The Mystery of the Blue Train. Agatha Christie
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said the American politely.
‘I have your word, have I not, that no details of this transaction will be made public? That is one of the conditions of—sale.’
The American nodded.
‘That has already been agreed upon,’ he said indifferently. ‘Now, perhaps, you will produce the goods.’
‘You have the money—in notes?’
‘Yes,’ replied the other.
He did not, however, make any attempt to produce it. After a moment’s hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel on the table.
The American took it up and unrolled the wrapping paper. The contents he took over to a small electric lamp and submitted them to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet and extracted from it a wad of notes. These he handed to the Russian, who counted them carefully.
‘All right?’
‘I thank you, Monsieur. Everything is correct.’
‘Ah!’ said the other. He slipped the brown paper parcel negligently into his pocket. He bowed to Olga. ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle. Good evening, M. Krassnine.’
He went out, shutting the door behind him. The eyes of the two in the room met. The man passed his tongue over his dry lips.
‘I wonder—will he ever get back to his hotel?’ he muttered.
By common accord, they both turned to the window. They were just in time to see the American emerge into the street below. He turned to the left and marched along at a good pace without once turning his head. Two shadows stole from a doorway and followed noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff spoke.
‘He will get back safely,’ she said. ‘You need not fear—or hope—whichever it is.’
‘Why do you think he will be safe?’ asked Krassnine curiously.
‘A man who has made as much money as he has could not possibly be a fool,’ said Olga. ‘And talking of money—’
She looked significantly at Krassnine.
‘Eh?’
‘My share, Boris Ivanovitch.’
With some reluctance, Krassnine handed over two of the notes. She nodded her thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and tucked them away in her stocking.
‘That is good,’ she remarked, with satisfaction.
He looked at her curiously.
‘You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?’
‘Regrets? For what?’
‘For what has been in your keeping. There are women—most women, I believe, who go mad over such things.’
She nodded reflectively.
‘Yes, you speak truth there. Most women have that madness. I—have not. I wonder now—’ She broke off.
‘Well?’ asked the other curiously.
‘The American will be safe with them—yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards—’
‘Eh? What are you thinking of ?’
‘He will give them, of course, to some woman,’ said Olga thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what will happen then…’
She shook herself impatiently and went over to the window. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation and called to her companion.
‘See, he is going down the street now—the man I mean.’
They both gazed down together. A slim, elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely pace. He wore an opera hat and a cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light illuminated a thatch of thick white hair.
The man with the white hair continued on his course, unhurried, and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. He took a side turning to the right and another one to the left. Now and then he hummed a little air to himself.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a certain sound. It might have been the bursting of a tyre or it might have been—a shot. A curious smile played round his lips for a minute. Then he resumed his leisurely walk.
On turning a corner he came upon a scene of some activity. A representative of the law was making notes in a pocket-book, and one or two late passers-by had collected on the spot. To one of these the man with the white hair made a polite request for information.
‘Something has been happening, yes?’
‘Mais oui, Monsieur. Two apaches set upon an elderly American gentleman.’
‘They did him no injury?’
‘No, indeed.’ The man laughed. ‘The American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired shots so closely round them that they took alarm and fled. The police, as usual, arrived too late.’
‘Ah!’ said the inquirer.
He displayed no emotion of any kind.
Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed the Seine and came into the richer areas of the city. It was some twenty minutes later that he came to a stop before a certain house in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.
The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer in antiques, was so known to fame that he needed no advertisement, and indeed most of his business was not done over a counter. M. Papopolous had a very handsome apartment of his own overlooking the Champs Elysées, and it might reasonably be supposed that he would have been found there and not at his place of business at such an hour, but the man with the white hair seemed confident of success as he pressed the obscurely placed bell, having first given a quick glance up and down the deserted street.
His confidence was not misplaced. The door opened and a man stood in the aperture. He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a swarthy cast of countenance.
‘Good evening,’ said the stranger. ‘Your master is within?’
‘The master is here, but he does not see chance visitors at this time of night,’ growled the other.
‘I think he will see me. Tell him that his friend M. le Marquis is here.’
The man opened the door a little wider and allowed the visitor to enter.
The man who gave his name as M. le Marquis had shielded his face with his hand as he spoke. When the man-servant returned with the information that M. Papopolous would be pleased to receive the visitor a further change had taken place in the stranger’s appearance. The man-servant must have been very unobservant or very well trained, for he betrayed no surprise at the small black satin mask which hid the other’s features. Leading the way to a door at the end of the hall, he opened it and announced in a respectful murmur: ‘M. le Marquis.’
The figure which rose to receive this strange guest was an imposing one. There was something venerable and patriarchal about M. Papopolous. He had a high domed forehead and a beautiful white beard. His manner had in it something ecclesiastical and benign.
‘My dear friend,’ said M. Papopolous.
He spoke in French and his tones were rich and unctuous.
‘I must apologise,’ said the visitor, ‘for the lateness of the hour.’
‘Not at all. Not at all,’ said M.