“It was discovered by a young naval officer who at once gave the alarm. There was a doctor on the train. He examined the body. She had been first chloroformed, and then stabbed. He gave it as his opinion that she had been dead about four hours, so it must have been done not long after leaving Bristol. —Probably between there and Weston, possibly between Weston and Taunton.”
“And the jewel-case.”
“The jewel-case, M. Poirot, was missing.”
“One thing more, monsieur. Your daughter’s fortune—to whom does it pass at her death?”
“Flossie made a will soon after her marriage, leaving everything to her husband.” He hesitated for a minute, and then went on: “I may as well tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that I regard my son-in-law as an unprincipled scoundrel, and that, by my advice, my daughter was on the eve of freeing herself from him by legal means—no difficult matter. I settled her money upon her in such a way that he could not touch it during her lifetime, but although they have lived entirely apart for some years, she has frequently acceded to his demands for money, rather than face an open scandal. However, I was determined to put an end to this, and at last Flossie agreed, and my lawyers were instructed to take proceedings.”
“And where is Monsieur Carrington?”
“In town. I believe he was away in the country yesterday, but he returned last night.”
Poirot considered a little while. Then he said: “I think that is all, monsieur.”
“You would like to see the maid, Jane Mason?”
“If you please.”
* * * * *
Halliday rang the bell, and gave a short order to the footman. A few minutes later Jane Mason entered the room, a respectable, hard-featured woman, as emotionless in the face of tragedy as only a good servant can be.
“You will permit me to put a few questions? Your mistress, she was quite as usual before starting yesterday morning? Not excited or flurried?”
“Oh, no sir!”
“But at Bristol she was quite different?”
“Yes sir, regular upset—so nervous she didn’t seem to know what she was saying.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“Well sir, as near as I can remember, she said: ‘Mason, I’ve got to alter my plans. Something has happened—I mean, I’m not getting out here after all. I must go on. Get out the luggage and put it in the cloak-room; then have some tea, and wait for me in the station.’
“‘Wait for you here, ma’am?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, yes. Don’t leave the station. I shall return by a later train. I don’t know when. It mayn’t be until quite late.’
“‘Very well, ma’am,’ I says. It wasn’t my place to ask questions, but I thought it very strange.”
“It was unlike your mistress, eh?”
“Very unlike her, sir.”
“What did you think?”
“Well sir, I thought it was to do with the gentleman in the carriage. She didn’t speak to him, but she turned round once or twice as though to ask him if she was doing right.”
“But you didn’t see the gentleman’s face?”
“No sir; he stood with his back to me all the time.”
“Can you describe him at all?”
“He had on a light fawn overcoat, and a traveling cap. He was tall and slender, like, and the back of his head was dark.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so, sir.”
“It was not your master, Mr. Carrington, by any chance?”
Mason looked rather startled.
“Oh! I don’t think so, sir!”
“But you are not _sure_?”
“It was about the master’s build, sir—but I never thought of it being him. We so seldom saw him. I couldn’t say it _wasn’t_ him!”
Poirot picked up a pin from the carpet, and frowned at it severely; then he continued: “Would it be possible for the man to have entered the train at Bristol before you reached the carriage?”
Mason considered.
“Yes sir, I think it would. My compartment was very crowded, and it was some minutes before I could get out—and then there was a very large crowd on the platform, and that delayed me too. But he’d only have had a minute or two to speak to the mistress, that way. I took it for granted that he’d come along the corridor.”
“That is more probable, certainly.”
He paused, still frowning.
“You know how the mistress was dressed, sir?”
“The papers give a few details, but I would like you to confirm them.”
“She was wearing a white fox fur toque, sir, with a white spotted veil, and a blue frieze coat and skirt—the shade of blue they call electric.”
“H’m, rather striking.”
“Yes,” remarked Halliday. “Inspector Japp is in hopes that that may help us to fix the spot where the crime took place. Anyone who saw her would remember her.”
“_Précisément!_ —Thank you, mademoiselle.” The maid left the room.
“Well!” Poirot got up briskly. “That is all I can do here—except, monsieur, that I would ask you to tell me everything—but _everything_!”
“I have done so.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. I must decline the case.”
“Why?”
“Because you have not been frank with me.”
“I assure you—”
“No, you are keeping something back.”
* * * * *
There was a moment’s pause, and then Halliday drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to my friend.
“I guess that’s what you’re after, Monsieur Poirot—though how you know about it fairly gets my goat!”
Poirot smiled, and unfolded the paper. It was a letter written in thin sloping handwriting. Poirot read it aloud.
“‘Chère Madame:
“‘It is with infinite pleasure that I look forward to the felicity of meeting you again. After your so amiable reply to my letter, I can hardly restrain my impatience. I have never forgotten those days in Paris. It is most cruel that you should be leaving London tomorrow. However, before very long, and perhaps sooner than you think, I shall have the joy of beholding once more the lady whose image has ever reigned supreme in my heart.
“‘Believe, chère madame, all the assurances of my most devoted and unaltered sentiments—
“‘Armand de la Rochefour.’”
Poirot handed the letter back to Halliday with a bow.
“I fancy, monsieur, that you did not know that your daughter intended renewing her acquaintance with the Count de la Rochefour?”
“It came as a thunderbolt to me! I found this letter in my daughter’s handbag. As you probably know, Monsieur Poirot, this so-called count is an adventurer of the worst type.”
Poirot nodded.
“But what I want to know is how you knew of the existence of this letter?”
My friend smiled. “Monsieur, I did not. But to track footmarks, and recognize cigarette-ash is not sufficient for a detective. He must also be a good psychologist! I knew that you disliked and mistrusted your son-in-law. He benefits by your daughter’s death; the maid’s description of the mysterious man bears a sufficient resemblance to him. Yet you are not keen on his track! Why? Surely because your suspicions lie in another direction. Therefore you were keeping something back.”
“You’re right, Monsieur Poirot. I was sure of Rupert’s guilt until I found this letter. It unsettled me horribly.”
“Yes. The Count says: ‘Before very long, and perhaps sooner than you think.’ Obviously he would not want to wait until you should get wind of his reappearance. Was it he who traveled down from London by the twelve-fourteen, and came along the corridor to your daughter’s compartment? The Count de la Rochefour is also, if I remember rightly, tall and dark!”
The millionaire nodded.
“Well, monsieur, I will wish you good day. Scotland Yard, has, I presume, a list of the jewels?”
“Yes, I believe Inspector Japp is here now if you would like to see him.”
* * * * *
Japp was an old friend of ours, and greeted Poirot with a sort of affectionate contempt.
“And how are you, monsieur? No bad feeling between us, though we _have_ got our different ways of looking at things. How are the ‘little gray cells,’ eh? Going strong?”
Poirot beamed upon him. “They function, my good Japp; assuredly they do!”
“Then that’s all right. Think it was the Honorable Rupert, or a crook? We’re keeping an eye on all the regular places, of course. We shall know if the shiners are disposed of, and of course whoever did it isn’t going to keep them to admire their sparkle. Not likely! I’m trying to find out where Rupert Carrington was yesterday. Seems a bit of a mystery about it. I’ve got a man watching him.”
“A great precaution, but perhaps a day late,” suggested Poirot gently.
“You always will have your joke, Monsieur Poirot. Well, I’m off to Paddington. Bristol, Weston, Taunton, that’s my beat. So long.”
“You will come round and see me this evening, and tell me the result?”
“Sure thing, if I’m back.”
“That good Inspector believes in matter in motion,” murmured Poirot as our friend departed. “He travels; he measures footprints; he collects mud and cigarette-ash! He is extremely busy! He is zealous beyond words! And if I mentioned psychology to him, do you know what he would do, my friend? He would smile! He would say to himself: ‘Poor old Poirot! He ages! He grows senile!’ Japp is the ‘younger generation knocking on the door.’ And _ma foi!_ They are so busy knocking that they do not notice that the door is open!”