Chapter 17  AN ARISTOCRATIC GENTLEMAN 

"You have been to the Riviera before, Georges?" said Poirot to his valet the following morning. 

George was an intensely English, rather wooden-faced individual. 

"Yes, sir. I was here two years ago when I was in the service of Lord Edward Frampton." 

"And today," murmured his master, "you are here with Hercule Poirot. How one mounts in the world!" 

The valet made no reply to this observation. After a suitable pause he asked: 

"The brown lounge suit, sir? The wind is somewhat chilly today." 

"There is a grease spot on the waistcoat," objected Poirot. "A morceau of Filet de sole a la Jeanette alighted there when I was lunching at the Ritz last Tuesday." 

"There is no spot there now, sir," said George reproachfully. "I have removed it." 

"Très bien!" said Poirot. "I am pleased with you, Georges." 

"Thank you, sir." 

There was a pause, and then Poirot murmured dreamily: 

"Supposing, my good Georges, that you had been born in the same social sphere as your late master, Lord Edward Frampton - that, penniless yourself, you had married an extremely wealthy wife, but that that wife proposed to divorce you, with excellent reasons, what would you do about it?" 

"I should endeavour, sir," replied George, "to make her change her mind." 

"By peaceful or by forcible methods?" 

George looked shocked. 

"You will excuse me, sir," he said, "but a gentleman of the aristocracy would not behave like a Whitechapel coster. He would not do anything low." 

"Would he not, Georges? I wonder now? Perhaps you are right." 

There was a knock on the door. George went to it and opened it a discreet inch or two. A low murmured colloquy went on, and then the valet returned to Poirot. "A note, sir." 

Poirot took it. It was from M. Caux, the Commissary of Police. 

"We are about to interrogate the Comte de la Roche. The Juge d'Instruction begs that you will be present." 

"Quickly, my suit, Georges. I must hasten myself." 

A quarter of an hour later, spick and span in his brown suit, Poirot entered the Examining Magistrate's room. M. Caux was already there, and both he and M. Carrege greeted Poirot with polite empressement. 

"The affair is somewhat discouraging," murmured M. Caux. 

"It appears that the Comte arrived in Nice the day before the murder." 

"If that is true, it will settle your affair nicely for you," responded Poirot. 

M. Carrege cleared his throat. 

"We must not accept this alibi without very cautious inquiry," he declared. He struck the bell upon the table with his hand. In another minute a tall dark man, exquisitely dressed, with a somewhat haughty cast of countenance, entered the room. So very aristocratic-looking was the Count, that it would have seemed sheer heresy even to whisper that his father had been an obscure corn-chandler in Nantes - which, as a matter of fact, was the case. Looking at him, one would have been prepared to swear that innumerable ancestors of his must have perished by the guillotine in the French Revolution." 

"I am here, gentlemen," said the Count haughtily. "May I ask why you wish to see me?" 

"Pray be seated, Monsieur le Comte," said the Examining Magistrate politely. "It is the affair of the death of Madame Kettering that we are investigating." 

"The death of Madame Kettering? I do not understand." 

"You were - ahem! - acquainted with the lady, I believe, Monsieur le Comte?" 

"Certainly I was acquainted with her. What has that to do with the matter?" 

Sticking an eyeglass in his eye, he looked coldly round the room, his glance resting longest on Poirot, who was gazing at him with a kind of simple, innocent admiration which was most pleasing to the Count's vanity. M. Carrege leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. 

"You do not perhaps know, Monsieur le Comte -" he paused - "that Madame Kettering was murdered?" 

"Murdered? Mon Dieu, how terrible!" 

The surprise and the sorrow were excellently done - so well done, indeed, as to seem wholly natural. 

"Madame Kettering was strangled between Paris and Lyons," continued M. Carrege, "and her jewels were stolen." 

"It is iniquitous!" cried the Count warmly, "the police should do something about these train bandits. Nowadays no one is safe." 

"In Madame's handbag," continued the Judge, "we found a letter to her from you. She had, it seemed, arranged to meet you?" 

The Count shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. 

"Of what use are concealments," he said frankly. "We are all men of the world. Privately and between ourselves, I admit the affair." 

"You met her in Paris and travelled down with her, I believe?" said M. Carrege. 

"That was the original arrangement, but by Madame's wish it was changed. I was to meet her at Hyeres." 

"You did not meet her on the train at the Gare de Lyon on the evening of the 14th?" 

"On the contrary, I arrived in Nice on the morning of that day, so what you suggest is impossible." 

"Quite so, quite so," said M. Carrege. "As a matter of fact, you would perhaps give me an account of your movements during the 

evening and night of the 14th." 

The Count reflected for a minute. 

"I dined in Monte Carlo at the Café de Paris. Afterwards I went to the Le Sporting. I won a few thousand francs," he shrugged his shoulders. "I returned home at perhaps one o'clock." 

"Pardon me, Monsieur, but how did you return home?" 

"In my own two-seater car." 

"No one was with you?" 

"No one." 

"You could produce witnesses in support of this statement?" 

"Doubtless many of my friends saw me there that evening. I dined alone." 

"Your servant admitted you on your return to your villa?" 

"I let myself in with my own latchkey." 

"Ah!" murmured the Magistrate. 

Again he struck the bell on the table with his hand. The door opened, and a messenger appeared. 

"Bring in the maid, Mason," said M. Carrege. 

"Very good, Monsieur le Juge." 

Ada Mason was brought in. 

"Will you be so good, Mademoiselle, as to look at this gentleman. To the best of your ability was it he who entered your mistress's compartment in Paris?" 

The woman looked long and searchingly at the Count, who was, Poirot fancied, rather uneasy under this scrutiny. 

"I could not say, sir, I am sure," said Mason at last. "It might be and again it might not. Seeing as how I only saw his back, it's hard to say. I rather think it was the gentleman." 

"But you are not sure?" 

"No-o," said Mason unwillingly, "n-no, I am not sure." 

"You have seen this gentleman before in Curzon Street?" 

Mason shook her head. 

"I should not be likely to see any visitors that come to Curzon Street," she explained, "unless they were staying in the house." 

"Very well, that will do," said the Examining Magistrate sharply. 

Evidently he was disappointed. 

"One moment," said Poirot. "There is a question I would like to put to Mademoiselle, if I may?" 

"Certainly, M. Poirot - certainly, by all means." 

Poirot addressed himself to the maid. 

"What happened to the tickets?" 

"The tickets, sir?" 

"Yes; the tickets from London to Nice. Did you or your mistress have them?" 

"The mistress had her own Pullman ticket, sir; the others were in my charge." 

"What happened to them?" 

"I gave them to the conductor on the French train, sir; he said it was usual. I hope I did right, sir?" 

"Oh, quite right, quite right. A mere matter of detail." 

Both M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate looked at him curiously. Mason stood uncertainly for a minute or two, and then the Magistrate gave her a brief nod of dismissal, and she went out. Poirot scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it across to M. Carrege. The latter read it and his brow cleared. 

"Well, gentlemen," demanded the Count haughtily, "am I to be detained further?" 

"Assuredly not, assuredly not," M. Carrege hastened to say, with a great deal of amiability. "Everything is now cleared up as regards your own position in this affair. Naturally, in view of Madame's letter, we were bound to question you." 

The Count rose, picked up his handsome stick from the corner, and, with rather a curt bow, left the room. 

"And that is that," said M. Carrege. "You were quite right, M. Poirot - much better to let him feel he is not suspected. Two of my men will shadow him night and day, and at the same time we will go into the question of the alibi. It seems to me rather - er - a fluid one." 

"Possibly," agreed Poirot thoughtfully. 

"I asked M. Kettering to come here this morning," continued the Magistrate, "though really I doubt if we have much to ask him, but there are one or two suspicious circumstances -" He paused, rubbing his nose. 

"Such as?" asked Poirot. 

"Well -" the Magistrate coughed - "this lady with whom he is said to be travelling - Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at one hotel and he at another. That strikes me - er - as rather odd." 

"It looks," said M. Caux, "as though they were being careful." 

"Exactly," said M. Carrege triumphantly, "and what should they have to be careful about?" 

"An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?" said Poirot. 

"Précisément." 

"We might, I think," murmured Poirot, "ask M. Kettering one or two questions." 

The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair as ever, entered the room. 

"Good morning, Monsieur," said the Judge politely. 

"Good morning," said Derek Kettering curtly. "You sent for me. Has anything fresh turned up?" 

"Pray sit down, Monsieur." 

Derek took a seat and flung his hat and stick on the table. 

"Well?" he asked impatiently. 

"We have, so far, no fresh data," said M. Carrege cautiously. 

"That's very interesting," said Derek drily. "Did you get me here in order to tell me that?" 

"We naturally thought, Monsieur, that you would like to be informed of the progress of the case," said the Magistrate severely. "Even if the progress was nonexistent." 

"We also wished to ask you a few questions." 

"Ask away." 

"You are quite sure that you neither saw nor spoke with your wife on the train?" 

"I've answered that already. I did not." 

"You had, no doubt, your reasons." 

Derek stared at him suspiciously. 

"I - did - not - know - she - was - on - the - train," he explained, spacing his words elaborately, as though to someone dull of intellect. 

"That is what you say, yes," murmured M. Carrege. 

A frown suffused Derek's face. 

"I should like to know what you're driving at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrege?" 

"What do you think, Monsieur?" 

"I think the French police are vastly overrated. Surely you must have some data as to these gangs of train robbers. It's outrageous that such a thing could happen on a train de luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter." 

"We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never fear." 

"Madame Kettering, I understand, did not leave a will," interposed Poirot suddenly. His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling. 

"I don't think she ever made one," said Kettering. "Why?" 

"It is a very pretty little fortune that you inherit there," said Poirot - 

"a very pretty little fortune." 

Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose to Derek Kettering's face. 

"What do you mean, and who are you?" 

Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face. 

"My name is Hercule Poirot," he said quietly, "and I am probably the greatest detective in the world. You are quite sure that you did not see or speak to your wife on that train?" 

"What are you getting at? Do you - do you mean to insinuate that I - I killed her?" 

He laughed suddenly. 

"I mustn't lose my temper, it's too palpably absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would I?" 

"That is true," murmured Poirot, with a rather crestfallen air. "I did not think of that." 

"If ever there were a clear case of murder and robbery, this is it," said Derek Kettering. "Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies did for her. It must have got about she had them with her. There has been murder done for those same stones before now, I believe." 

Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. He looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed cat. 

"One more question, M. Kettering," he said. "Will you give me the date when you last saw your wife?" 

"Let me see," Kettering reflected. "It must have been – yes, over three weeks ago. I am afraid I can't give you the date exactly." 

"No matter," said Poirot drily, "that is all I wanted to know." 

"Well," said Derek Kettering impatiently, "anything further?" 

He looked towards M. Carrege. The latter sought inspiration from Poirot, and received it in a very faint shake of the head. 

"No, M. Kettering," he said politely, "no, I do not think we need trouble you any further. I wish you good morning." 

"Good morning," said Kettering. He went out, banging the door behind him. 

Poirot leaned forward and spoke sharply, as soon as the young man was out of the room. "Tell me," he said peremptorily, "when did you speak of these rubies to M. Kettering?" 

"I have not spoken of them," said M. Carrege. "It was only yesterday afternoon that we learnt about them from M. Van Aldin." 

"Yes; but there was a mention of them in the Comte's letter." 

M. Carrege looked pained. 

"Naturally I did not speak of that letter to M. Kettering," he said in a shocked voice. "It would have been most indiscreet at the present juncture of affairs." 

Poirot leaned forward and tapped the table. 

"Then how did he know about them?" he demanded softly. 

"Madame could not have told him, for he has not seen her for three weeks. It seems unlikely that either M. Van Aldin or his secretary would have mentioned them; their interviews with him have been on entirely different lines, and there has not been any hint or reference to them in the newspapers." 

He got up and took his hat and stick. 

"And yet," he murmured to himself, "our gentleman knows all about them. I wonder now, yes, I wonder!" 

第十七章 清白的绅士

    “您到过利维埃拉吗，乔治？”波洛在翌日清晨问他的仆人。

    乔治是个典型的英国人，从面部表情无法看出他的内心活动。

    “是的，先生。两年前，那时我在洛德·爱德华·弗兰普顿那里做事。”

    “可是现在，”主人小声说，“现在你是在赫库勒·波洛这里做事了，多么快的进步啊！”

    仆人有点不知所措，不知怎么回答他的话为好。

    过了片刻他问道：

    “给您拿来那件蓝上衣吗？先生，今天有点凉。”

    “上面有一个小污点。”波洛回答道，“星期二我在里茨吃饭时滴上了一点油迹。”

    “污点不在上面了，先生。”乔治回答道，“我已经把它洗掉了，衣服也熨平了。”

    “我对你非常满意，乔治。”

    “谢谢，先生。”

    停了一会儿波洛若有所思地说道：“乔治，假如你出身于一个上流社会阶层，就象你原来的主人洛德·爱德华·弗兰普顿那样，而自己却穷得没有一个先令，可是后来却娶了一个有钱的妻子！而你妻子又要同你离婚而且振振有词。那你将如何呢？”

    “那么，我一定想办法从她的财产中捞一部分。”乔治回答说。

    “用和平的手段，还是用武力解决？”

    “请原谅，先生。”乔治有点受扫曲似的说，“一个贵族决不会采取与本阶级不相称的手段的。”

    “你相信是这样吗，乔治？我有点不太相信这一点。但也许你是对的。”

    响起了敲门声。仆人出去了一下，带回了一封信。这是警察局长科写来的：“我们正在审讯罗歇伯爵。侦察官请您务必出席。”

    “快给我上衣，乔治，我马上要走。”

    一刻钟之后波洛已经到了侦察官的办公室。

    “我们得到一些令人失望的消息。”警察局长通知说，“一切迹象表明，伯爵是在凶杀案发生的前一天到达尼扎的。”

    “如果这消息属实，那么，先生们，一切就要从头开始了。”波洛回答道。

    卡雷热干咳了一声。

    “对于这个‘不在现场’要小心从事，”他宣布了一下。他的话音还未落，就走进一个高个子、黑头发的男人，西装革履，模样看来坦然而自信。人们只要想一想，伯爵的父亲曾在南特城（法国北部的一个城市。译注）当过一名贩买粮食的小商人，就会认为，他的这种极为高贵的架势，简直是对威严的一种侮辱。可是每当他以这副神态出现在人们面前，人们又会坚定的相信，他确实具有贵族的血统。

    “我来了，先生们！”伯爵显出很高傲的样子说道，“请允许我问一下，你们为什么要找我谈话？”

    “请您先坐下。”侦察官很有礼貌地说。“是关于凯特林女士死亡的事。”

    “凯特林女士死了？我简直不懂。”

    “我知道，您同这位女士很要好。”

    “当然，我同她关系很好！可是，这与本案有什么联系？”

    他把单片眼镜举到鼻梁上环顾一下屋里的人们。他的目光慢悠悠地转向波洛，而波洛正在天真地打量着他，仿佛正在向这位绅士献殷勤。

    “看来您还不知道，”卡雷热慢条斯理地说道，“凯特林女士也经被暗杀了。”

    “被暗杀了？真是太可怕了！”

    他所表现的那种对突发事件的感觉和由此产生的内心的痛苦相当逼真。或者说，他真的不知道？

    “凯特林女士在火车通过巴黎和里昂之间时被人勒死了。”卡雷热继续说，“她的首饰也被盗走。”

    “真惨！”伯爵不知所措地说道。

    “在女士的手提包里，”侦察官说，“我们找到一封您写给她的信。您同女士似乎安排过一次约会。”

    伯爵耸了一下肩膀，打了一个无可奈何的手势。

    “阴谋会导演出一切。”他回答道。“如果您们绝对保密，或者只限于在座的几位知道，我就承认有个约会。”

    “您同她谈妥在巴黎会面，然后一起到这里来，是吗？”卡雷热问道。

    “这是我们原来说妥的事情，但是按照女士的愿望，计划改变了。我要在耶尔同她会面。”

    “本月十四号您没有同她在里昂站会面？”

    “相反，我在十四号这天早晨就到达尼扎了。您所说的那种会面是相本不可能的。”

    “当然，当然，”卡雷热说。“为了使事实更加全面，希望您能告诉我们，十四号的晚上和夜间您在哪里？”

    伯爵考虑了一会儿。

    “我在蒙特卡洛用的晚饭，然后去巴黎咖啡馆。从那里出来后，我就到了体育俱乐部。在那我赢了几千法郎。”说着他做了一个手势。“大约半夜一点左右我回到了家。”

    “请原谅，先生，您是怎样回家的？”

    “乘我的双座汽车。”

    “是一个人吗？”

    “是的。”

    “您能找出证人吗？”

    “当然，我可以把当天晚上相见的朋友都找来作证。但我是一个人吃的晚饭。”

    “是您的仆人给您开的别墅的门吗？”

    “我自己有钥匙。”

    “噢！”侦察官惊叹道。

    他叫了一声，门开了，走进一个记录员。

    “让女仆进来。”卡雷热说。

    艾达洛·马松走了进来。

    “请您凭良心讲，小姐，这位先生是否就是到过死者包厢的那个人。”

    女仆仔细端详了伯爵一阵子。当这种调查方式使这位绅士感到难堪之前，波洛就已经走到了他的面前。

    “先生，我不能确切地说。”马松回答道。“可能是他，也可能不是他。先生们，你们可不要忘了，当时那个人是背朝着我的。但是，我认为就是他。”

    “您能不能保证是他？”

    “不，我不能保证。”

    “您在您主人的住处见过这位先生吗？”

    马松摇摇头。

    “谢谢，已经足够了。”侦察官严厉的说道。看来有点失望。

    “请等一下，”波洛说，“我还想向女士问几个问题，如果您允许的话。”

    “当然，波洛先生，那当然。”

    “车票是怎么办理的，小姐？”

    “车票？”

    “是的。是您拿着从伦敦到尼扎的车票，还是您的主人拿着？”

    “卧车票是主人拿着，其它的都在我这里。”

    “后来，怎么样？”

    “我把车票给了法国列车的乘务员，先生，乘务员说不用把车票给他。我不应该这样做吗，先生？”

    “不，不，您做得完全。”

    科和侦察官都很惊奇的看着波洛。

    马松小姐站在那里不知所措，然后她向侦察官点了一下头，离开了房间，波洛在纸条上写了一些什么，把纸条递给了卡雷热。卡雷热读完纸条之后，脸上浮现出开良的神色。

    “怎么，先生们？”伯爵看着大家说：“你们还想长时间地留我在这里吗？”

    “决不，”卡雷热善意地赶忙解释说。“您已经全部回答了我们的问题。因为有一封您给死去的女士写的信，当然我们就有必要问您一些情况。”

    伯爵站起来深深地鞠了一躬便走出办公室。

    “好，一切就绪。”卡雷热说。“波洛先生，您完全正确，最好是让他觉得我们对他没有怀疑。我们派两三个人日夜不停地盯着他，同时我们将‘不在现场’仔细调查一下。看来是要担点风险。”

    “可能是这样。”波洛深思着说。

    “我准备在今天上午把凯特林先生叫来。”侦察官继续说，“虽然我觉得并没有那么多的问题要问他。可是有很多的疑团……”

    “什么疑团？”

    “就是，”侦察官咳嗽了一声，“首先是同凯特林先生一起旅行的那个女士，他俩分住在两个饭店，这真有点奇怪。”

    “看来有点过于小心，是吗？”波洛问道。“我也是这样认为。”

    侦察官给了记录员一个信号，接着德里克·凯特林就进了屋。

    “您好，先生！”德里克回答道。“是您让我到这里来？有什么事吗？”

    “请坐先生。”

    德里克把帽子和手杖放在桌子上，然后坐下。

    “情况怎样？”他有些不耐烦地问道。

    “我们还没有得到进一步的情况。”卡雷热小心地说道。

    “有意思。”德里克满不在意地说，“您让我来难道是为了通知我这些吗？”

    “我们想，先生，关于案子的进展情况，理所当然地应该同您保持联系。”侦察官严肃地说。

    “即使没有什么进展，也要保持这种联系？”

    “除此之外我还想问您几个问题。”

    “那您就问吧！”

    “您能保证说，您在火车里既没有同您夫人谈过话又没有见过她？”

    “我已经回答过个问题。”

    “您应该尽量地保持耐心和克制。”

    德里克猜疑地凝视着他。

    “我——从——来——不——知——道——她——在——火——车——上。”他用一种过于清晰的腔调说话，就象人们对孩子和遇钝的人讲话一样。

    “不过这是您的说法！”卡雷热低声说道。

    德里克摸着下巴。

    “您还想得到什么呢？卡雷热先生，您知道现在我是怎样想的？”

    “那您是怎样想的？”

    “我认为人们过高地估计了法国警察。在‘蓝色特快’上竟会发生这样一桩案子，这是引人瞩目的，而法国警察方面对这一盗窃谋杀案却束手无策，那就更令人瞩目了。”

    “我们会抓到凶手的，请先生不用担心。”

    “据我所知，凯特林女士并没有留下遗嘱。”波洛突然用一种很不和谐的语调插话。

    “我也认为，她没有留下遗嘱，”凯特林说，“怎么？”

    “如果您能继承她的遗产，那是一笔不小的财产。”波洛说。“一笔不小的财产。”

    虽然他的目光没有同时转向德里克，但也发现了他那脸上顿时泛出了红晕。

    “您这是什么意思？您是什么人？”

    波洛现在不是看天花板，而是死盯着前面的这个年青人。

    “我叫赫库勒·波洛。”他回答说，“某些人认为，我是当今世界上最大的侦探。

您能担保，在火车上您既没有同您夫人见面，又没有同她谈过话？”

    “您为什么要问我这个问题？难道您竟会无耻地认为，我会谋杀自己的妻子？”德里克突然大笑起来。“可是，我为什么要激动呢？这一切都是那么可笑！我要杀死她的话，又何必把她的首饰偷去呢？”

    “是这样，”波洛压低声音慢慢悠悠地说，“您看，我根本就没有这样想过。”

    “再没有比这次盗窃谋杀案更为明显的了，”德里克·凯特林说，“我那可怜的露丝！那颗该死的宝石断送了你的性命。我相信，由于这块宝石，肯定原来就有过一次谋杀。”

    波洛猛然地从坐椅上站了起来。他的目光豁然开朗，闪烁着蓝色，宛如一只兴奋的猫。

    “还有一个问题，凯特林先生。您能不能把您同您妻子最全一次见面的时间告诉我们？”

    “请略等一等！”德里克思考了一下，“应该是……三个星期之前。准确的日期恐怕很难记起了。”

    “您不必去回忆了。”波洛无所谓地说道。

    “还有问题吗？”德里克不耐烦地说道。

    德里克看着卡雷热。卡雷热却在看着波洛的反应，一直到波洛轻轻摇了摇头，他才说道：

    “没有了，凯特林先生，我不会再耽误您的时间了。再见，先生。”

    “再见。”凯特林轻声回答后出了门。

    凯特林刚一出门，波洛就严肃地问道：

    “请告诉我，您是什么时候同凯特林先生谈起过宝石的事？”

    “我从来没有同他谈过此事。”卡雷热说，“只是昨天我才从冯·阿尔丁先生那里得知有一块宝石。”

    “是的，但在伯爵的信中已经提起过此事。”

    “您想想，我怎么好对死者的丈夫提起那封信呢。”侦察官说道。他感到有点委曲，因为别人竟会怀疑他这样不审慎。

    波洛一再鞠躬，然后用拳头猛击了一下桌子。

    “他是怎么知道有宝石的呢？”他悄声地问。“女士自己不会同他谈，因为他们已经有几个星期没有见面了。冯·阿尔丁先生亲自和他谈这个事，那更不可能。报界也没有对这块宝石进行过任何的报道。”

    他站起身来，拿起手杖。

    “不，”他低声说，“关于宝石的事有人对他进行过详尽的报告。奇怪，真奇怪！”