Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot 10)

“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!”