She rose.
“Have you anything further you wish to ask me?”
“Your maid, Madame, did she recognize this handkerchief when we showed it to her this morning?”
“She must have done so. She saw it and said nothing? Ah, well, that shows that she too can be loyal.”
With a slight inclination of her head she passed out of the dining car.
“So that was it,” murmured Poirot softly. “I noticed just a trifling hesitation when I asked the maid if she knew to whom the handkerchief belonged. She was uncertain whether or not to admit that it was her mistress’s. But how does that fit in with that strange central idea of mine? Yes, it might well be.”
“Ah!” said M. Bouc with a characteristic gesture—“she is a terrible old lady, that!”
“Could she have murdered Ratchett?” asked Poirot of the doctor.
He shook his head.
“Those blows—the ones delivered with great force penetrating the muscle—never, never could anyone with so frail a physique inflict them.”
“But the feebler ones?”
“The feebler ones, yes.”
“I am thinking,” said Poirot, “of the incident this morning when I said to her that the strength was in her will rather than in her arm. It was in the nature of a trap, that remark. I wanted to see if she would look down at her right or her left arm. She did neither. She looked at them both. But she made a strange reply. She said, ‘No, I have no strength in these. I do not know whether to be sorry or glad.’ A curious remark that. It confirms me in my belief about the crime.”
“It did not settle the point about the left-handedness.”
“No. By the way, did you notice that Count Andrenyi keeps his handkerchief in his right-hand breast pocket?”
M. Bouc shook his head. His mind reverted to the astonishing revelations of the last half hour. He murmured:
“Lies—and again lies—it amazes me, the amount of lies we had told to us this morning.”
“There are more still to discover,” said Poirot cheerfully.
“You think so?”
“I shall be very disappointed if it is not so.”
“Such duplicity is terrible,” said M. Bouc. “But it seems to please you,” he added reproachfully.
“It has this advantage,” said Poirot. “If you confront anyone who has lied with the truth, they usually admit it—often out of sheer surprise. It is only necessary to guess right to produce your effect.
“That is the only way to conduct this case. I select each passenger in turn, consider their evidence and say to myself, ‘If so and so is lying, on what point are they lying and what is the reason for the lie?’ And I answer if they are lying—if, you mark—it could only be for such a reason and on such a point. We have done that once very successfully with Countess Andrenyi. We shall now proceed to try the same method on several other persons.”
“And supposing, my friend, that your guess happens to be wrong?”
“Then one person, at any rate, will be completely freed from suspicion.”
“Ah! A process of elimination.”
“Exactly.”
“And who do we tackle next?”
“We are going to tackle that pukka sahib, Colonel Arbuthnot.”
Six
A SECOND INTERVIEW WITH COLONEL ARBUTHNOT
Colonel Arbuthnot was clearly annoyed at being summoned to the dining car for a second interview. His face wore a most forbidding expression as he sat down and said:
“Well?”
“All my apologies for troubling you a second time,” said Poirot. “But there is still some information that I think you might be able to give us.”
“Indeed? I hardly think so.”
“To begin with, you see this pipe cleaner?”
“Yes.”
“Is it one of yours?”
“Don’t know. I don’t put a private mark on them, you know.”
“Are you aware, Colonel Arbuthnot, that you are the only man amongst the passengers in the Stamboul-Calais carriage who smokes a pipe?”
“In that case it probably is one of mine.”
“Do you know where it was found?”
“Not the least idea.”
“It was found by the body of the murdered man.”
Colonel Arbuthnot raised his eyebrows.
“Can you tell us, Colonel Arbuthnot, how it is likely to have got there?”
“If you mean did I drop it there myself, no, I didn’t.”
“Did you go into Mr. Ratchett’s compartment at any time?”
“I never even spoke to the man.”
“You never spoke to him and you did not murder him?”
The Colonel’s eyebrows went up again sardonically.
“If I had, I should hardly be likely to acquaint you with the fact. As a matter of fact I didn’t murder the fellow.”
“Ah, well,” murmured Poirot. “It is of no consequence.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said that it was of no consequence.”
“Oh!” Arbuthnot looked taken aback. He eyed Poirot uneasily.
“Because, you see,” continued the little man, “the pipe cleaner, it is of no importance. I can myself think of eleven other excellent explanations of its presence.”
Arbuthnot stared at him.
“What I really wished to see you about was quite another matter,” went on Poirot. “Miss Debenham may have told you, perhaps, that I overheard some words spoken to you at the station of Konya?”
Arbuthnot did not reply.
“She said, ‘Not now. When it’s all over. When it’s behind us.’ Do you know to what those words referred?”
“I am sorry, M. Poirot, but I must refuse to answer that question.”
“Pourquoi?”
The Colonel said stiffly:
“I suggest that you should ask Miss Debenham herself for the meaning of those words.”
“I have done so.”
“And she refused to tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I should think it would have been perfectly plain—even to you—that my lips are sealed.”
“You will not give away a lady’s secret?”
“You can put it that way, if you like.”
“Miss Debenham told me that they referred to a private matter of her own.”
“Then why not accept her word for it?”
“Because, Colonel Arbuthnot, Miss Debenham is what one might call a highly suspicious character.”
“Nonsense,” said the Colonel with warmth.
“It is not nonsense.”
“You have nothing whatever against her.”
“Not the fact that Miss Debenham was companion governess in the Armstrong household at the time of the kidnapping of little Daisy Armstrong?”
There was a minute’s dead silence.
Poirot nodded his head gently.
“You see,” he said, “we know more than you think. If Miss Debenham is innocent, why did she conceal that fact? Why did she tell me that she had never been in America?”
The Colonel cleared his throat.
“Aren’t you possibly making a mistake?”
“I am making no mistake. Why did Miss Debenham lie to me?”
Colonel Arbuthnot shrugged his shoulders.
“You had better ask her. I still think that you are wrong.”
Poirot raised his voice and called. One of the restaurant attendants came from the far end of the car.
“Go and ask the English lady in No. 11 if she will be good enough to come here.”
“Bien, Monsieur.”
The man departed. The four men sat in silence. Colonel Arbuthnot’s face looked as though it were carved out of wood, it was rigid and impassive.
The man returned.
“Thank you.”
A minute or two later Mary Debenham entered the dining car.
Seven
THE IDENTITY OF MARY DEBENHAM
She
wore no hat. Her head was thrown back as though in defiance. The sweep of her hair back from her face, the curve of her nostril suggested the figurehead of a ship plunging gallantly into a rough sea. In that moment she was beautiful.
Her eyes went to Arbuthnot for a minute—just a minute.
She said to Poirot?
“You wished to see me?”
“I wished to ask you, Mademoiselle, why you lied to us this morning?”
“Lied to you? I don’t know what you mean.”
“You concealed the fact that at the time of the Armstrong tragedy you were actually living in the house. You told me that you had never been in America.”
He saw her flinch for a moment and then recover herself.
“Yes,” she said. “That is true.”
“No, Mademoiselle, it was false.”
“You misunderstood me. I mean that it is true that I lied to you.”
“Ah, you admit it?”
Her lips curved into a smile.
“Certainly. Since you have found me out.”
“You are at least frank, Mademoiselle.”
“There does not seem anything else for me to be.”
“Well, of course, that is true. And now, Mademoiselle, may I ask you the reason for these evasions?”
“I should have thought the reason leapt to the eye, M. Poirot?”
“It does not leap to mine, Mademoiselle.”
She said in a quiet, even voice with a trace of hardness in it:
“I have my living to get.”
“You mean—?”
She raised her eyes and looked him full in the face.
“How much do you know, M. Poirot, of the fight to get and keep decent employment? Do you think that a girl who had been detained in connection with a murder case, whose name and perhaps photographs were reproduced in the English papers—do you think that any nice ordinary middle-class Englishwoman would want to engage that girl as governess to her daughters?”
“I do not see why not—if no blame attached to you.”
“Oh, blame—it is not blame—it is publicity! So far, M. Poirot, I have succeeded in life. I have had well-paid, pleasant posts. I was not going to risk the position I had attained when no good end could have been served.”
“I will venture to suggest, Mademoiselle, that I would have been the best judge of that, not you.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“For instance, you could have helped me in the matter of identification.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it possible, Mademoiselle, that you did not recognize in the Countess Andrenyi Mrs. Armstrong’s young sister whom you taught in New York?”
“Countess Andrenyi? No.” She shook her head. “It may seem extraordinary to you, but I did not recognize her. She was not grown up, you see, when I knew her. That was over three years ago. It is true that the Countess reminded me of someone—it puzzled me. But she looks so foreign—I never connected her with the little American schoolgirl. It is true that I only glanced at her casually when coming into the restaurant car. I noticed her clothes more than her face—” she smiled faintly—“women do! And then—well, I had my own preoccupations.”
“You will not tell me your secret, Mademoiselle?”
Poirot’s voice was very gentle and persuasive.
She said in a low voice:
“I can’t—I can’t.”
And suddenly, without warning she broke down, dropping her face down upon her outstretched arms and crying as though her heart would break.
The Colonel sprang up and stood awkwardly beside her.
“I—look here—”
He stopped and, turning round, scowled fiercely at Poirot.
“I’ll break every bone in your damned body, you dirty little whippersnapper,” he said.
“Monsieur,” protested M. Bouc.
Arbuthnot had turned back to the girl.
“Mary—for God’s sake—”
She sprang up.
“It’s nothing. I’m all right. You don’t need me any more, do you, M. Poirot? If you do, you must come and find me. Oh, what an idiot—what an idiot I’m making of myself!”
She hurried out of the car. Arbuthnot, before following her, turned once more on Poirot.
“Miss Debenham’s got nothing to do with this business—nothing, do you hear? And if she’s worried and interfered with, you’ll have me to deal with.”
He strode out.
“I like to see an angry Englishman,” said Poirot. “They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.”
But M. Bouc was not interested in the emotional reactions of Englishmen. He was overcome by admiration of his friend.
“Mon cher, vous êtes épatant,” he cried. “Another miraculous guess. C’est formidable.”
“It is incredible how you think of these things,” said Dr. Constantine admiringly.
“Oh, I claim no credit this time. It was not a guess. Countess Andrenyi practically told me.”
“Comment? Surely not?”
“You remember I asked her about her governess or companion? I had already decided in my mind that if Mary Debenham were mixed up in the matter, she must have figured in the household in some such capacity.”
“Yes, but the Countess Andrenyi described a totally different person.”
“Exactly. A tall, middle-aged woman with red hair—in fact, the exact opposite in every respect of Miss Debenham, so much so as to be quite remarkable. But then she had to invent a name quickly, and there it was that the unconscious association of ideas gave her away. She said Miss Freebody, you remember.”
“Yes?”
“Eh bien, you may not know it, but there is a shop in London that was called, until recently, Debenham & Freebody. With the name Debenham running in her head, the Countess clutches at another name quickly, and the first that comes is Freebody. Naturally I understood immediately.”
“That is yet another lie. Why did she do it?”
“Possibly more loyalty. It makes things a little difficult.”
“Ma foi,” said M. Bouc with violence. “But does everybody on this train tell lies?”
“That,” said Poirot, “is what we are about to find out.”
Eight
FURTHER SURPRISING REVELATIONS
“Nothing would surprise me now,” said M. Bouc. “Nothing! Even if everybody in the train proved to have been in the Armstrong household I should not express surprise.”
“That is a very profound remark,” said Poirot. “Would you like to see what your favourite suspect, the Italian, has to say for himself?”
“You are going to make another of these famous guesses of yours?”
“Precisely.”
“It is really a most extraordinary case,” said Constantine.
“No, it is most natural.” M. Bouc flung up his arms in comic despair.
“If this is what you call natural, mom ami—”
Words failed him.
Poirot had by this time requested the dining car attendant to fetch Antonio Foscarelli.
The big Italian had a wary look in his eye as he came in. He shot nervous glances from side to side like a trapped animal.
“What do you want?” he said. “I have nothing to tell you—nothing, do you hear! Per Dio—” He struck his hand on the table.
“Yes, you have something more to tell us,” said Poirot firmly. “The truth!”
“The truth?” He shot an uneasy glance at Poirot. All the assurance and geniality had gone out of his manner.
“Mais oui. It may be that I know it already. But it will be a point in your favour if it comes from you spontaneously.”
“You talk like the American police. ‘Come clean,’ that is what they say—‘come clean.’”
“Ah! so you have had experience of the New York police?”
“No, no, never. They could not prove a thing against me—but it was not for want of trying.”
Poirot said quietly:
“That was in the Armstrong case, was it not? You were the chauffeur?”
His eyes met those of the Italian. The bluster went out of the big man. He was like a pricked balloon.
“Since you know—why ask me?”
“Why did you lie this morning?”
“Business reasons. Besides, I do not trust the Yugo-Slav police. They hate the Italians. They would not have given me justice.”
“Perhaps it is exactly justice that they would have given you!”
“No, no, I had nothing to do with this business last night. I never left my carriage. The long-faced Englishman, he can tell you so. It was not I who killed this pig—this Ratchett. You cannot prove anything against me.”
Poirot was writing something on a sheet of paper. He looked up and said quietly:
“Very good. You can go.”
Foscarelli lingered uneasily.
“You realize that it was not I—that I could have had nothing to do with it?”
“I said that you could go.”
“It is a conspiracy. You are going to frame me? All for a pig of a man who should have gone to the chair! It was an infamy that he did not. If it had been me—if I had been arrested—”
“But it was not you. You had nothing to do with the kidnapping of the child.”
“What is that you are saying? Why, that little one—she was the delight of the house. Tonio, she called me. And she would sit in the car and pretend to hold the wheel. All the household worshipped her! Even the police came to understand that. Ah, the beautiful little one.”
His voice had softened. The tears came into his eyes. Then he wheeled round abruptly on his heel and strode out of the dining car.
“Pietro,” called Poirot.
The dining car attendant came at a run.
“The No. 10—the Swedish lady.”
“Bien, Monsieur.”
“Another?” cried M. Bouc. “Ah, no—it is not possible. I tell you it is not possible.”
“Mon cher, we have to know. Even if in the end everybody on the train proves to have a motive for killing Ratchett, we have to know. Once we know, we can settle once for all where the guilt lies.”
“My head is spinning,” groaned M. Bouc.
Greta Ohlsson was ushered in sympathetically by the attendant. She was weeping bitterly.
Murder on the Orient Express Page 18