adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been made up. Three or four rugs were piled loosely on the seat; there was a hatbox and a couple of suitcases. He turned suddenly to Katherine.
“You were in here yesterday,” he said. “Do you see anything changed, anything missing?”
Katherine looked carefully round both compartments.
“Yes,” she said, “there is something missing—a scarlet morocco case. It had the initials ‘ R. V. K. ’ on it. It might have been a small dressing-case or a big jewel-case. When I saw it, the maid was holding it.”
“Ah!” said Poirot.
“But, surely,” said Katherine, “I—of course, I don’t know anything about such things, but surely it is plain enough, if the maid and the jewel-case are missing?”
“You mean that it was the maid who was the thief? No, Mademoiselle, there is a very good reason against that.”
“What?”
“The maid was left behind in Paris.”
He turned to Poirot. “I should like you to hear the conductor’s story yourself,” he murmured confidentially. “It is very suggestive.”
“Mademoiselle would doubtless like to hear it also,” said Poirot. “You do not object, Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“No,” said the Commissary, who clearly did object very much. “No, certainly, M. Poirot, if you say so. You have finished here?”
“I think so. One little minute.”