The Mystery of the Blue Train. Agatha Christie
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M. Papopolous, ‘no, no, of course not. And there is news, eh?’
He cast a sharp glance sideways at the other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or benign in the least.
‘There is no news. The attempt failed. I hardly expected anything else.’
‘Quite so,’ said M. Papopolous: ‘anything crude—’
He waved his hand to express his intense distaste for crudity in any form. There was indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous nor about the goods he handled. He was well known in most European courts, and kings called him Demetrius in a friendly manner. He had the reputation for the most exquisite discretion. That, together with the nobility of his aspect, had carried him through several very questionable transactions.
‘The direct attack—’ said M. Papopolous. He shook his head. ‘It answers sometimes—but very seldom.’
The other shrugged his shoulders.
‘It saves time,’ he remarked, ‘and to fail costs nothing—or next to nothing. The other plan—will not fail.’
‘Ah,’ said M. Papopolous, looking at him keenly.
The other nodded slowly.
‘I have great confidence in your—er—reputation,’ said the antique dealer.
M. le Marquis smiled gently.
‘I think I may say,’ he murmured, ‘that your confidence will not be misplaced.’
‘You have unique opportunities,’ said the other, with a note of envy in his voice.
‘I make them,’ said M. le Marquis.
He rose and took up the cloak which he had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.
‘I will keep you informed, M. Papopolous, through the usual channels, but there must be no hitch in your arrangements.’
M. Papopolous was pained.
‘There is never a hitch in my arrangements,’ he complained.
The other smiled, and without any further word of adieu he left the room, closing the door behind him.
M. Papopolous remained in thought for a moment, stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door which opened inwards. As he turned the handle, a young woman, who only too clearly had been leaning against it with her ear to the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise nor concern. It was evidently all quite natural to him.
‘Well, Zia?’ he asked.
‘I did not hear him go,’ explained Zia.
She was a handsome young woman, built on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes and such a general air of resemblance to M. Papopolous that it was easy to see they were father and daughter.
‘It is annoying,’ she continued vexedly, ‘that one cannot see through a keyhole and hear through it at the same time.’
‘It has often annoyed me,’ said M. Papopolous, with great simplicity.
‘So that is M. le Marquis,’ said Zia slowly. ‘Does he always wear a mask, Father?’
‘Always.’
There was a pause.
‘It is the rubies, I suppose?’ asked Zia.
Her father nodded.
‘What do you think, my little one?’ he inquired, with a hint of amusement in his beady black eyes.
‘Of M. le Marquis?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think,’ said Zia slowly, ‘that it is a very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman who speaks French as well as that.’
‘Ah!’ said M. Papopolous, ‘so that is what you think.’
As usual, he did not commit himself, but he regarded Zia with benign approval.
‘I thought, too,’ said Zia, ‘that his head was an odd shape.’
‘Massive,’ said her father—‘a trifle massive. But then that effect is always created by a wig.’
They both looked at each other and smiled.
Rufus Van Aldin passed through the revolving doors of the Savoy, and walked to the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a respectful greeting.
‘Pleased to see you back again, Mr Van Aldin,’ he said.
The American millionaire nodded his head in a casual greeting.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in the suite now.’
Van Aldin nodded again.
‘Any mail?’ he vouchsafed.
‘They have all been sent up, Mr Van Aldin. Oh! wait a minute.’
He dived into a pigeon-hole, and produced a letter.
‘Just come this minute,’ he explained.
Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman’s flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed. The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He looked a different man. He walked across to the lift with the letter in his hand and the smile still on his lips.
In the drawing-room of his suite, a young man was sitting at a desk nimbly sorting correspondence with the ease born of long practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.
‘Hallo, Knighton!’
‘Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good time?’
‘So so!’ said the millionaire unemotionally. ‘Paris is rather a one-horse city nowadays. Still—I got what I went over for.’
He smiled to himself rather grimly.
‘You usually do, I believe,’ said the secretary, laughing.
‘That’s so,’ agreed the other.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the desk.
‘Anything urgent?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. Mostly the usual stuff. I have not quite finished sorting it out.’
Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man who seldom expressed either blame or praise. His methods with those he employed were simple; he gave them a fair trial and dismissed promptly those who were inefficient. His selections of people were unconventional. Knighton, for instance, he had met casually at a Swiss resort two months previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it the explanation of the limp with which he walked. Knighton had made no secret of the fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the young man’s complete astonishment when he had been offered the post of secretary to the great man himself.
‘But—but I have no experience of business,’ he had stammered.
‘That doesn’t matter a cuss,’ Van Aldin had replied. ‘I have got three secretaries already to attend to that kind of thing. But I am likely to be in England for the next six months, and I want an Englishman who—well, knows the ropes—and can attend to the social side of things for me.’
So