# The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI
MURDER
Katherine wakened the next morning to brilliant sunshine. She went along to breakfast early, but met none of her acquaintances of the day before. When she returned to her compartment it had just been restored to its daytime appearance by the conductor, a dark man with a drooping moustache and melancholy face.
"Madame is fortunate," he said; "the sun shines. It is always a great disappointment to passengers when they arrive on a grey morning."
"I should have been disappointed, certainly," said Katherine.
The man prepared to depart.
"We are rather late, Madame," he said. "I will let you know just before we get to Nice."
Katherine nodded. She sat by the window, entranced by the sunlit panorama. The palm trees, the deep blue of the sea, the bright yellow mimosa came with all the charm of novelty to the woman who for fourteen years had known only the drab winters of England.
When they arrived at Cannes, Katherine got out and walked up and down the platform. She was curious about the lady in the mink coat, and looked up at the windows of her compartment. The blinds were still drawn down-the only ones to be so on the whole train. Katherine wondered a little, and when she re-entered ​the train she passed along the corridor and noticed that these two compartments were still shuttered and closed. The lady of the mink coat was clearly no early riser.
Presently the conductor came to her and told her that in a few minutes the train would arrive at Nice. Katherine handed him a tip; the man thanked her, but still lingered. There was something odd about him. Katherine, who had at first wondered whether the tip had not been big enough, was now convinced that something far more serious was amiss. His face was of a sickly pallor, he was shaking all over, and looked as if he had been frightened out of his life. He was eyeing her in a curious manner. Presently he said abruptly: "Madame will excuse me, but is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice?"
"Probably," said Katherine. “Why?"
But the man merely shook his head and murmured something that Katherine could not catch and moved away, not reappearing until the train came to rest at the station, when he started handing her belongings down from the window.
Katherine stood for a moment or two on the platform rather at a loss, but a fair young man with an ingenuous face came up to her and said rather hesitatingly:
"Miss Grey, is it not?"
Katherine said that it was, and the young man beamed upon her seraphically and murmured:
“I am Chubby, you kno——Lady Tamplin’s husband. I expect she mentioned me, but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your billet de bagages? I lost mine ​when I came out this year, and you would not believe the fuss they made about it. Regular French red tape!"
Katherine produced it, and was just about to move off beside him when a very gentle and insidious voice murmured in her ear;
"A little moment, Madame, if you please."
Katherine turned to behold an individual who made up for insignificance of stature by a large quantity of gold lace and uniform. The individual explained. "There were certain formalities. Madame would perhaps be so kind as to accompany him. The regulations of the police——" He threw up his arms. "Absurd, doubtless, but there it was."
Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very imperfect comprehension, his French being of a limited order.
"So like the French," murmured Mr. Evans. He was one of those staunch patriotic Britons who, having made a portion of a foreign country their own, strongly resent the original inhabitants of it. "Always up to some silly dodge or other. They’ve never tackled people on the station before, though. This is something quite new. I suppose you’ll have to go."
Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat to her surprise, he led her towards a siding where a coach of the departed train had been shunted. He invited her to mount into this, and, preceding her down the corridor, held aside the door of one of the compartments. In it was a pompous-looking official personage, and with him a nondescript being who appeared to be a clerk. The pompous-looking personage rose politely, bowed to Katherine, and said:
"You will excuse me, Madame, but there are certain ​formalities to be complied with. Madame speaks French, I trust?"
"Sufficiently, I think, Monsieur," replied Katherine in that language.
"That is good. Pray be seated, Madame. I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police." He blew out his chest importantly, and Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.
"You wish to see my passport?" she inquired. "Here it is."
The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave a little grunt.
"Thank you, Madame," he said, taking the passport from her. He cleared his throat. "But what I really desire is a little information."
"Information?"
The Commissary nodded his head slowly.
"About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger of yours. You lunched with her yesterday."
"I am afraid I can't tell you anything about her. We fell into conversation over our meal, but she is a complete stranger to me. I have never seen her before."
"And yet," said the Commissary sharply, "you returned to her compartment with her after lunch and sat talking for some time?"
"Yes," said Katherine; "that is true."
The Commissary seemed to expect her to say something more. He looked at her encouragingly.
"Yes, Madame?"
"Well, Monsieur?" said Katherine.
"You can, perhaps, give me some kind of idea of that conversation?"
​"I could," said Katherine, "but at the moment I see no reason to do so."
In somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed. This foreign official seemed to her impertinent.
"No reason?" cried the Commissary. "Oh yes, Madame, I can assure you that there is a reason."
"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?"
"The same," said Mr. Poirot. "I remember meeting you once, M. Caux, at the Sûreté in Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten me?"
“Not at all, Monsieur, not at all," declared the Commissary heartily. "But enter, I pray of you. You know of this——"
"Yes, I know," said Hercule Poirot. "I came to see if I might be of any assistance?"
"We should be flattered," replied the Commissary promptly. "Let me present you, Mr. Poirot, to"—he consulted the passport he still held in his hand—"to Madame—er—Mademoiselle Grey."
Poirot smiled across at Katherine.
"It is strange, is it not," he murmured, "that my words should have come true so quickly?"
"Mademoiselle, alas! can tell us very little," said the Commissary.
"I have been explaining," said Katherine, "that this poor lady was a complete stranger to me."
Poirot nodded.
"But she talked to you, did she not?" he said gently.
"You formed an impression—is it not so?"
​"Yes," said Katherine thoughtfully. "I suppose I did."
"And that impression was——"
"Yes, Mademoiselle"—the Commissary jerked himself forward—"let us by all means have your impressions."
Katherine sat turning the whole thing over in her mind. She felt in a way as if she were betraying a confidence, but with that ugly word "Murder" ringing in her ears she dared not keep anything back. Too much might hang upon it. So, as nearly as she could, she repeated word for word the conversation she had had with the dead woman.
"That is interesting," said the Commissary, glancing at the other. "Eh, M. Poirot, that is interesting? Whether it has anything to do with the crime——"
He left the sentence unfinished.
"I suppose it could not be suicide," said Katherine, rather doubtfully.
"No," said the Commissary, "it could not be suicide. She was strangled with a length of black cord."
"Oh!" Katherine shivered. M. Caux spread out his hands apologetically. "It is not nice—no. I think that our train robbers are more brutal than they are in your country."
"It is horrible."
"Yes, yes"—he was soothing and apologetic—"but you have great courage, Mademoiselle. At once, as soon as I saw you, I said to myself, 'Mademoiselle has great courage.' That is why I am going to ask you to do something more—something distressing, but I assure you very necessary."
​Katherine looked at him apprehensively.
He spread out his hands apologetically.
"I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to be so good as to accompany me to the next compartment."
"Must I?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"Some one must identify her," said the Commissary, "and since the maid has disappeared"—he coughed significantly—"you appear to be the person who has seen most of her since she joined the train."
"Very well," said Katherine quietly; "if it is necessary——"
She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of approval.
"Mademoiselle is sensible," he said. "May I accompany you, M. Caux?"
"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 half-way 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 recognize, 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.
M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.
"The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless," he suggested.
"If she had been struck down, it would have been comprehensible," mused Poirot, "but the man who strangled her slipped up behind and caught her unawares. A little choke—a little gurgle—that is all that would be heard, and then afterwards—that smashing blow on her face. Now why? Did he hope that if the face were unrecognizable she might not be identified? Or did he hate her so much that he could not resist striking that blow even after she was dead?"
Katherine shuddered, and he turned at once to her kindly.
"You must not let me distress you, Mademoiselle," he said. "To you this is all very new and terrible. To ​me, alas! it is an old story. One moment, I pray of you both."
They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the compartment. He noted the dead woman's clothes neatly folded on the end of the berth, the big fur coat that hung from a hook, and the little red lacquer hat tossed up on the rack. Then he passed through into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been made up. Three or four rugs were piled loosely on the seat; there was a hat-box and a couple of suit-cases. He turned suddenly to Katherine.
"You were in here yesterday," he said. "Do you see anything changed, anything missing?"
Katherine looked carefully round both compartments.
"Yes," she said, "there is something missing—a scarlet morocco case. It had the initials 'R. V. K.' on it. It might have been a small dressing-case or a big jewel-case. When I saw it, the maid was holding it."
"Ah!" said Poirot.
"But, surely," said Katherine. "I—of course, I don't know anything about such things, but surely it is plain enough, if the maid and the jewel-case are missing?"
"You mean that it was the maid who was the thief? No, Mademoiselle; there is a very good reason against that."
"What?"
"The maid was left behind in Paris."
He turned to Poirot.
"I should like you to hear the conductor's story ​yourself," he murmured confidentially. “It is very suggestive."
"Mademoiselle would doubtless like to hear it also," said Poirot. "You do not object. Monsieur le Commissaire?"
"No," said the Commissary, who clearly did object very much. "No, certainly, M. Poirot, if you say so. You have finished here?"
"I think so. One little minute."
He had been turning over the rugs, and now he took one to the window and looked at it, picking something off it with his fingers.
"What is it?" demanded M. Caux sharply.
"Four auburn hairs." He bent over the dead woman. "Yes, they are from the head of Madame."
"And what of it? Do you attach importance to them?"
Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.
"What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully."
They went back again into the first compartment, and in a minute or two the conductor of the carriage arrived to be questioned.
"Your name is Pierre Michel?" said the Commissary.
"Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire." "I should like you to repeat to this gentleman"—he indicated Poirot—"the story that you told me as to what happened in Paris."
"Very good. Monsieur le Commissaire. It was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I came along to make the beds, thinking that Madame would be at dinner, ​but she had a dinner-basket in her compartment. She said to me that she had been obliged to leave her maid behind in Paris, so that I only need make up one berth. She took her dinner-basket into the adjoining compartment, and sat there while I made up the bed; then she told me that she did not wish to be wakened early in the morning, that she liked to sleep on. I told her I quite understood, and she wished me 'goodnight.'"
"You yourself did not go into the adjoining compartment?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Then you did not happen to notice if a scarlet morocco case was amongst the luggage there?"
"No, Monsieur, I did not."
"Would it have been possible for a man to have been concealed in the adjoining compartment?"
The conductor reflected.
"The door was half open," he said. "If a man had stood behind that door I should not have been able to see. him, but he would, of course, have been perfectly visible to Madame when she went in there."
"Quite so," said Poirot, "Is there anything more you have to tell us?"
"I think that is all. Monsieur. I can remember nothing else."
"And now this morning?" prompted Poirot.
"As Madame had ordered, I did not disturb her. It was not until just before Cannes that I ventured to knock at the door. Getting no reply, I opened it. The lady appeared to be in her bed asleep. I took her by the shoulder to rouse her, and then——"
​"And then you saw what had happened," volunteered Poirot. “Très bien. I think I know all I want to know."
"I hope, Monsieur le Commissaire, it is not that I have been guilty of any negligence," said the man piteously. "Such an affair to happen on the Blue Train! It is horrible."
"Console yourself," said the Commissary. "Everything will be done to keep the affair as quiet as possible, if only in the interests of justice. I cannot think you have been guilty of any negligence."
"And Monsieur le Commissaire will report as much to the Company?"
"But certainly, but certainly," said M. Caux impatiently. "That will do now."
The conductor withdrew.
"According to the medical evidence," said the Commissary, "the lady was probably dead before the train reached Lyons. Who then was the murderer? From Mademoiselle’s story, it seems clear that somewhere on her journey she was to meet this man of whom she spoke. Her action in getting rid of the maid seems significant. Did the man join the train at Paris, and did she conceal him in the adjoining compartment? If so, they may have quarrelled, and he may have killed herin a fit of rage. That is one possibility. The other, and the more likely to my mind, is that her assailant was a train robber travelling on the train; that he stole along the corridor unseen by the conductor, killed her, and went off with the red morocco case, which doubtless contained jewels of some value. In all probability he ​left the train at Lyons, and we have already telegraphed to the station there for full particulars of any one seen leaving the train."
"Or he might have come on to Nice," suggested Poirot.
"He might," agreed the Commissary, "but that would be a very bold course."
Poirot let a minute or two go by before speaking, and then he said:
"In the latter case you think the man was an ordinary train robber?"
The Commissary shrugged his shoulders.
"It depends. We must get hold of the maid. It is possible that she has the red morocco case with her. If so, then the man of whom she spoke to Mademoiselle may be concerned in the case, and the affair is a crime of passion. I myself think the solution of a train robber is the more probable. These bandits have become very bold of late."
Poirot looked suddenly across to Katherine.
"And you. Mademoiselle," he said, "you heard and saw nothing during the night?"
"Nothing," said Katherine.
Poirot turned to the Commissary.
"We need detain Mademoiselle no longer, I think," he suggested.
The latter nodded.
"She will leave us her address?" he said.
Katherine gave him the name of Lady Tamplin’s villa. Poirot made her a little bow.
"You permit that I see you again. Mademoiselle?" ​he said. "Or have you so many friends that your time will be all taken up?"
"On the contrary," said Katherine, "I shall have plenty of leisure, and I shall be very pleased to see you again."
"Excellent," said Poirot, and gave her a little friendly nod. "This shall be a 'Roman Policier' à nous. We will investigate this affair together."