The Mystery of the Blue Train. Agatha Christie
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the night I bought these things.’
He made a gesture towards the jewel case.
‘Oh, do tell me.’
‘Nothing to tell, Ruthie. Some apache fellows got a bit fresh and I shot at them and they got off. That’s all.’
She looked at him with some pride.
‘You’re a tough proposition, Dad.’
‘You bet I am, Ruthie.’
He kissed her affectionately and departed. On arriving back at the Savoy, he gave a curt order to Knighton.
‘Get hold of a man called Goby; you’ll find his address in my private book. He’s to be here tomorrow morning at half-past nine.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I also want to see Mr Kettering. Run him to earth for me if you can. Try his Club—at any rate, get hold of him somehow, and arrange for me to see him here tomorrow morning. Better make it latish, about twelve. His sort aren’t early risers.’
The secretary nodded in comprehension of these instructions. Van Aldin gave himself into the hands of his valet. His bath was prepared, and as he lay luxuriating in the hot water, his mind went back over the conversation with his daughter. On the whole he was well satisfied. His keen mind had long since accepted the fact that divorce was the only possible way out. Ruth had agreed to the proposed solution with more readiness than he had hoped for. Yet, in spite of her acquiescence, he was left with a vague sense of uneasiness. Something about her manner, he felt, had not been quite natural. He frowned to himself.
‘Maybe I’m fanciful,’ he muttered, ‘and yet—I bet there’s something she has not told me.’
Rufus Van Aldin had just finished the sparse breakfast of coffee and dry toast, which was all he ever allowed himself, when Knighton entered the room.
‘Mr Goby is below, sir, waiting to see you.’
The millionaire glanced at the clock. It was just half-past nine.
‘All right,’ he said curtly. ‘He can come up.’
A minute or two later, Mr Goby entered the room. He was a small, elderly man, shabbily dressed, with eyes that looked carefully all round the room, and never at the person he was addressing.
‘Good morning, Goby,’ said the millionaire. ‘Take a chair.’
‘Thank you, Mr Van Aldin.’
Mr Goby sat down with his hands on his knees, and gazed earnestly at the radiator.
‘I have got a job for you.’
‘Yes, Mr Van Aldin?’
‘My daughter is married to the Hon. Derek Kettering, as you may perhaps know.’
Mr Goby transferred his gaze from the radiator to the left-hand drawer of the desk, and permitted a deprecating smile to pass over his face. Mr Goby knew a great many things, but he always hated to admit the fact.
‘By my advice, she is about to file a petition for divorce. That, of course, is a solicitor’s business. But, for private reasons, I want the fullest and most complete information.’
Mr Goby looked at the cornice and murmured:
‘About Mr Kettering?’
‘About Mr Kettering.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Mr Goby rose to his feet.
‘When will you have it ready for me?’
‘Are you in a hurry, sir?’
‘I’m always in a hurry,’ said the millionaire.
Mr Goby smiled understandingly at the fender.
‘Shall we say two o’clock this afternoon, sir?’ he asked.
‘Excellent,’ approved the other. ‘Good morning, Goby.’
‘Good morning, Mr Van Aldin.’
‘That’s a very useful man,’ said the millionaire as Goby went out and his secretary came in. ‘In his own line he’s a specialist.’
‘What is his line?’
‘Information. Give him twenty-four hours and he would lay the private life of the Archbishop of Canterbury bare for you.’
‘A useful sort of chap,’ said Knighton, with a smile.
‘He has been useful to me once or twice,’ said Van Aldin. ‘Now then, Knighton, I’m ready for work.’
The next few hours saw a vast quantity of business rapidly transacted. It was half-past twelve when the telephone bell rang, and Mr Van Aldin was informed that Mr Kettering had called. Knighton looked at Van Aldin, and interpreted his brief nod.
‘Ask Mr Kettering to come up, please.’
The secretary gathered up his papers and departed. He and the visitor passed each other in the doorway, and Derek Kettering stood aside to let the other go out. Then he came in, shutting the door behind him.
‘Good morning, sir. You are very anxious to see me, I hear.’
The lazy voice with its slightly ironic inflection roused memories in Van Aldin. There was charm in it—there had always been charm in it. He looked piercingly at his son-in-law. Derek Kettering was thirty-four, lean of build, with a dark, narrow face, which had even now something indescribably boyish in it.
‘Come in,’ said Van Aldin curtly. ‘Sit down.’
Kettering flung himself lightly into an arm-chair. He looked at his father-in-law with a kind of tolerant amusement.
‘Not seen you for a long time, sir,’ he remarked pleasantly. ‘About two years, I should say. Seen Ruth yet?’
‘I saw her last night,’ said Van Aldin.
‘Looking very fit, isn’t she?’ said the other lightly.
‘I didn’t know you had had much opportunity of judging,’ said Van Aldin drily.
Derek Kettering raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh, we sometimes meet at the same night club, you know,’ he said airily.
‘I am not going to beat about the bush,’ Van Aldin said curtly. ‘I have advised Ruth to file a petition for divorce.’
Derek Kettering seemed unmoved.
‘How drastic!’ he murmured. ‘Do you mind if I smoke, sir?’
He lit a cigarette, and puffed out a cloud of smoke as he added nonchalantly:
‘And what did Ruth say?’
‘Ruth proposes to take my advice,’ said her father.
‘Does she really?’
‘Is that all you have got to say?’ demanded Van Aldin sharply.
Kettering flicked his ash into the grate.
‘I think, you know,’ he said, with a detached air, ‘that she’s making a great mistake.’
‘From your point of view she doubtless is,’ said Van Aldin grimly.
‘Oh, come now,’ said the other; ‘don’t let’s be personal. I really wasn’t thinking of myself at the moment. I was thinking of Ruth. You know my poor old Governor really can’t last much