“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.

 

“It is corn-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?”

 

“Very important, Madame.”

 

She asked curiously:

 

“Are you really a detective, then?”

 

“At your service, Madame.”

 

“I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugo-Slavia—not until one got to Italy.”

 

“I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.”

 

“You belong to the League of Nations?”

 

“I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically. He went on, “I work mainly in London. You speak English?” he added in that language.

 

“I speak a leetle, yes.”

 

Her accent was charming.

 

Poirot bowed once more.

 

“We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible.”

 

She smiled, inclined her head and departed.

 

“Elle est jolie femme,” said M. Bouc appreciatively.

 

He sighed.

 

“Well, that did not advance us much.”

 

“No,” said Poirot. “Two people who saw nothing and heard nothing.”

 

“Shall we now see the Italian?”

 

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.

 

 

 

 

 

Eight

 

 

THE EVIDENCE OF COLONEL ARBUTHNOT

 

 

 

 

Poirot roused himself with a slight start. His eyes twinkled a little as they met the eager ones of M. Bouc.

 

“Ah! my dear old friend,” he said. “You see, I have become what they call the snob! The first-class, I feel it should be attended to before the second-class. Next, I think, we will interview the good looking Colonel Arbuthnot.”

 

Finding the Colonel’s French to be of a severely limited description, Poirot conducted his interrogation in English.

 

Arbuthnot’s name, age, home address and exact military standing were all ascertained. Poirot proceeded:

 

“It is that you come home from India on what is called the leave—what we call en permission?”

 

Colonel Arbuthnot, uninterested in what a pack of foreigners called anything, replied with true British brevity:

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you do not come home on the P. & O. boat?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I chose to come by the overland route for reasons of my own.”

 

“And that,” his manner seemed to say, “is one for you, you interfering little jackanapes.”

 

“You came straight through from India?”

 

The Colonel replied dryly:

 

“I stopped for one night to see Ur of the Chaldees and for three days in Baghdad with the A.O.C., who happens to be an old friend of mine.”

 

“You stopped three days in Baghdad. I understand that the young English lady, Miss Debenham, also comes from Baghdad. Perhaps you met her there?”

 

“No, I did not. I first met Miss Debenham when she and I shared the railway convoy car from Kirkuk to Nissibin.”

 

Poirot leaned forward. He became persuasive and a little more foreign than he need have been.

 

“Monsieur, I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss Debenham are the only two English people on the train. It is necessary that I should ask you each your opinion of the other.”

 

“Highly irregular,” said Colonel Arbuthnot coldly.

 

“Not so. You see, this crime, it was most probably committed by a woman. The man was stabbed no less than twelve times. Even the chef de train said at once, ‘It is a woman.’ Well, then, what is my first task? To give all the women travelling on the Stamboul-Calais coach what Americans call the ‘once over.’ But to judge of an Englishwoman is difficult. They are very reserved, the English. So I appeal to you, Monsieur, in the interests of justice. What sort of a person is this Miss Debenham? What do you know about her?”

 

“Miss Debenham,” said the Colonel with some warmth, “is a lady.”

 

“Ah!” said Poirot with every appearance of being much gratified. “So you do not think that she is likely to be implicated in this crime?”

 

“The idea is absurd,” said Arbuthnot. “The man was a perfect stranger—she had never seen him before.”

 

“Did she tell you so?”

 

“She did. She commented at once upon his somewhat unpleasant appearance. If a woman is concerned, as you seem to think (to my mind without any evidence but mere assumption), I can assure you that Miss Debenham could not possibly be indicated.”

 

“You feel warmly in the matter,” said Poirot with a smile.

 

Colonel Arbuthnot gave him a cold stare.

 

“I really don’t know what you mean,” he said.

 

The stare seemed to abash Poirot. He dropped his eyes and began fiddling with the papers in front of him.

 

“All this is by the way,” he said. “Let us be practical and come to facts. This crime, we have reason to believe, took place at a quarter past one last night. It is part of the necessary routine to ask everyone on the train what he or she was doing at that time.”

 

“Quite so. At a quarter past one, to the best of my belief, I was talking to the young American fellow—secretary to the dead man.”

 

“Ah! Were you in his compartment, or was he in yours?”

 

“I was in his.”

 

“That is the young man of the name of MacQueen?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He was a friend or acquaintance of yours?”

 

“No, I never saw him before this journey. We fell into casual conversation yesterday and both became interested. I don’t as a rule like Americans—haven’t any use for ’em—”

 

Poirot smiled, remembering MacQueen’s strictures on “Britishers.”

 

“—But I liked this young fellow. He’d got hold of some tom-fool idiotic ideas about the situation in India; that’s the worst of Americans—they’re so sentimental and idealistic. Well, he was interested in what I had to tell him. I’ve had nearly thirty years experience of the country. And I was interested in what he had to tell me about the financial situation in America. Then we got down to world politics in general. I was quite surprised to look at my watch and find it was a quarter to two.”

 

“That is the time you broke up this conversation?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did you do then?”

 

“Walked along to my own compartment and turned in.”

 

“Your bed was made up ready?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That is the compartment—let me see—No. 15—the one next but one to the end away from the dining car?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where was the conductor when you went to your compartment?”

 

“Sitting at the end at a little table. As a matter of fact, MacQueen called him just as I went to my own compartment.”

 

“Why did he call him?”

 

“To make up his bed, I suppose. The compartment hadn’t been made up for the night.”

 

“Now, Colonel Arbuthnot, I want you to think carefully. During the time you were talking to Mr. MacQueen did anyone pass along the corridor outside the door?”

 

“A good many people, I should think. I wasn’t paying attention.”

 

“Ah! but I am referring to—let us say the last hour and a half of your conversation. You got out at Vincovci, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes, but only for about a minute. There was a blizzard on. The cold was something frightful. Made one quite thankful to get back to the fug, though as a rule I think the way these trains are overheated is something scandalous.”

 

M. Bouc sighed.

 

“It is very difficult to please everybody,” he said. “The English, they open everything—then others, they come along and shut every thing. It is very difficult.”

 

Neither Poirot nor Colonel Arbuthnot paid any attention to him.

 

“Now, Monsieur, cast your mind back,” said Poirot encouragingly. “It was cold outside. You have returned to the train. You sit down again, you smoke—perhaps a cigarette, perhaps a pipe—”

 

He paused for the fraction of a second.

 

“A pipe for me. MacQueen smoked cigarettes.”

 

“The train starts again. You smoke your pipe. You discuss the state of Europe—of the world. It is late now. Most people have retired for the night.