“Exactly,” said Dr. Constantine. “She finds out that she has dropped the handkerchief and immediately takes steps to conceal her Christian name.”
“How fast you go. You arrive at a conclusion much sooner than I would permit myself to do.”
“Is there any other alternative?”
“Certainly there is. Suppose, for instance, that you have committed a crime and wish to cast suspicion for it on someone else. Well, there is on the train a certain person connected intimately with the Armstrong family—a woman. Suppose, then, that you leave there a handkerchief belonging to that woman. She will be questioned, her connection with the Armstrong family will be brought out—et voilà. Motive—and an incriminating article of evidence.”
“But in such a case,” objected the doctor, “the person indicated being innocent, would not take steps to conceal her identity.”
“Ah, really? That is what you think? That is truly the opinion of the police court. But I know human nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of being tried for murder, the most innocent person will lose their head and do the most absurd things. No, no, the grease spot and the changed label do not prove guilt—they only prove that the Countess Andrenyi is anxious for some reason to conceal her identity.”
“What do you think her connection with the Armstrong family can be? She has never been in America, she says.”
“Exactly, and she speaks broken English, and she has a very foreign appearance which she exaggerates. But it should not be difficult to guess who she is. I mentioned just now the name of Mrs. Armstrong’s mother. It was Linda Arden, and she was a very celebrated actress—among other things a Shakespearean actress. Think of As You Like It—the Forest of Arden and Rosalind. It was there she got the inspiration for her acting name. Linda Arden, the name by which she was known all over the world, was not her real name. It may have been Goldenberg—she quite likely had central European blood in her veins—a strain of Jewish, perhaps. Many nationalities drift to America. I suggest to you, gentlemen, that that young sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s, little more than a child at the time of the tragedy, was Helena Goldenberg the younger daughter of Linda Arden, and that she married Count Andrenyi when he was an attaché in Washington.”
“But Princess Dragomiroff says that she married an Englishman.”
“Whose name she cannot remember! I ask you, my friends—is that really likely? Princess Dragomiroff loved Linda Arden as great ladies do love great artists. She was godmother to one of her daughters. Would she forget so quickly the married name of the other daughter? It is not likely. No, I think we can safely say that Princess Dragomiroff was lying. She knew Helena was on the train, she had seen her. She realized at once, as soon as she heard who Ratchett really was, that Helena would be suspected. And so, when we question her as to the sister she promptly lies—is vague, cannot remember, but ‘thinks Helena married an Englishman’—a suggestion as far away from the truth as possible.”
One of the restaurant attendants came through the door at the end and approached them. He addressed M. Bouc.
“The dinner, Monsieur, shall I serve it? It is ready some little time.”
M. Bouc looked at Poirot. The latter nodded.
“By all means, let dinner be served.”
The attendant vanished through the doors at the other end. His bell could be heard ringing and his voice upraised:
“Premier Service. Le dîner est servi. Premier dîner—First Service.”
Four
THE GREASE SPOT ON A HUNGARIAN PASSPORT
Poirot shared a table with M. Bouc and the doctor.
The company assembled in the restaurant car was a very subdued one. They spoke little. Even the loquacious Mrs. Hubbard was unnaturally quiet. She murmured as she sat:
“I don’t feel as though I’ve got the heart to eat anything,” and then partook of everything offered her, encouraged by the Swedish lady, who seemed to regard her as a special charge.
Before the meal was served Poirot had caught the chief attendant by the sleeve and murmured something to him. Constantine had a pretty good guess what the instructions had been, as he noticed that the Count and Countess Andrenyi were always served last and that at the end of the meal there was a delay in making out their bill. It therefore came about that the Count and Countess were the last left in the restaurant car.
When they rose at length and moved in the direction of the door, Poirot sprang up and followed them.
“Pardon, Madame, you have dropped your handkerchief.”
He was holding out to her the tiny monogrammed square.
She took it, glanced at it, then handed it back to him.
“You are mistaken, Monsieur, that is not my handkerchief.”
“Not your handkerchief? Are you sure?”
“Perfectly sure, Monsieur.”
“And yet, Madame, it has your initial—the initial H.”
The Count made a sudden movement. Poirot ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the Countess’s face.
Looking steadily at him she replied:
“I do not understand, Monsieur. My initials are E.A.”
“I think not. Your name is Helena—not Elena. Helena Goldenberg, the younger daughter of Linda Arden—Helena Goldenberg, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong.”
There was a dead silence for a minute or two. Both the Count and Countess had gone deadly white. Poirot said in a gentler tone:
“It is of no use denying. That is the truth, is it not?”
The Count burst out furiously:
“I demand, Monsieur, by what right you—”
She interrupted him, putting up a small hand towards his mouth.
“No, Rudolph. Let me speak. It is useless to deny what this gentleman says. We had better sit down and talk the matter out.”
Her voice had changed. It still had the southern richness of tone, but it had become suddenly more clear cut and incisive. It was, for the first time, a definitely American voice.
The Count was silenced. He obeyed the gesture of her hand they both sat down opposite Poirot.
“Your statement, Monsieur, is quite true,” said the Countess. “I am Helena Goldenberg, the younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong.”
“You did not acquaint me with that fact this morning, Madame la Comtesse.”
“No.”
“In fact, all that your husband and you told me was a tissue of lies.”
“Monsieur,” cried the Count angrily.
“Do not be angry, Rudolph. M. Poirot puts the fact rather brutally, but what he says is undeniable.”
“I am glad you admit the fact so freely, Madame. Will you now tell me your reasons for so doing and also for altering your Christian name on your passport.”
“That was my doing entirely,” put in the Count.
Helena said quietly:
“Surely, M. Poirot, you can guess my reason—our reason. This man who was killed is the man who murdered my baby niece, who killed my sister, who broke my brother-in-law’s heart. Three of the people I loved best and who made up my home—my world!”
Her voice rang out passionately. She was a true daughter of that mother, the emotional force of whose acting had moved huge audiences to tears.
She went on more quietly.
“Of all the people on the train, I alone had probably the best motive for killing him.”
“And you did not kill him, Madame?”
“I swear to you, M. Poirot, and my husband knows and will swear also—that, much as I may have been tempted to do so, I never lifted a hand against that man.”
“I too, gentlemen,” said the Count. “I give you my word of honour that last night Helena never left her compartment. She took a sleeping draught exactly as I said. She is utterly and entirely innocent.”
Poirot looked from one to the other of them.
“On my word of honour,” repeated the Count.
Poirot shook his head slightly.
“And yet you took
it upon yourself to alter the name in the passport?”
“Monsieur Poirot,” the Count spoke earnestly and passionately. “Consider my position. Do you think I could stand the thought of my wife dragged through a sordid police case. She was innocent, I knew it, but what she said was true—because of her connection with the Armstrong family she would have been immediately suspected. She would have been questioned—arrested, perhaps. Since some evil chance had taken us on the same train as this man Ratchett, there was, I felt sure, but one thing for it. I admit, Monsieur, that I lied to you—all, that is, save in one thing. My wife never left her compartment last night.”
He spoke with an earnestness that it was hard to gainsay.
“I do not say that I disbelieve you, Monsieur,” said Poirot slowly. “Your family is, I know, a proud and ancient one. It would be bitter indeed for you to have your wife dragged into an unpleasant police case. With that I can sympathize. But how, then, do you explain the presence of your wife’s handkerchief actually in the dead man’s compartment?”
“That handkerchief is not mine, Monsieur,” said the Countess.
“In spite of the initial H?”
“In spite of the initial. I have handkerchiefs not unlike that, but not one that is exactly of that pattern. I know, of course that I cannot hope to make you believe me, but I assure you that it is so. That handkerchief is not mine.”
“It may have been placed there by someone in order to incriminate you?”
She smiled a little.
“You are enticing me to admit that, after all, it is mine? But indeed, M. Poirot, it isn’t.”
She spoke with great earnestness.
“Then why, if the handkerchief was not yours, did you alter the name in the passport?”
The Count answered this.
“Because we heard that a handkerchief had been found with the initial H on it. We talked the matter over together before we came to be interviewed. I pointed out to Helena that if it were seen that her Christian name began with an H she would immediately be subjected to much more rigorous questioning. And the thing was so simple—to alter Helena to Elena was easily done.”
“You have, M. le Comte, the makings of a very fine criminal,” remarked Poirot dryly. “A great natural ingenuity, and an apparently remorseless determination to mislead justice.”
“Oh, no, no,” the girl leaned forward. “M. Poirot, he’s explained to you how it was.” She broke from French into English. “I was scared—absolutely dead scared, you understand. It had been so awful—that time—and to have it all raked up again. And to be suspected and perhaps thrown into prison. I was just scared stiff, M. Poirot. Can’t you understand at all?”
Her voice was lovely—deep—rich—pleading, the voice of the daughter of Linda Arden the actress.
Poirot looked gravely at her.
“If I am to believe you, Madame—and I do not say that I will not believe you—then you must help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes. The reason for the murder lies in the past—in that tragedy which broke up your home and saddened your young life. Take me back into the past, Mademoiselle, that I may find there the link that explains the whole thing.”
“What can there be to tell you? They are all dead.” She repeated mournfully. “All dead—all dead—Robert, Sonia—darling, darling Daisy. She was so sweet—so happy—she had such lovely curls. We were all just crazy about her.”
“There was another victim, Madame. An indirect victim, you might say.”
“Poor Susanne? Yes, I had forgotten about her. The police questioned her. They were convinced she had something to do with it. Perhaps she had—but if so, only innocently. She had, I believe, chatted idly with someone, giving information as to the time of Daisy’s outings. The poor thing got terribly wrought up—she thought she was being held responsible.” She shuddered. “She threw herself out of the window. Oh it was horrible.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“What nationality was she, Madame?”
“She was French.”
“What was her last name?”
“It’s absurd, but I can’t remember—we all called her Susanne. A pretty laughing girl. She was devoted to Daisy.”
“She was the nurserymaid, was she not?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the nurse?”
“She was a trained hospital nurse. Stengelberg her name was. She, too, was devoted to Daisy—and to my sister.”
“Now, Madame, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, since you were on this train, seen anyone that you recognized?”
She stared at him.
“I? No, no one at all.”
“What about Princess Dragomiroff?”
“Oh, her? I know her, of course. I thought you meant anyone—anyone from—from that time.”
“So I did, Madame. Now think carefully. Some years have passed, remember. The person might have altered their appearance.”
Helena pondered deeply. Then she said:
“No—I am sure—there is no one.”
“You yourself—you were a young girl at the time—did you have no one to superintend your studies or to look after you?”
“Oh, yes, I had a dragon—a sort of governess to me and secretary to Sonia combined. She was English or rather Scotch—a big, red-haired woman.”
“What was her name?”
“Miss Freebody.”
“Young or old?”
“She seemed frightfully old to me. I suppose she couldn’t have been more than forty. Susanne, of course, used to look after my clothes and maid me.”
“And there were no other inmates of the house?”
“Only servants.”
“And you are certain—quite certain, Madame—that you have recognized no one on the train?”
She replied earnestly:
“No one, Monsieur. No one at all.”
Five
THE CHRISTIAN NAME OF PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF
When the Count and Countess had departed, Poirot looked across at the other two.
“You see,” he said, “we make progress.”
“Excellent work,” said M. Bouc cordially. “For my part, I should never have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Andrenyi. I will admit I thought them quite hors de combat. I suppose there is no doubt that she committed the crime? It is rather sad. Still, they will not guillotine her. There are extenuating circumstances. A few years’ imprisonment—that will be all.”
“In fact you are quite certain of her guilt.”
“My dear friend, surely there is no doubt of it? I thought your reassuring manner was only to smooth things over till we are dug out of the snow and the police take charge.”
“You do not believe the Count’s positive assertion—on his word of honour—that his wife is innocent?”
“Mon cher—naturally—what else could he say? He adores his wife. He wants to save her! He tells his lie very well—quite in the grand Seigneur manner, but what else than a lie could it be?”
“Well, you know, I had the preposterous idea that it might be the truth.”
“No, no. The handkerchief, remember. The handkerchief clinches the matter.”
“Oh, I am not so sure about the handkerchief. You remember, I always told you that there were two possibilities as to the ownership of the handkerchief.”
“All the same—”
M. Bouc broke off. The door at the end had opened, and Princess Dragomiroff entered the dining car. She came straight to them and all three men rose to their feet.
She spoke to Poirot, ignoring the others.
“I believe, Monsieur,” she said, “that you have a handkerchief of mine.”
Poirot shot a glance of triumph at the other two.
“Is this it, Madame?”
He produced the little square of fine cambric.
“That is it. It has my initial in the corner.”
“But, Madame la Princesse, t
hat is the letter H,” said M. Bouc. “Your Christian name—pardon me—is Natalia.”
She gave him a cold stare.
“That is correct, Monsieur. My handkerchiefs are always initialled in the Russian characters. H is N in Russian.”
M. Bouc was somewhat taken aback. There was something about this indomitable old lady which made him feel flustered and uncomfortable.
“You did not tell us that this handkerchief was yours at the inquiry this morning.”
“You did not ask me,” said the Princess dryly.
“Pray be seated, Madame,” said Poirot.
She sighed.
“I may as well, I suppose.”
She sat down.
“You need not make a long business of this, Messieurs. Your next question will be—how did my handkerchief come to be lying by a murdered man’s body? My reply to that is that I have no idea.”
“You have really no idea.”
“None whatever.”
“You will excuse me, Madame, but how much can we rely upon the truthfulness of your replies?”
Poirot said the words very softly. Princess Dragomiroff answered contemptuously.
“I suppose you mean because I did not tell you that Helena Andrenyi was Mrs. Armstrong’s sister?”
“In fact you deliberately lied to us in the matter.”
“Certainly. I would do the same again. Her mother was my friend. I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty—to one’s friends and one’s family and one’s caste.”
“You do not believe in doing your utmost to further the ends of justice?”
“In this case I consider that justice—strict justice—has been done.”
Poirot leaned forward.
“You see my difficulty, Madame. In this matter of the handkerchief, even, am I to believe you? Or are you shielding your friend’s daughter?”
“Oh! I see what you mean.” Her face broke into a grim smile. “Well, Messieurs, this statement of mine can be easily proved. I will give you the address of the people in Paris who make my handkerchiefs. You have only to show them the one in question and they will inform you that it was made to my order over a year ago. The handkerchief is mine, Messieurs.”
Murder on the Orient Express Page 17
