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Nanik Tolaram

Software Development with Go

Cloud-Native Programming using Golang with
Linux and Docker
Nanik Tolaram
Sydney, NSW, Australia

ISBN 978-1-4842-8730-9 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-8731-6

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-8731-6

© Nanik Tolaram 2023

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in
any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from
the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for
general use.

The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that
the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and
accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the
authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with
respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or
omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral
with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional
affiliations.
This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress
Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
I would like to dedicate this book to my late Dad who stood by me
and encouraged me to write my very first book when I was 17 years
old. To my dearest Mum who always supported me in pursuing my
dreams and encouraged me to keep on going no matter what life
brings. To my beautiful wife and best friend for allowing me the time
to write the book and supporting me in every step of our life. To both
my sons, Rahul and Manav, for allowing me to spend time in front of
the computer on weekends to chase my dream and passion. Last but
not least, to God for giving me this life and opportunity to be where I
am in this world.
Introduction
Go has been out for more than 10 years, and open source projects
were developed using Go. The aim of this book is to show you the
way to use Go to write a variety of applications that are useful in
cloud-based systems.
Deploying applications into the cloud is a normal process that
developers do every day. There are many questions that developers
ask themselves about the cloud, like

How do containers work in a cloud environment?

How do cloud monitoring applications knows how much
memory is left for my virtual machines?
How can I build a high performance networking server in
Linux environment?
How do I scan code before deploying to the cloud to stop
code deployment if it contains related information?

and many other cloud-relevant questions.

The book talk about different topics that are relevant in today’s
cloud environment. The approach is to explain each topic at a high
level and then help you understand it by going through the details
with the code. The book uses combination of open source projects
hosted in GitHub and sample code. The open source projects chosen
are relevant to the topic. You will get a good grasp about the tool and
also how the code works internally.
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub
(https://github.com/Apress). For more detailed information, please
visit www.apress.com/source-code.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to everyone on the Apress team who helped and guided me
so much. Special thanks to James Robinson-Prior who guided me
through the writing process and to Nirmal Selvaraj who made sure
everything was done correctly and things were on track.
Thanks to the technical reviewers for taking time from their busy
schedules to review my book and provide great feedback.
Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for spending time reading this
book and spreading the love of Go.
Table of Contents
Part I: System Programming
Chapter 1:​System Calls
Source Code
What Is a System Call?​
C System Call
sys/​unix Package
System Call in Go
Summary
Chapter 2:​System Calls Using Go
Source Code
Syscall Package
syscall Application
Checking Disk Space
Webserver with syscall
ELF Package
High-Level ELF Format
Dump Example
/​sys Filesystem
Reading AppArmor
Summary
Chapter 3:​Accessing proc File System
Source Code
Peeking Inside procfs
Reading Memory Information
Peeking Network Information
 Using the procfs Library
Code Sample
Inside the procfs Library
Summary
Part II: Containers
Chapter 4:​Simple Containers
Linux Namespace
cgroups
rootfs
Gontainer Project
Summary
Chapter 5:​Containers with Networking
Source Code
Network Namespace
Setting Up with the ip Tool
Containers with Networks
Summary
Chapter 6:​Docker Security
Source Code
seccomp Profiles
libseccomp
Docker seccomp
Docker Proxy
Container Attack Surface
Summary
Part III: Application Security
Chapter 7:​Gosec and AST
 Source Code
Abstract Syntax Tree
Modules
Sample Code
gosec
Inside gosec
Rules
Summary
Chapter 8:​Scorecard
Source Code
What Is Scorecard?​
Setting Up Scorecard
Running Scorecard
High-Level Flow
GitHub
GitHub API
GitHub Explorer
Summary
Part IV: Networking
Chapter 9:​Simple Networking
Source Code
TCP Networking
TCP Client
TCP Server
UDP Networking
UDP Client
UDP Server
 Concurrent Servers
Load Testing
Summary
Chapter 10:​System Networking
Source Code
Ping Utility
Code Walkthrough
DNS Server
Running a DNS Server
DNS Forwarder
Pack and Unpack
Summary
Chapter 11:​Google gopacket
Source Code
gopacket
Layer
Packet
Using gopacket
pcap
Networking Sniffer
Capturing With BPF
Summary
Chapter 12:​Epoll Library
Source Code
Understanding epoll
epoll in Golang
Epoll Registration
 Epoll Wait
Epoll Library
Summary
Part V: Securing Linux
Chapter 13:​Vulnerability Scanner
Source Code
Vulnerability Scanners
Using Vuls
Checking Out the Code
Running Scan
Learning From Vuls
Port Scan
Exec
SQLite
Summary
Chapter 14:​CrowdSec
Source Code
CrowdSec Project
Using CrowdSec
crowdsec.​db
Learning From CrowdSec
System Signal Handling
Handling Service Dependencies
GeoIP Database
Summary
Part VI: Terminal User Interface
Chapter 15:​ANSI and UI
 Source Code
ANSI Escape Code
ANSI-Based UI
Color Table
Styling Text
Open Source Library
Gookit
Spinner
Summary
Chapter 16:​TUI Framework
uiprogress
Code Flow
Updating Progress
Bubbletea
Init
Update
View
Summary
Part VII: Linux System
Chapter 17:​systemd
Source Code
systemd
systemctl
Hello Server systemd
go-systemd Library
Summary
Chapter 18:​cadvisor
 Source Code
Running cAdvisor
Web User Interface
Architecture
Initialization
Manager
Monitoring Filesystem
Information from /​sys and /​proc
Client Library
Summary
Index
Other documents randomly have
different content
"A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!" said Poirot. His eyes were green
and cat-like. "How interesting!"
"I had it from a friend of mine," said Mr. Aarons. "But, for all I know,
it may be coloured glass. They are all the same, these women—they
never stop telling tall stories about their jewels. Mirelle goes about
bragging that it has got a curse on it. 'Heart of Fire,' I think she calls
it."
"But if I remember rightly," said Poirot, "the ruby that is named
'Heart of Fire' is the centre stone in a necklace."
"There you are! Didn't I tell you there is no end to the lies women
will tell about their jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a
platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said before, ten to one it is
a bit of coloured glass."
"No," said Poirot gently; "no—somehow I do not think it is coloured
glass."

32. Katherine and Poirot Compare Notes

"You have changed, Mademoiselle," said Poirot suddenly. He and
Katherine were seated opposite each other at a small table at the
Savoy.
"Yes, you have changed," he continued.
"In what way?"
"Mademoiselle, these nuances are difficult to express."
"I am older."
"Yes, you are older. And by that I do not mean that the wrinkles and
the crows' feet are coming. When I first saw you, Mademoiselle, you
were a looker-on at life. You had the quiet, amused look of one who
sits back in the stalls and watches the play."
"And now?"
"Now, you no longer watch. It is an absurd thing, perhaps, that I say
here, but you have the wary look of a fighter who is playing a
difficult game."
"My old lady is difficult sometimes," said Katherine, with a smile;
"but I can assure you that I don't engage in deadly contests with
her. You must go down and see her some day, Monsieur Poirot. I
think you are one of the people who would appreciate her pluck and
her spirit."
There was a silence while the waiter deftly served them with chicken
en casserole. When he had departed, Poirot said:
"You have heard me speak of my friend Hastings?—he who said that
I was a human oyster. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, I have met my match
in you. You, far more than I, play a lone hand."
"Nonsense," said Katherine lightly.
"Never does Hercule Poirot talk nonsense. It is as I say."
Again there was a silence. Poirot broke it by inquiring:
"Have you seen any of our Riviera friends since you have been back,
Mademoiselle?"
"I have seen something of Major Knighton."
"A-ha! Is that so?"
Something in Poirot's twinkling eyes made Katherine lower hers.
"So Mr. Van Aldin remains in London?"
"Yes."
"I must try to see him to-morrow or the next day."
"You have news for him?"
"What makes you think that?"
"I—wondered, that is all."
Poirot looked across at her with twinkling eyes.
"And now, Mademoiselle, there is much that you wish to ask me, I
can see that. And why not? Is not the affair of the Blue Train our
own 'Roman Policier'?"
"Yes, there are things I should like to ask you."
"Eh bien?"
Katherine looked up with a sudden air of resolution.
"What were you doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot smiled slightly.
"I made a call at the Russian Embassy."
"Oh."
"I see that that tells you nothing. But I will not be a human oyster.
No, I will lay my cards on the table, which is assuredly a thing that
oysters do not do. You suspect, do you not, that I am not satisfied
with the case against Derek Kettering?"
"That is what I have been wondering. I thought, in Nice, that you
had finished with the case."
"You do not say all that you mean, Mademoiselle. But I admit
everything. It was I—my researches—which placed Derek Kettering
where he is now. But for me the Examining Magistrate would still be
vainly trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de la Roche. Eh bien,
Mademoiselle, what I have done I do not regret. I have only one
duty—to discover the truth, and that way led straight to Mr.
Kettering. But did it end there? The police say yes, but I, Hercule
Poirot, am not satisfied."
He broke off suddenly. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, have you heard from
Mademoiselle Lenox lately?"
"One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I think, annoyed with me for
coming back to England."
Poirot nodded.
"I had an interview with her the night that Monsieur Kettering was
arrested. It was an interesting interview in more ways than one."
Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not interrupt his train of
thought.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last, "I am now on delicate ground, yet I
will say this to you. There is, I think, some one who loves Monsieur
Kettering—correct me if I am wrong—and for her sake—well—for her
sake I hope that I am right and the police are wrong. You know who
that some one is?"
There was a pause, then Katherine said:
"Yes—I think I know."
Poirot leant across the table towards her.
"I am not satisfied, Mademoiselle; no, I am not satisfied. The facts,
the main facts, led straight to Monsieur Kettering. But there is one
thing that has been left out of account."
"And what is that?"
"The disfigured face of the victim. I have asked myself,
Mademoiselle, a hundred times, 'Was Derek Kettering the kind of
man who would deal that smashing blow after having committed the
murder?' What end would it serve? What purpose would it
accomplish? Was it a likely action for one of Monsieur Kettering's
temperament? And, Mademoiselle, the answer to these questions is
profoundly unsatisfactory. Again and again I go back to that one
point—'why?' And the only things I have to help me to a solution of
the problem are these."
He whipped out his pocket-book and extracted something from it
which he held between his finger and thumb.
"Do you remember, Mademoiselle? You saw me take these hairs
from the rug in the railway carriage."
Katherine leant forward, scrutinizing the hairs keenly.
Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.
"They suggest nothing to you, I see that, Mademoiselle. And yet—I
think somehow that you see a good deal."
"I have had ideas," said Katherine slowly, "curious ideas. That is why
I ask you what you were doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot."
"When I wrote to you—"
"From the Ritz?"
A curious smile came over Poirot's face.
"Yes, as you say, from the Ritz. I am a luxurious person sometimes—
when a millionaire pays."
"The Russian Embassy," said Katherine, frowning. "No, I don't see
where that comes in."
"It does not come in directly, Mademoiselle. I went there to get
certain information. I saw a particular personage and I threatened
him—yes, Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him."
"With the police?"
"No," said Poirot drily, "with the Press—a much more deadly
weapon."
He looked at Katherine and she smiled at him, just shaking her
head.
"Are you not just turning back into an oyster again, Monsieur
Poirot?"
"No, no! I do not wish to make mysteries. See, I will tell you
everything. I suspect this man of being the active party in the sale of
the jewels of Monsieur Van Aldin. I tax him with it, and in the end I
get the whole story out of him. I learn where the jewels were
handed over, and I learn, too, of the man who paced up and down
outside in the street—a man with a venerable head of white hair, but
who walked with the light, springy step of a young man—and I give
that man a name in my own mind—the name of 'Monsieur le
Marquis.'"
"And now you have come to London to see Mr. Van Aldin?"
"Not entirely for that reason. I had other work to do. Since I have
been in London I have seen two more people—a theatrical agent
and a Harley Street doctor. From each of them I have got certain
information. Put these things together, Mademoiselle, and see if you
can make of them the same as I do."
"I?"
"Yes, you. I will tell you one thing, Mademoiselle. There has been a
doubt all along in my mind as to whether the robbery and the
murder were done by the same person. For a long time I was not
sure—"
"And now?"
"And now I know."
There was a silence. Then Katherine lifted her head. Her eyes were
shining.
"I am not clever like you, Monsieur Poirot. Half the things that you
have been telling me don't seem to me to point anywhere at all. The
ideas that came to me came from such an entirely different angle—"
"Ah, but that is always so," said Poirot quietly. "A mirror shows the
truth, but every one stands in a different place for looking into the
mirror."
"My ideas may be absurd—they may be entirely different from yours,
but—"
"Yes?"
"Tell me, does this help you at all?"
He took a newspaper cutting from her outstretched hand. He read it
and, looking up, he nodded gravely.
"As I told you, Mademoiselle, one stands at a different angle for
looking into the mirror, but it is the same mirror and the same things
are reflected there."
Katherine got up. "I must rush," she said. "I have only just time to
catch my train. Monsieur Poirot—"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"It—it mustn't be much longer, you understand. I—I can't go on
much longer."
There was a break in her voice.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
"Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not fail now; the end is very
near."

33. A New Theory

"Monsieur Poirot wants to see you, sir."
"Damn the fellow!" said Van Aldin.
Knighton remained sympathetically silent.
Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced up and down.
"I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers this morning?"
"I have glanced at them, sir."
"Still at it hammer and tongs?"
"I am afraid so, sir."
The millionaire sat down again and pressed his hand to his forehead.
"If I had had an idea of this," he groaned. "I wish to God I had
never got that little Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth's
murderer—that was all I thought about."
"You wouldn't have liked your son-in-law to go scot free?"
Van Aldin sighed.
"I would have preferred to take the law into my own hands."
"I don't think that would have been a very wise proceeding, sir."
"All the same—are you sure the fellow wants to see me?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Aldin. He is very urgent about it."
"Then I suppose he will have to. He can come along this morning if
he likes."
It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot who was ushered in. He did
not seem to see any lack of cordiality in the millionaire's manner, and
chatted pleasantly about various trifles. He was in London, he
explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name of an eminent
surgeon.
"No, no, pas la guerre—a memory of my days in the police force, a
bullet of a rascally Apache."
He touched his left shoulder and winced realistically.
"I always consider you a lucky man, Monsieur Van Aldin; you are not
like our popular idea of American millionaires, martyrs to the
dyspepsia."
"I am pretty tough," said Van Aldin. "I lead a very simple life, you
know; plain fare and not too much of it."
"You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?" inquired
Poirot, innocently turning to the secretary.
"I—yes; once or twice," said Knighton.
He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed in surprise:
"Funny you never mentioned to me that you had seen her,
Knighton?"
"I didn't think you would be interested, sir."
"I like that girl very much," said Van Aldin.
"It is a thousand pities that she should have buried herself once
more in St. Mary Mead," said Poirot.
"It is very fine of her," said Knighton hotly. "There are very few
people who would bury themselves down there to look after a
cantankerous old woman who has no earthly claim on her."
"I am silent," said Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little; "but all the same
I say it is a pity. And now, Messieurs, let us come to business."
Both the other men looked at him in some surprise.
"You must not be shocked or alarmed at what I am about to say.
Supposing, Monsieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur Derek
Kettering did not murder his wife?"
"What?"
Both men stared at him in blank surprise.
"Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Kettering did not murder his wife?"
"Are you mad, Monsieur Poirot?"
It was Van Aldin who spoke.
"No," said Poirot, "I am not mad. I am eccentric, perhaps—at least
certain people say so; but as regards my profession, I am very
much, as one says, 'all there.' I ask you, Monsieur Van Aldin,
whether you would be glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the
case?"
Van Aldin stared at him.
"Naturally I should be glad," he said at last. "Is this an exercise in
suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts behind it?"
Poirot looked at the ceiling.
"There is an off-chance," he said quietly, "that it might be the Comte
de la Roche after all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting his
alibi."
"How did you manage that?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.
"I have my own methods. The exercise of a little tact, a little
cleverness—and the thing is done."
"But the rubies," said Van Aldin, "these rubies that the Count had in
his possession were false."
"And clearly he would not have committed the crime except for the
rubies. But you are overlooking one point, Monsieur Van Aldin.
Where the rubies were concerned, some one might have been
before him."
"But this is an entirely new theory," cried Knighton.
"Do you really believe all this rigmarole, Monsieur Poirot?" demanded
the millionaire.
"The thing is not proved," said Poirot quietly. "It is as yet only a
theory, but I tell you this, Monsieur Van Aldin, the facts are worth
investigating. You must come out with me to the south of France
and go into the case on the spot."
"You really think this is necessary—that I should go, I mean."
"I thought it would be what you yourself would wish," said Poirot.
There was a hint of reproach in his tone which was not lost upon the
other.
"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "When do you wish to start, Monsieur
Poirot?"
"You are very busy at present, sir," murmured Knighton.
But the millionaire had now made up his mind, and he waved the
other's objections aside.
"I guess this business comes first," he said. "All right, Monsieur
Poirot, to-morrow. What train?"
"We will go, I think, by the Blue Train," said Poirot, and he smiled.

34. The Blue Train Again

"The Millionaire's Train," as it is sometimes called, swung round a
curve of line at what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin,
Knighton, and Poirot sat together in silence. Knighton and Van Aldin
had two compartments connecting with each other, as Ruth
Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful journey. Poirot's own
compartment was further along the coach.
The journey was a painful one for Van Aldin, recalling as it did the
most agonizing memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed
occasionally in low tones without disturbing him.
When, however, the train had completed its slow journey round the
ceinture and reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became suddenly
galvanized into activity. Van Aldin realized that part of his object in
travelling by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime.
Poirot himself acted every part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly
shut into her own compartment, Mrs. Kettering, recognizing her
husband with surprise and a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering
discovering that his wife was travelling on the train. He tested
various possibilities, such as the best way for a person to conceal
himself in the second compartment.
Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He clutched at Van
Aldin's arm.
"Mon Dieu, but that is something I have not thought of! We must
break our journey in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once."
Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the train. Van Aldin and Knighton,
bewildered but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having once
formed his opinion of Poirot's ability was slow to part from it. At the
barrier they were held up. Their tickets were in charge of the
conductor of the train, a fact which all three of them had forgotten.
Poirot's explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they
produced no effect upon the stolid-faced official.
"Let us get quit of this," said Van Aldin abruptly. "I gather you are in
a hurry, Monsieur Poirot. For God's sake pay the fares from Calais
and let us get right on with whatever you have got in your mind."
But Poirot's flood of language had suddenly stopped dead, and he
had the appearance of a man turned to stone. His arm, still outflung
in an impassioned gesture, remained there as though stricken with
paralysis.
"I have been an imbecile," he said simply. "Ma foi, I lose my head
nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With
reasonable luck the train will not have gone."
They were only just in time, the train moving off as Knighton, the
last of the three, swung himself and his suitcase on board.
The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly, and assisted them
to carry their luggage back to their compartments. Van Aldin said
nothing, but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot's extraordinary
conduct. Alone with Knighton for a moment or two, he remarked:
"This is a wildgoose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He
has got brains up to a point, but any man who loses his head and
scuttles round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly darned good."
Poirot came to them in a moment or two, full of abject apologies and
clearly so crestfallen that harsh words would have been superfluous.
Van Aldin received his apologies gravely, but managed to restrain
himself from making acid comments.
They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the
surprise of the other two, Poirot suggested that they should all three
set up in Van Aldin's compartment.
The millionaire looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything that you are keeping back from us, Monsieur
Poirot?"
"I?" Poirot opened his eyes in innocent surprise. "But what an idea."
Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not satisfied. The conductor
was told that he need not make up the beds. Any surprise he might
have felt was obliterated by the largeness of the tip which Van Aldin
handed to him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot fidgeted and
seemed restless. Presently he turned to the secretary.
"Major Knighton, is the door of your compartment bolted? The door
into the corridor, I mean."
"Yes; I bolted it myself just now."
"Are you sure?" said Poirot.
"I will go and make sure, if you like," said Knighton smiling.
"No, no, do not derange yourself. I will see for myself."
He passed through the connecting door and returned in a second or
two, nodding his head.
"Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must pardon an old man's fussy
ways."
He closed the connecting door and resumed his place in the right-
hand corner.
The hours passed. The three men dozed fitfully, waking with
uncomfortable starts. Probably never before had three people
booked berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to
avail themselves of the accommodations they had paid for. Every
now and then Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head
and composed himself to slumber once more. On one occasion he
rose from his seat and opened the connecting door, peered sharply
into the adjoining compartment, and then returned to his seat,
shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" whispered Knighton. "You are expecting
something to happen, aren't you?"
"I have the nerves," confessed Poirot. "I am like the cat upon the
hot tiles. Every little noise it makes me jump."
Knighton yawned.
"Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys," he murmured. "I
suppose you know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot."
He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Van
Aldin had succumbed to slumber, when Poirot, glancing for the
fourteenth time at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire
on the shoulder.
"Eh? What is it?"
"In five or ten minutes, Monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyons."
"My God!" Van Aldin's face looked white and haggard in the dim
light. "Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was
killed."
He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little, his
mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his
life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh of the brake, and the train
slackened speed and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down the
window and leant out.
"If it wasn't Derek—if your new theory is correct, it is here that the
man left the train?" he asked over his shoulder.
Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his head.
"No," he said thoughtfully, "no man left the train, but I think—yes, I
think, a woman may have done so."
Knighton gave a gasp.
"A woman?" demanded Van Aldin sharply.
"Yes, a woman," said Poirot, nodding his head. "You may not
remember, Monsieur Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence
mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat descended on to the
platform ostensibly to stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth
was most probably a woman."
"But who was she?"
Van Aldin's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously
and categorically.
"Her name—or the name under which she was known, for many
years—is Kitty Kidd, but you, Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by
another name—that of Ada Mason."
Knighton sprang to his feet.
"What?" he cried.
Poirot swung round to him.
"Ah!—before I forget it." He whipped something from a pocket and
held it out.
"Permit me to offer you a cigarette—out of your own cigarette case.
It was careless of you to drop it when you boarded the train on the
ceinture at Paris."
Knighton stood staring at him as though stupefied. Then he made a
movement, but Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.
"No, don't move," he said in a silky voice; "the door into the next
compartment is open, and you are being covered from there this
minute. I unbolted the door into the corridor when we left Paris, and
our friends the police were told to take their places there. As I
expect you know, the French police want you rather urgently, Major
Knighton—or shall we say—Monsieur le Marquis?"
 35. Explanations
"Explanations?"
Poirot smiled. He was sitting opposite the millionaire at a luncheon
table in the latter's private suite at the Negresco. Facing him was a
relieved but very puzzled man. Poirot leant back in his chair, lit one
of his tiny cigarettes, and stared reflectively at the ceiling.
"Yes, I will give you explanations. It began with the one point that
puzzled me. You know what that point was? The disfigured face. It is
not an uncommon thing to find when investigating a crime and it
rouses an immediate question, the question of identity. That
naturally was the first thing that occurred to me. Was the dead
woman really Mrs. Kettering? But that line led me nowhere, for Miss
Grey's evidence was positive and very reliable, so I put that idea
aside. The dead woman was Ruth Kettering."
"When did you first begin to suspect the maid?"
"Not for some time, but one peculiar little point drew my attention to
her. The cigarette case found in the railway carriage and which she
told us was one which Mrs. Kettering had given to her husband. Now
that was, on the face of it, most improbable, seeing the terms that
they were on. It awakened a doubt in my mind as to the general
veracity of Ada Mason's statements. There was the rather suspicious
fact to be taken into consideration, that she had only been with her
mistress for two months. Certainly it did not seem as if she could
have had anything to do with the crime since she had been left
behind in Paris and Mrs. Kettering had been seen alive by several
people afterwards, but—"
Poirot leant forward. He raised an emphatic forefinger and wagged it
with intense emphasis at Van Aldin.
"But I am a good detective. I suspect. There is nobody and nothing
that I do not suspect. I believe nothing that I am told. I say to
myself: how do we know that Ada Mason was left behind in Paris?
And at first the answer to that question seemed completely
satisfactory. There was the evidence of your secretary, Major
Knighton, a complete outsider whose testimony might be supposed
to be entirely impartial, and there was the dead woman's own words
to the conductor on the train. But I put the latter point aside for the
moment, because a very curious idea—an idea perhaps fantastic and
impossible—was growing up in my mind. If by any outside chance it
happened to be true, that particular piece of testimony was
worthless.
"I concentrated on the chief stumbling-block to my theory, Major
Knighton's statement that he saw Ada Mason at the Ritz after the
Blue Train had left Paris. That seemed conclusive enough, but yet,
on examining the facts carefully, I noted two things. First, that by a
curious coincidence he, too, had been exactly two months in your
service. Secondly, his initial letter was the same—'K.' Supposing—
just supposing—that it was his cigarette case which had been found
in the carriage. Then, if Ada Mason and he were working together,
and she recognized it when we showed it to her, would she not act
precisely as she had done? At first, taken aback, she quickly evolved
a plausible theory that would agree with Mr. Kettering's guilt. Bien
entendu, that was not the original idea. The Comte de la Roche was
to be the scapegoat, though Ada Mason would not make her
recognition of him too certain, in case he should be able to prove an
alibi. Now, if you will cast your mind back to that time, you will
remember a significant thing that happened. I suggested to Ada
Mason that the man she had seen was not the Comte de la Roche,
but Derek Kettering. She seemed uncertain at the time, but after I
had got back to my hotel you rang me up and told me that she had
come to you and said that, on thinking it over, she was now quite
convinced that the man in question was Mr. Kettering. I had been
expecting something of the kind. There could be but one explanation
of this sudden certainty on her part. After my leaving your hotel, she
had had time to consult with somebody, and had received
instructions which she acted upon. Who had given her these
instructions? Major Knighton. And there was another very small
point, which might mean nothing or might mean a great deal. In
casual conversation Knighton had talked of a jewel robbery in
Yorkshire in a house where he was staying. Perhaps a mere
coincidence—perhaps another small link in the chain."
"But there is one thing I do not understand, Monsieur Poirot. I guess
I must be dense or I would have seen it before now. Who was the
man in the train at Paris? Derek Kettering or the Comte de la
Roche?"
"That is the simplicity of the whole thing. There was no man. Ah—
mille tonnerres!—do you not see the cleverness of it all? Whose
word have we for it that there ever was a man there? Only Ada
Mason's. And we believe in Ada Mason because of Knighton's
evidence that she was left behind in Paris."
"But Ruth herself told the conductor that she had left her maid
behind there," demurred Van Aldin.
"Ah! I am coming to that. We have Mrs. Kettering's own evidence
there, but, on the other hand, we have not really got her evidence,
because, Monsieur Van Aldin, a dead woman cannot give evidence.
It is not her evidence, but the evidence of the conductor of the train
—a very different affair altogether."
"So you think the man was lying?"
"No, no, not at all. He spoke what he thought to be the truth. But
the woman who told him that she had left her maid in Paris was not
Mrs. Kettering."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"Monsieur Van Aldin, Ruth Kettering was dead before the train
arrived at the Gare de Lyon. It was Ada Mason, dressed in her
mistress's very distinctive clothing, who purchased a dinner basket
and who made that very necessary statement to the conductor."
"Impossible!"
"No, no, Monsieur Van Aldin; not impossible. Les femmes, they look
so much alike nowadays that one identifies them more by their
clothing than by their faces. Ada Mason was the same height as your
daughter. Dressed in that very sumptuous fur coat and the little red
lacquer hat jammed down over her eyes, with just a bunch of
auburn curls showing over each ear, it was no wonder that the
conductor was deceived. He had not previously spoken to Mrs.
Kettering, you remember. True, he had seen the maid just for a
moment when she handed him the tickets, but his impression had
been merely that of a gaunt, black-clad female. If he had been an
unusually intelligent man, he might have gone so far as to say that
mistress and maid were not unlike, but it is extremely unlikely that
he would even think that. And remember, Ada Mason, or Kitty Kidd,
was an actress, able to change her appearance and tone of voice at
a moment's notice. No, no; there was no danger of his recognizing
the maid in the mistress's clothing, but there was the danger that
when he came to discover the body he might realize it was not the
woman he had talked to the night before. And now we see the
reason for the disfigured face. The chief danger that Ada Mason ran
was that Katherine Grey might visit her compartment after the train
left Paris, and she provided against that difficulty by ordering a
dinner basket and by locking herself in her compartment."
"But who killed Ruth—and when?"
"First, bear it in mind that the crime was planned and undertaken by
the two of them—Knighton and Ada Mason, working together.
Knighton was in Paris that day on your business. He boarded the
train somewhere on its way round the ceinture. Mrs. Kettering would
be surprised, but she would be quite unsuspicious. Perhaps he draws
her attention to something out the window, and as she turns to look
he slips the cord round her neck—and the whole thing is over in a
second or two. The door of the compartment is locked, and he and
Ada Mason set to work. They strip off the dead woman's outer
clothes. Mason and Knighton roll the body up in a rug and put it on
the seat in the adjoining compartment amongst the bags and suit-
cases. Knighton drops off the train, taking the jewel-case containing
the rubies with him. Since the crime is not supposed to have been
committed until nearly twelve hours later he is perfectly safe, and his
evidence and the supposed Mrs. Kettering's words to the conductor
will provide a perfect alibi for his accomplice.
"At the Gare de Lyon Ada Mason gets a dinner basket, and shutting
herself into the toilet compartment she quickly changes into her
mistress's clothes, adjusts two false bunches of auburn curls, and
generally makes up to resemble her as closely as possible. When the
conductor comes to make up the bed, she tells him the prepared
story about having left her maid behind in Paris; and whilst he is
making up the berth, she stands looking out of the window, so that
her back is towards the corridor and people passing along there.
That was a wise precaution, because, as we know, Miss Grey was
one of those passing, and she, among others, was willing to swear
that Mrs. Kettering was still alive at that hour."
"Go on," said Van Aldin.
"Before getting to Lyons, Ada Mason arranged her mistress's body in
the bunk, folded up the dead woman's clothes neatly on the end of
it, and herself changed into a man's clothes and prepared to leave
the train. When Derek Kettering entered his wife's compartment,
and, as he thought, saw her asleep in her berth, the scene had been
set, and Ada Mason was hidden in the next compartment waiting for
the moment to leave the train unobserved. As soon as the conductor
had swung himself down on to the platform at Lyons, she follows,
slouching along as though just taking a breath of air. At a moment
when she is unobserved, she hurriedly crosses to the other platform,
and takes the first train back to Paris and the Ritz Hotel. Her name
has been registered there as taking a room the night before by one
of Knighton's female accomplices. She has nothing to do but wait
there placidly for your arrival. The jewels are not, and never have
been, in her possession. No suspicion attaches to him, and, as your
secretary, he brings them to Nice without the least fear of discovery.
Their delivery there to Monsieur Papopolous is already arranged for
and they are entrusted to Mason at the last moment to hand over to
the Greek. Altogether a very neatly planned coup, as one would
expect from a master of the game such as the Marquis."
"And you honestly mean that Richard Knighton is a well-known
criminal, who has been at this business for years?"
Poirot nodded.
"One of the chief assets of the gentleman called the Marquis was his
plausible, ingratiating manner. You fell a victim to his charm,
Monsieur Van Aldin, when you engaged him as a secretary on such a
slight acquaintanceship."
"I could have sworn that he never angled for the post," cried the
millionaire.
"It was very astutely done—so astutely done that it deceived a man
whose knowledge of other men is as great as yours is."
"I looked up his antecedents too. The fellow's record was excellent."
"Yes, yes; that was part of the game. As Richard Knighton his life
was quite free from reproach. He was well born, well connected, did
honourable service in the War, and seemed altogether above
suspicion; but when I came to glean information about the
mysterious Marquis, I found many points of similarity. Knighton
spoke French like a Frenchman, he had been in America, France,
and England at much the same time as the Marquis was operating.
The Marquis was last heard of as engineering various jewel robberies
in Switzerland, and it was in Switzerland that you had come across
Major Knighton; and it was at precisely that time that the first
rumours were going round of your being in treaty for the famous
rubies."
"But why murder?" murmured Van Aldin brokenly. "Surely a clever
thief could have stolen the jewels without running his head into a
noose."
Poirot shook his head. "This is not the first murder that lies to the
Marquis's charge. He is a killer by instinct; he believes, too, in
leaving no evidence behind him. Dead men and women tell no tales.
"The Marquis had an intense passion for famous and historical
jewels. He laid his plans far beforehand by installing himself as your
secretary and getting his accomplice to obtain the situation of maid
with your daughter, for whom he guessed the jewels were destined.
And, though this was his matured and carefully thought-out plan, he
did not scruple to attempt a shortcut by hiring a couple of Apaches
to waylay you in Paris on the night you bought the jewels. That plan
failed, which hardly surprised him, I think. This plan was, so he
thought, completely safe. No possible suspicion could attach to
Richard Knighton. But like all great men—and the Marquis was a
great man—he had his weaknesses. He fell genuinely in love with
Miss Grey, and suspecting her liking for Derek Kettering, he could
not resist the temptation to saddle him with the crime when the
opportunity presented itself. And now, Monsieur Van Aldin, I am
going to tell you something very curious. Miss Grey is not a fanciful
woman by any means, yet she firmly believes that she felt your
daughter's presence beside her one day in the Casino Gardens at
Monte Carlo, just after she had been having a long talk with
Knighton. She was convinced, she says, that the dead woman was
urgently trying to tell her something, and it suddenly came to her
that what the dead woman was trying to say was that Knighton was
her murderer! The idea seemed so fantastic at the time that Miss
Grey spoke of it to no one. But she was so convinced of its truth that
she acted on it—wild as it seemed. She did not discourage
Knighton's advances, and she pretended to him that she was
convinced of Derek Kettering's guilt."
"Extraordinary," said Van Aldin.
"Yes, it is very strange. One cannot explain these things. Oh, by the
way, there is one little point that baffled me considerably. Your
secretary has a decided limp—the result of a wound that he received
in the War. Now the Marquis most decidedly did not limp. That was a
stumbling-block. But Miss Lenox Tamplin happened to mention one
day that Knighton's limp had been a surprise to the surgeons who
had been in charge of the case in her mother's hospital. That
suggested camouflage. When I was in London I went to the surgeon
in question, and I got several technical details from him which
confirmed me in that belief. I mentioned the name of that surgeon in
Knighton's hearing the day before yesterday. The natural thing
would have been for Knighton to mention that he had been attended
by him during the War, but he said nothing—and that little point, if
nothing else, gave me the last final assurance that my theory of the
crime was correct. Miss Grey, too, provided me with a cutting,
showing that there had been a robbery at Lady Tamplin's hospital
during the time that Knighton had been there. She realized that I
was on the same track as herself when I wrote to her from the Ritz
in Paris.
"I had some trouble in my inquiries there, but I got what I wanted—
evidence that Ada Mason arrived on the morning after the crime and
not on the evening of the day before."
There was a long silence, then the millionaire stretched out a hand
to Poirot across the table.
"I guess you know what this means to me, Monsieur Poirot," he said
huskily. "I am sending you round a cheque in the morning, but no
cheque in the world will express what I feel about what you have
done for me. You are the goods, Monsieur Poirot. Every time, you
are the goods."
Poirot rose to his feet; his chest swelled.
"I am only Hercule Poirot," he said modestly, "yet, as you say, in my
own way I am a big man, even as you also are a big man. I am glad
and happy to have been of service to you. Now I go to repair the
damages caused by travel. Alas! my excellent Georges is not with
me."
In the lounge of the hotel he encountered a friend—the venerable
Monsieur Papopolous, his daughter Zia beside him.
"I thought you had left Nice, Monsieur Poirot," murmured the Greek
as he took the detective's affectionately proffered hand.
"Business compelled me to return, my dear Monsieur Papopolous."
"Business?"
"Yes, business. And talking of business, I hope your health is better,
my dear friend?"
"Much better. In fact, we are returning to Paris to-morrow."
"I am enchanted to hear such good news. You have not completely
ruined the Greek ex-Minister, I hope."
"I?"
"I understand you sold him a very wonderful ruby which—strictly
entre nous—is being worn by Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer?"
"Yes," murmured Monsieur Papopolous; "yes, that is so."
"A ruby not unlike the famous 'Heart of Fire'."
"It has points of resemblance, certainly," said the Greek casually.
"You have a wonderful hand with jewels, Monsieur Papopolous. I
congratulate you. Mademoiselle Zia, I am desolate that you are
returning to Paris so speedily. I had hoped to see some more of you
now that my business is accomplished."
"Would one be indiscreet if one asked what that business was?"
asked Monsieur Papopolous.
"Not at all, not at all. I have just succeeded in laying the Marquis by
the heels."
A far-away look came over Monsieur Papopolous' noble countenance.
"The Marquis?" he murmured; "now why does that seem familiar to
me? No—I cannot recall it."
"You would not, I am sure," said Poirot. "I refer to a very notable
criminal and jewel robber. He has just been arrested for the murder
of the English lady, Madame Kettering."
"Indeed? How interesting these things are!"
A polite exchange of farewells followed, and when Poirot was out of
earshot, Monsieur Papopolous turned to his daughter.
"Zia," he said, with feeling, "that man is the devil!"
"I like him."
"I like him myself," admitted Monsieur Papopolous. "But he is the
devil, all the same."

36. By the Sea

The mimosa was nearly over. The scent of it in the air was faintly
unpleasant. There were pink geraniums twining along the balustrade
of Lady Tamplin's villa, and masses of carnations below sent up a
sweet, heavy perfume. The Mediterranean was at its bluest. Poirot
sat on the terrace with Lenox Tamplin. He had just finished telling
her the same story he had told to Van Aldin two days before. Lenox
had listened to him with absorbed attention, her brows knitted and
her eyes sombre.
When he had finished she said simply:
"And Derek?"
"He was released yesterday."
"And he has gone—where?"
"He left Nice last night."
"For St. Mary Mead?"
"Yes, for St. Mary Mead."
There was a pause.
"I was wrong about Katherine," said Lenox. "I thought she did not
care."
"She is very reserved. She trusts no one."
"She might have trusted me," said Lenox, with a shade of bitterness.
"Yes," said Poirot gravely, "she might have trusted you. But
Mademoiselle Katherine has spent a great deal of her life listening,
and those who have listened do not find it easy to talk; they keep
their sorrows and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she really cared for Knighton. I
ought to have known better. I suppose I thought so because—well, I
hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little friendly squeeze. "Courage,
Mademoiselle," he said gently.
Lenox looked very straight out across the sea, and her face, in its
ugly rigidity, had for the moment a tragic beauty.
"Oh, well," she said at last, "it would not have done. I am too young
for Derek; he is like a kid that has never grown up. He wants the
Madonna touch."
There was a long silence, then Lenox turned to him quickly and
impulsively. "But I did help, Monsieur Poirot—at any rate I did help."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave me the first inkling of the
truth when you said that the person who committed the crime need
not have been on the train at all. Before that, I could not see how
the thing had been done."
Lenox drew a deep breath.
"I am glad," she said; "at any rate—that is something."
From far behind them there came a long-drawn-out scream of an
engine's whistle.
"That is that damned Blue Train," said Lenox. "Trains are relentless
things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die,
but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know
what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And
it is a good thing that that is so."
"Why?"
"Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a
proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle."
"'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'" Lenox laughed. "That is not going
to be true for me."
"Yes—yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself
know. Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives
it."
The whistle of the engine came again.
"Trust the train, Mademoiselle," murmured Poirot again. "And trust
Hercule Poirot. He knows."
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF
THE BLUE TRAIN ***

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