‘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 travelling-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 Mr 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 I want to know 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 travelled 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!’