Thirty four, the Blue Train again the Millionaire's Train, as it is sometimes called, swung round a curve of line at what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Alden, Knighton, and Poirot sat together in silence. Knighton and van Alden had two compartments, connecting with each other as Ruth Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful journey. Poirot's own compartment was further along the coach. The journey was a painful one for van Alden, recalling as it did
the most agonizing memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed occasionally in low tones, without disturbing him. When, however, the train had completed its slow journey round the Saincture and reached the Gardelion, Poirot became suddenly galvanized into activity. Van Alden realized that part of his object in traveling by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime. Arrow himself acted every part he was in turn.
The maid hurriedly shut into her own compartment, Missus Kettering recognizing her husband with surprise and a trace of anxiety, and Derrick Kettering discovering that his wife was traveling on the train. He tested various possibilities, such as the best way for a person to conceal himself in the second compartment. Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He clutched at Vanalden's arm. Mon dieu, but that is something I have not thought of. We must break our journey
in Paris, quick, quick, let us alight at once. Seizing suit cases, he hurried from the train. Vanalden and Knighton, bewildered but obedient, followed him. Vanalden, having once formed his opinion of Poirot's ability, was slow to part from it. At the barrier, they were held up. Their tickets were in charge of the conductor of the train, a fact which all three of them had forgotten. Puarro's explanations were rapid, fluent and
impassioned, but they produced no effect upon the stolid faced official. Let us get quit of this, said van Alden abruptly. I gather you are in a hurry, Monsieur Poirot. For God's sake, pay the fares from Calais, and let us get right on with whatever you have got in your mind. But Puaro's flood of language had suddenly stopped dead, and he had the appearance of a man turned to stone, his arm still outflung in an impassioned
gesture, remained there as though stricken with paralysis. I have been an imbecile, he said, simply, Ma FOI I lose my head nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With reasonable luck, the train will not have gone. They were only just in time, the train moving off as no knighton the last of the three, swung himself in his suit case on board. The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly and assisted them to carry their
luggage back to their compartments. Van Alden said nothing, but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot's extraordinary conduct. Alone with knighton for a moment or two, he remarked, this is a wild goose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He has got brains up to a point. But any man who loses his head and scuttles round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly
darned good. Poirot came to them in a moment or two, full of abject apologies, and clearly so crestfallen that harsh words would have been superfluous van Alden received his apologies gravely, but managed to restrain himself from making acid comments. They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the surprise of the other two, Poirot suggested that they should all three set up in van Alden's compartment. The millionaire looked at him curiously, enough, is there
anything that you are keeping back from us, Monsieur Poirot. I Poirot opened his eyes in innocent surprise. But what an idea? Vanalden did not answer, but he was not satisfied. The conductor was told that he need not make up the beds. Any surprise he might have felt was obliterated by the largeness of the tip which Vanalden handed to him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot fidgeted and seemed restless. Presently he turned to the secretary,
Major Knighton, is the door of your compartment bolted? The door into the corridor? I mean yes, I bolted it myself. Just now, are you sure, said Poirot. I will go and make sure if you like, said Knighton, smiling. No, no, do not derange yourself. I will see for myself. He passed through the connecting door, and returned in a second or two, nodding his head. Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must pardon an old man's fussy ways. He
closed the connecting door and resumed his place in the right hand corner. The hours passed, the three men dozed fitfully, waking with uncomfortable starts. Probably never before had three people booked berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to avail themselves of the accommodations they had paid for. Every now and then, Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head and composed
himself to slumber once more. On one occasion, he rose from his seat and opened the connecting door, peered sharply into the adjoining compartment, and then returned to his seat, shaking his head. What is the matter, whispered Knighton. You are expecting something to happen, aren't you. I have the nerves, confessed Paro. I am like the cat upon the hot tiles.
Every little noise it makes me jump. Nighton yawned. Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys, he murmured, I suppose you know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot. He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Vanalden had succumbed to slumber when Poirot, glancing for the fourteenth time at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire on the shoulder. Eh,
what is it? In five or ten minutes, monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyon, my God, Vanalden's face looked white and haggard in the dim light. Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was killed. He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little, his mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his life. There was the usual long, screaming sigh of the break, and the train slackened speed and drew into lions. Vanalden let down the window and leant
out. If it wasn't Deryck, If your new theory is correct, it is here that the man left the train, he asked over his shoulder. Rather to his surprise, Poirot shook his head. No, he said, thoughtfully, no man left the train. But I think yes, I think a woman may have done so. Knighton gave a gasp a woman, demanded Vanalden sharply, Yes, a woman, said Poirot, nodding his head.
You may not remember, Monsieur Vanalden, but miss Gray in her evidence, mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat descended on to the platform, ostensibly to stretch his legs. Me I think that that youth was most probably a woman. But who was she? Vanalden's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously and categorically. Her name, or the name under which she was
known for many years, is Kitty Kid. But you, Monsieur Vanalden, knew her by another name, that of Ada Mason Knight and sprang to his feet. What he cried, Poirot swung round to him. Ah, before I forget it. He whipped something from a pocket and held it out. Permit me to offer you a cigarette out of your own cigarette case. It was careless of you to drop it when you boarded the train on the cincture at Paris. Knighton stood staring at him as though stupefied. Then he made
a movement, but Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture. No, don't move, he said, in a silky voice. The door into the next compartment is open, and you are being covered from there this minute. I unbolted the door into the corridor. When we left Paris and our friends, the police were told to take their places there. As I expect you know, the French police want you rather urgently, Major knighton or shall we say, monsieur le marquis