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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?”
