The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie Page A

compartments were still shuttered and closed. The lady of the mink coat was clearly no early riser.
    Presently the conductor came to her and told her that in a few minutes the train would arrive at Nice. Katherine handed him a tip; the man thanked her, but still lingered.
    There was something odd about him. Katherine, who had at first wondered whether the tip had not been big enough, was now convinced that something far more serious was amiss. His face was of a sickly pallor, he was shaking all over, and looked as if he had been frightened out of his life. He was eyeing her in a curious manner. Presently he said abruptly: “Madame will excuse me, but is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice?”
    “Probably,” said Katherine. “Why?”
    But the man merely shook his head and murmured something that Katherine could not catch and moved away, not reappearing until the train came to rest at the station, when he started handing her belongings down from the window.
    Katherine stood for a moment or two on the platform rather at a loss, but a fair young man with an ingenuous face came up to her and said rather hesitatingly:
    “Miss Grey, is it not?”
    Katherine said that it was, and the young man beamed upon her seraphically and murmured:
    “I am Chubby, you know - Lady Tamplin's husband. I expect she mentioned me, but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your billet de bagages? I lost mine when I came out this year, and you would not believe the fuss they made about it. Regular French red tape!”
    Katherine produced it, and was just about to move off beside him when a very gentle and insidious voice murmured in her ear:
    “A little moment, Madame, if you please.”
    Katherine turned to behold an individual who made up for insignificance of stature by a large quantity of gold lace and uniform.
    The individual explained. “There were certain formalities. Madame would perhaps be so kind as to accompany him. The regulations of the police -” He threw up his arms. “Absurd, doubtless, but there it was.”
    Mr Chubby Evans listened with a very imperfect comprehension, his French being of a limited order.
    “So like the French,” murmured Mr Evans. He was one of those staunch patriotic Britons who, having made a portion of a foreign country their own, strongly resent the original inhabitants of it. “Always up to some silly dodge or other. They've never tackled people on the station before, though. This is something quite new. I suppose you'll have to go.”
    Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat to her surprise, he led her towards a siding where a coach of the departed train had been shunted. He invited her to mount into this, and, preceding her down the corridor, held aside the door of one of the compartments.
    In it was a pompous-looking official personage, and with him a nondescript being who appeared to be a clerk. The pompous-looking personage rose politely, bowed to Katherine, and said:
    “You will excuse me, Madame, but there are certain formalities to be complied with. Madame speaks French, I trust?”
    “Sufficiently, I think, Monsieur,” replied Katherine in that language.
    “That is good. Pray be seated, Madame. I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police.”
    He blew out his chest importantly, and Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.
    “You wish to see my passport?” she inquired. “Here it is.”
    The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave a little grunt.
    “Thank you, Madame,” he said, taking the passport from her. He cleared his throat.
    “But what I really desire is a little information.”
    “Information?”
    The Commissary nodded his head slowly.
    “About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger of yours. You lunched with her yesterday.”
    “I am afraid I can't tell you anything about her. We fell into conversation over our meal, but she is a complete stranger to me. I have never seen her before.”
    “And yet,” said the Commissary sharply, “you returned to her compartment with her