Murder on the Orient Express Read online

  “That is the difficulty.”

  Poirot twinkled.

  “Yes, it is annoying, that. Unlucky for your theory, and extremely lucky for our Italian friend that M. Ratchett’s valet should have had the toothache.”

  “It will be explained,” said M. Bouc with magnificent certainty.

  Poirot shook his head again.

  “No, it is hardly so simple as that,” he murmured again.

  Six

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS

  “Let us hear what Pierre Michel has to say about this button,” he said.

  The Wagon Lit conductor was recalled. He looked at them inquiringly.

  M. Bouc cleared his throat.

  “Michel,” he said. “Here is a button from your tunic. It was found in the American lady’s compartment. What have you to say for yourself about it?”

  The conductor’s hand went automatically to his tunic.

  “I have lost no button, Monsieur,” he said. “There must be some mistake.”

  “That is very odd.”

  “I cannot account for it, Monsieur.”

  The man seemed astonished, but not in any way guilty or confused.

  M. Bouc said meaningly:

  “Owing to the circumstances in which it was found, it seems fairly certain that this button was dropped by the man who was in Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment last night when she rang the bell.”

  “But, Monsieur, there was no one there. The lady must have imagined it.”

  “She did not imagine it, Michael. The assassin of M. Ratchett passed that way—and dropped that button.”

  As the significance of M. Bouc’s word became plain to him, Pierre Michel flew into a violent state of agitation.

  “It is not true, Monsieur, it is not true!” he cried. “You are accusing me of the crime. Me? I am innocent. I am absolutely innocent. Why should I want to kill a Monsieur whom I have never seen before?”

  “Where were you when Mrs. Hubbard’s bell rang?”

  “I told you, Monsieur, in the next coach, talking to my colleague.”

  “We will send for him.”

  “Do so, Monsieur, I implore you, do so.”

  The conductor of the next coach was summoned. He immediately confirmed Pierre Michel’s statement. He added that the conductor from the Bucharest coach had also been there. The three of them had been discussing the situation caused by the snow. They had been talking some ten minutes when Michel fancied he heard a bell. As he opened the doors connecting the two coaches, they had all heard it plainly. A bell ringing repeatedly. Michel had run posthaste to answer it.

  “So you see, Monsieur, I am not guilty,” cried Michel anxiously.

  “And this button from a Wagon Lit tunic—how do you explain it?”

  “I cannot, Monsieur. It is a mystery to me. All my buttons are intact.”

  Both of the other conductors also declared that they had not lost a button. Also that they had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment at any time.

  “Calm yourself, Michel,” said M. Bouc, “and cast your mind back to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s bell. Did you meet anyone at all in the corridor?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Did you see anyone going away from you down the corridor in the other direction?”

  “Again, no. Monsieur.”

  “Odd,” said M. Bouc.

  “Not so very,” said Poirot. “It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was ample time—”

  “For what? For what, mon cher? Remember that there are thick drifts of snow all round the train.”

  “There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreat into either of the toilets or he could disappear into one of the compartments.”

  “But they were all occupied.”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean that he could retreat into his own compartment?”

  Poirot nodded.

  “It fits, it fits,” murmured M. Bouc. “During that ten minutes’ absence of the conductor, the murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains the door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment and is back safely in his own compartment by the time the conductor arrives.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will tell you so.”

  With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart.

  “We have still to see eight passengers,” said Poirot. “Five first-class passengers—Princess Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class passengers—Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli and the lady’s maid, Fräulein Schmidt.”

  “Who will you see first—the Italian?”

  “How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, Michel.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” said the conductor, who was just leaving the car.

  “Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc.

  But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining car, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot.

  Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once.

  Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it.

  She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc.

  “You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally, you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give all the assistance in my power.”

  “You are most amiable, Madame,” said Poirot.

  “Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?”

  “Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?”

  Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside.

  “You can write it,” she said. “There is nothing difficult—Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Kleber, Paris.”

  “You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?”

  “Yes, I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid is with me.”

  “Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?”

  “Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I was in the dining car. I retired to bed immediately after dinner. I read until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light. I was unable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I suffer. At about a quarter to one I rang for my maid. She massaged me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot say exactly when she left me. It may have been half an hour, it may have been later.”

  “The train had stopped then?”

  “The train had stopped.”

  “You heard nothing—nothing unusual during the time, Madame?”

  “I heard nothing unusual.”

  “What is your maid’s name?”

  “Hildegarde Schmidt.”

  “She has been with you long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “You consider her trustworthy?”

  “Absolutely. Her people come from an estate of my late husband’s in Germany.”

  “You have been in America, I presume, Madame?”

  The abrupt change of subject
made the old lady raise her eyebrows.

  “Many times.”

  “Were you at any time acquainted with a family of the name of Armstrong—a family in which a tragedy occurred?”

  With some emotion in her voice the old lady said:

  “You speak of friends of mine, Monsieur.”

  “You knew Colonel Armstrong well, then?”

  “I knew him slightly; but his wife, Sonia Armstrong, was my god-daughter. I was on terms of friendship with her mother, the actress, Linda Arden. Linda Arden was a great genius, one of the greatest tragic actresses in the world. As Lady Macbeth, as Magda, there was no one to touch her. I was not only an admirer of her art, I was a personal friend.”

  “She is dead?”

  “No, no, she is alive, but she lives in complete retirement. Her health is very delicate, she has to lie on a sofa most of the time.”

  “There was, I think, a second daughter?”

  “Yes, much younger than Mrs. Armstrong.”

  “And she is alive?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Where is she?”

  The old woman bent an acute glance at him.

  “I must ask you the reason of these questions. What have they to do with the matter in hand—the murder on this train?”

  “They are connected in this way, Madame, the man who was murdered was the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Mrs. Armstrong’s child.”

  “Ah!”

  The straight brows drew together. Princess Dragomiroff drew herself a little more erect.

  “In my view, then, this murder is an entirely admirable happening! You will pardon my slightly biased point of view.”

  “It is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question you did not answer. Where is the younger daughter of Linda Arden, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong?”

  “I honestly cannot tell you, Monsieur. I have lost touch with the younger generation. I believe she married an Englishman some years ago and went to England, but at the moment I cannot recollect the name.”

  She paused a minute and then said:

  “Is there anything further you want to ask me, gentlemen?”

  “Only one thing, Madame, a somewhat personal question. The colour of your dressing gown.”

  She raised her eyebrows slightly.

  “I must suppose you have a reason for such a question. My dressing gown is of blue satin.”

  “There is nothing more, Madame. I am much obliged to you for answering my questions so promptly.”

  She made a slight gesture with her heavily-beringed hand.

  Then, as she rose, and the others rose with her, she stopped.

  “You will excuse me, Monsieur,” she said, “but may I ask your name? Your face is somehow familiar to me.”

  “My name, Madame, is Hercule Poirot—at your service.”

  She was silent a minute, then:

  “Hercule Poirot,” she said. “Yes. I remember now. This is Destiny.”

  She walked away, very erect, a little stiff in her movements.

  “Voilà une grande dame,” said M. Bouc. “What do you think of her, my friend?”

  But Hercule Poirot merely shook his head.

  “I am wondering,” he said, “what she meant by Destiny.”

  Seven

  THE EVIDENCE OF COUNT AND COUNTESS ANDRENYI

  Count and Countess Andrenyi were next summoned. The Count, however, entered the dining car alone.

  There was no doubt that he was a fine-looking man seen face to face. He was at least six feet in height, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds, and might have been taken for an Englishman had it not been for the length of his moustache and something in the line of the cheekbone.

  “Well, Messieurs,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

  “You understand, Monsieur,” said Poirot, “that in view of what has occurred I am obliged to put certain questions to all the passengers.”

  “Perfectly, perfectly,” said the Count easily. “I quite understand your position. Not, I fear, that my wife and I can do much to assist you. We were asleep and heard nothing at all.”

  “Are you aware of the identity of the deceased, Monsieur?”

  “I understand it was the big American—a man with a decidedly unpleasant face. He sat at the table at meal times.”

  He indicated with a nod of his head the table at which Ratchett and MacQueen had sat.

  “Yes, yes, Monsieur, you are perfectly correct. I meant did you know the name of the man?”

  “No.” The Count looked thoroughly puzzled by Poirot’s queries.

  “If you want to know his name,” he said, “surely it is on his passport?”

  “The name on his passport is Ratchett,” said Poirot. “But that, Monsieur, is not his real name. He is the man Cassetti, who was responsible for a celebrated kidnapping outrage in America.”

  He watched the Count closely as he spoke, but the latter seemed quite unaffected by the piece of news. He merely opened his eyes a little.

  “Ah!” he said. “That certainly should throw light upon the matter. An extraordinary country America.”

  “You have been there, perhaps, Monsieur le Comte?”

  “I was in Washington for a year.”

  “You knew, perhaps, the Armstrong family?”

  “Armstrong—Armstrong—it is difficult to recall—one met so many.”

  He smiled, shrugged his shoulders.

  “But to come back to the matter in hand, gentlemen,” he said. “What more can I do to assist you?”

  “You retired to rest—when, Monsieur le Comte?”

  Hercule Poirot’s eyes stole to his plan. Count and Countess Andrenyi occupied compartments No. 12 and 13 adjoining.

  “We had one compartment made up for the night whilst we were in the dining car. On returning we sat in the other for a while—”

  “What number would that be?”

  “No. 13. We played picquet together. About eleven o’clock my wife retired for the night. The conductor made up my compartment and I also went to bed. I slept soundly until morning.”

  “Did you notice the stopping of the train?”

  “I was not aware of it till this morning.”

  “And your wife?”

  The Count smiled.

  “My wife always takes a sleeping draught when travelling by train. She took her usual dose of trional.”

  He paused.

  “I am sorry I am not able to assist you in any way.”

  Poirot passed him a sheet of paper and a pen.

  “Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. It is a formality, but will you just let me have your name and address?”

  The Count wrote slowly and carefully.

  “It is just as well I should write this for you,” he said pleasantly. “The spelling of my country estate is a little difficult for those unacquainted with the language.”

  He passed the paper across to Poirot and rose.

  “It will be quite unnecessary for my wife to come here,” he said. “She can tell you nothing more than I have.”

  A little gleam came into Poirot’s eye.

  “Doubtless, doubtless,” he said. “But all the same I think I should like to have just one little word with Madame la Comtesse.”

  “I assure you it is quite unnecessary.”

  His voice rang out authoritatively.

  Poirot blinked gently at him.

  “It will be a mere formality,” he said. “But you understand, it is necessary for my report.”

  “As you please.”

  The Count gave way grudgingly. He made a short, foreign bow and left the dining car.

  Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count’s name and titles. He passed on to the further information—accompanied by wife. Christian name Elena Maria; maiden name Goldenberg; age twenty. A spot of grease had been dropped some time by a careless official on it.

  “A diplomatic passport,” said M
. Bouc. “We must be careful, my friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality.”

  His voice dropped as the Countess Andrenyi entered the dining car. She looked timid and extremely charming.

  “You wish to see me, Messieurs?”

  “A mere formality, Madame la Comtesse.” Poirot rose gallantly, bowed her into the seat opposite him. “It is only to ask you if you saw or heard anything last night that may throw light upon this matter.”

  “Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep.”

  “You did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on in the compartment next to yours? The American lady who occupies it had quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor.”

  “I heard nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken a sleeping draught.”

  “Ah! I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further.” Then, as she rose swiftly, “Just one little minute—these particulars, your maiden name, age and so on, they are correct?”

  “Quite correct, Monsieur.”

  “Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then.”

  She signed quickly, a graceful slanting handwriting.

  Elena Andrenyi.

  “Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?”

  “No, Monsieur.” She smiled, flushed a little. “We were not married then; we have only been married a year.”

  “Ah yes, thank you, Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?”

  She stared at him as she stood poised for departure.

  “Yes.”

  “A pipe?”

  “No. Cigarettes and cigars.”

  “Ah! Thank you.”

  She lingered; her eyes watched him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almond shaped, with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very scarlet, in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful.

  “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Madame,” Poirot waved an airy hand, “detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing gown?”

  She stared at him. Then she laughed.