do our best. Telegraphed instructions shall go out at once."
"Permit me to assist you," said Poirot. "There need be no difficulty."
"Eh?"
The others stared at him. The little man smiled beamingly back at them.
"It is my business to know things." he explained. "The Comte is a man of intelligence. He is at present at a villa he has leased, the Villa Marina at Antibes."