The Mystery of the Blue Train

‘Let me see that evening dress once more,’ said Katherine—‘the pinky mauve one.’

Virginie appeared, circling slowly.

‘That is the prettiest of all,’ said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies of mauve and grey and blue. ‘What do you call it?’

‘Soupir d’automne; yes, yes, that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.’

What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness after she had left the dressmaking establishment?

‘“Soupir d’automne; that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.”’ Autumn, yes, it was autumn for her. She who had never known spring or summer, and would never know them now. Something she had lost never could be given to her again. These years of servitude in St Mary Mead—and all the while life passing by.

‘I am an idiot,’ said Katherine. ‘I am an idiot. What do I want? Why, I was more contented a month ago than I am now.’

She drew out from her handbag the letter she had received that morning from Lady Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She understood the nuances of that letter as well as anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin’s sudden show of affection towards a long-forgotten cousin was not lost upon her. It was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady Tamplin was so anxious for the company of her dear cousin. Well, why not? There would be profit on both sides.

‘I will go,’ said Katherine.

She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook’s to clinch the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes. The man with whom the clerk was engaged was also going to the Riviera. Everyone, she felt, was going. Well, for the first time in her life, she, too, would be doing what ‘everybody’ did.

The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his place. She made her demand to the clerk, but at the same time half of her mind was busy with something else. That man’s face—in some vague way it was familiar to her. Where had she seen him before? Suddenly she remembered. It was in the Savoy outside her room that morning. She had collided with him in the passage. Rather an odd coincidence that she should run into him twice in a day. She glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy by something, she knew not what. The man was standing in the doorway looking back at her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine; she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom impending…

Then she shook the impression from her with her usual good sense and turned her whole attention to what the clerk was saying.

CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_3f52258e-dd85-55bc-8e23-4329ee2d2e77)

An Offer Refused (#ulink_3f52258e-dd85-55bc-8e23-4329ee2d2e77)

It was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed his temper to get the better of him. An easy-going insouciance was his chief characteristic, and it had stood him in good stead in more than one tight corner. Even now, by the time he had left Mirelle’s flat, he had cooled down. He had need of coolness. The corner he was in now was a tighter one than he had ever been in before, and unforeseen factors had arisen with which, for the moment, he did not know how to deal.

He strolled along deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, and there was none of the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well upon him. Various possibilities floated through his mind. It might have been said of Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool than he looked. He saw several roads that he might take—one in particular. If he shrank from it, it was for the moment only. Desperate ills need desperate remedies. He had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war between Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin could end only one way. Derek damned money and the power of money vehemently to himself. He walked up St James’s Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed the offices of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Sons his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however, still turning the matter over in his mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod of his head, turned sharply—so sharply as to collide with a couple of pedestrians who were following in his footsteps, and went back the way he had come. This time he did not pass Cook’s, but went in. The office was comparatively empty, and he got attended to at once.

‘I want to go to Nice next week. Will you give me particulars?’

‘What date, sir?’

‘The fourteenth. What is the best train?’

‘Well, of course, the best train is what they call “The Blue Train”. You avoid the tiresome Customs business at Calais.’

Derek nodded. He knew all this, none better.

‘The fourteenth,’ murmured the clerk; ‘that is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always all booked up.’

‘See if there is a berth left,’ said Derek. ‘If there is not—’ He left the sentence unfinished, with a curious smile on his face.

The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. ‘That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one of them. What name?’

‘Pavett,’ said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street.

The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.

‘I want to go to Nice—on the fourteenth. Isn’t there a train called the Blue Train?’

Derek looked round sharply.

Coincidence—a strange coincidence. He remembered his own half-whimsical words to Mirelle. ‘Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again.’ But he had seen her again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the same day as he did.

Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this 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.