The Mystery of the Blue Train. Агата Кристи
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woman might bring him bad luck. Suppose—suppose that should prove to be true. From the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk. For once his memory had not played him false. A lady—a lady in every sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful. But with something—grey eyes that might perhaps see too much. He knew as he went out of the door that in some way he was afraid of this woman. He had a sense of fatality.
He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.
‘Take this cheque, Pavett, and go round to Cook’s in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Pavett withdrew.
Derek strolled over to a side-table and picked up a handful of letters. They were of a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and large bills, one and all pressing for payment. The tone of the demands was still polite. Derek knew how soon that polite tone would change if—if certain news became public property.
He flung himself moodily into a large, leather-covered chair. A damned hole—that was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole! And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.
Pavett appeared with a discreet cough.
‘A gentleman to see you—sir—Major Knighton.’
‘Knighton, eh?’
Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself: ‘Knighton—I wonder what is in the wind now?’
‘Shall I—er—show him in, sir?’
His master nodded. When Knighton entered the room he found a charming and genial host awaiting him.
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