He glanced at the other two. They were deep in conversation, absorbed in each other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction, and then leant towards the millionaire, lowering his voice as he did so.
“It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M. Van Aldin. Observe just opposite us that tall old man—the one with the yellow face and the venerable beard.”
“Well, what of him?”
“That,” Poirot said, “is M. Papopolous.”
“A Greek, eh?”
“As you say—a Greek. He is a dealer in antiques of worldwide reputation. He has a small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by the police of being something more.”
“What?”
“A receiver of stolen goods, especially jewels. There is nothing as to the re-cutting and resetting of gems that he does not know. He deals with the highest in Europe and with the lowest of the riffraff of the underworld.”
Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly awakened attention.
“Well?” he demanded, a new note in his voice.
“I ask myself,” said Poirot, “I, Hercule Poirot”—he thumped himself dramatically on the chest—“ask myself why is M. Papopolous suddenly come to Nice? ”
Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment he had doubted Poirot and suspected the little man of being past his job, a poseur only. Now, in a moment, he switched back to his original opinion. He looked straight at the little detective.