“Well—you are quite right, I did. I discovered that Kettering was on the rocks.”
“And now he has inherited two million pounds! La vie —it is a strange thing, is it not?”
Van Aldin looked at him sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“I moralise,” said Poirot, “I reflect, I speak the philosophy. But to return to where we were. Surely M. Kettering did not propose to allow himself to be divorced without making a fight for it?”
Van Aldin did not answer for a minute or two, then he said:
“I don’t exactly know what his intentions were.”
“Did you hold any further communications with him?”
Again a slight pause, then Van Aldin said:
“No.”
Poirot stopped dead, took off his hat, and held out his hand.
“I must wish you good day, Monsieur. I can do nothing for you.”
“What are you getting at?” demanded Van Aldin angrily.
“If you do not tell me the truth, I can do nothing.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. You may rest assured, M. Van Aldin, that I know how to be discreet.”