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“Exactly,” said Dr. Constantine. “She finds out that she has dropped the handkerchief and immediately takes steps to conceal her Christian name.”
“How fast you go. You arrive at a conclusion much sooner than I would permit myself to do.”
“Is there any other alternative?”
“Certainly there is. Suppose, for instance, that you have committed a crime and wish to cast suspicion for it on someone else. Well, there is on the train a certain person connected intimately with the Armstrong family—a woman. Suppose, then, that you leave there a handkerchief belonging to that woman. She will be questioned, her connection with the Armstrong family will be brought out—et voilà. Motive—and an incriminating article of evidence.”
“But in such a case,” objected the doctor, “the person indicated being innocent, would not take steps to conceal her identity.”
“Ah, really? That is what you think? That is truly the opinion of the police court. But I know human nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of being tried for murder, the most innocent person will lose their head and do the most absurd things. No, no, the grease spot and the changed label do not prove guilt—they only prove that the Countess Andrenyi is anxious for some reason to conceal her identity.”
“What do you think her connection with the Armstrong family can be? She has never been in America, she says.”
“Exactly, and she speaks broken English, and she has a very foreign appearance which she exaggerates. But it should not be difficult to guess who she is. I mentioned just now the name of Mrs. Armstrong’s mother. It was Linda Arden, and she was a very celebrated actress—among other things a Shakespearean actress. Think of As You Like It—the Forest of Arden and Rosalind. It was there she got the inspiration for her acting name. Linda Arden, the name by which she was known all over the world, was not her real name. It may have been Goldenberg—she quite likely had central European blood in her veins—a strain of Jewish, perhaps. Many nationalities drift to America. I suggest to you, gentlemen, that that young sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s, little more than a child at the time of the tragedy, was Helena Goldenberg the younger daughter of Linda Arden, and that she married Count Andrenyi when he was an attaché in Washington.”
“But Princess Dragomiroff says that she married an Englishman.”
“Whose name she cannot remember! I ask you, my friends—is that really likely? Princess Dragomiroff loved Linda Arden as great ladies do love great artists. She was godmother to one of her daughters. Would she forget so quickly the married name of the other daughter? It is not likely. No, I think we can safely say that Princess Dragomiroff was lying. She knew Helena was on the train, she had seen her. She realized at once, as soon as she heard who Ratchett really was, that Helena would be suspected. And so, when we question her as to the sister she promptly lies—is vague, cannot remember, but ‘thinks Helena married an Englishman’—a suggestion as far away from the truth as possible.”
One of the restaurant attendants came through the door at the end and approached them. He addressed M. Bouc.
“The dinner, Monsieur, shall I serve it? It is ready some little time.”
M. Bouc looked at Poirot. The latter nodded.
“By all means, let dinner be served.”
The attendant vanished through the doors at the other end. His bell could be heard ringing and his voice upraised:
“Premier Service. Le dîner est servi. Premier dîner—First Service.”
Four
THE GREASE SPOT ON A HUNGARIAN PASSPORT
Poirot shared a table with M. Bouc and the doctor.
The company assembled in the restaurant car was a very subdued one. They spoke little. Even the loquacious Mrs. Hubbard was unnaturally quiet. She murmured as she sat:
“I don’t feel as though I’ve got the heart to eat anything,” and then partook of everything offered her, encouraged by the Swedish lady, who seemed to regard her as a special charge.
Before the meal was served Poirot had caught the chief attendant by the sleeve and murmured something to him. Constantine had a pretty good guess what the instructions had been, as he noticed that the Count and Countess Andrenyi were always served last and that at the end of the meal there was a delay in making out their bill. It therefore came about that the Count and Countess were the last left in the restaurant car.
When they rose at length and moved in the direction of the door, Poirot sprang up and followed them.
“Pardon, Madame, you have dropped your handkerchief.”
He was holding out to her the tiny monogrammed square.
She took it, glanced at it, then handed it back to him.
“You are mistaken, Monsieur, that is not my handkerchief.”
“Not your handkerchief? Are you sure?”
“Perfectly sure, Monsieur.”
“And yet, Madame, it has your initial—the initial H.”
The Count made a sudden movement. Poirot ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the Countess’s face.
Looking steadily at him she replied:
“I do not understand, Monsieur. My initials are E.A.”
“I think not. Your name is Helena—not Elena. Helena Goldenberg, the younger daughter of Linda Arden—Helena Goldenberg, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong.”
There was a dead silence for a minute or two. Both the Count and Countess had gone deadly white. Poirot said in a gentler tone:
“It is of no use denying. That is the truth, is it not?”
The Count burst out furiously:
“I demand, Monsieur, by what right you—”
She interrupted him, putting up a small hand towards his mouth.
“No, Rudolph. Let me speak. It is useless to deny what this gentleman says. We had better sit down and talk the matter out.”
Her voice had changed. It still had the southern richness of tone, but it had become suddenly more clear cut and incisive. It was, for the first time, a definitely American voice.
The Count was silenced. He obeyed the gesture of her hand they both sat down opposite Poirot.
“Your statement, Monsieur, is quite true,” said the Countess. “I am Helena Goldenberg, the younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong.”
“You did not acquaint me with that fact this morning, Madame la Comtesse.”
“No.”
“In fact, all that your husband and you told me was a tissue of lies.”
“Monsieur,” cried the Count angrily.
“Do not be angry, Rudolph. M. Poirot puts the fact rather brutally, but what he says is undeniable.”
“I am glad you admit the fact so freely, Madame. Will you now tell me your reasons for so doing and also for altering your Christian name on your passport.”
“That was my doing entirely,” put in the Count.
Helena said quietly:
“Surely, M. Poirot, you can guess my reason—our reason. This man who was killed is the man who murdered my baby niece, who killed my sister, who broke my brother-in-law’s heart. Three of the people I loved best and who made up my home—my world!”
Her voice rang out passionately. She was a true daughter of that mother, the emotional force of whose acting had moved huge audiences to tears.
She went on more quietly.
“Of all the people on the train, I alone had probably the best motive for killing him.”
“And you did not kill him, Madame?”
“I swear to you, M. Poirot, and my husband knows and will swear also—that, much as I may have been tempted to do so, I never lifted a hand against that man.”
“I too, gentlemen,” said the Count. “I give you my word of honour that last night Helena never left her compartment. She took a sleeping draught exactly as I said. She is utterly and entirely innocent.”
Poirot looked from one to the other of them.
“On my word of honour,” repeated the Count.
Poirot shook his head slightly.
“And yet you took
it upon yourself to alter the name in the passport?”
“Monsieur Poirot,” the Count spoke earnestly and passionately. “Consider my position. Do you think I could stand the thought of my wife dragged through a sordid police case. She was innocent, I knew it, but what she said was true—because of her connection with the Armstrong family she would have been immediately suspected. She would have been questioned—arrested, perhaps. Since some evil chance had taken us on the same train as this man Ratchett, there was, I felt sure, but one thing for it. I admit, Monsieur, that I lied to you—all, that is, save in one thing. My wife never left her compartment last night.”
He spoke with an earnestness that it was hard to gainsay.
“I do not say that I disbelieve you, Monsieur,” said Poirot slowly. “Your family is, I know, a proud and ancient one. It would be bitter indeed for you to have your wife dragged into an unpleasant police case. With that I can sympathize. But how, then, do you explain the presence of your wife’s handkerchief actually in the dead man’s compartment?”
“That handkerchief is not mine, Monsieur,” said the Countess.
“In spite of the initial H?”
“In spite of the initial. I have handkerchiefs not unlike that, but not one that is exactly of that pattern. I know, of course that I cannot hope to make you believe me, but I assure you that it is so. That handkerchief is not mine.”
“It may have been placed there by someone in order to incriminate you?”
She smiled a little.
“You are enticing me to admit that, after all, it is mine? But indeed, M. Poirot, it isn’t.”
She spoke with great earnestness.
“Then why, if the handkerchief was not yours, did you alter the name in the passport?”
The Count answered this.
“Because we heard that a handkerchief had been found with the initial H on it. We talked the matter over together before we came to be interviewed. I pointed out to Helena that if it were seen that her Christian name began with an H she would immediately be subjected to much more rigorous questioning. And the thing was so simple—to alter Helena to Elena was easily done.”
“You have, M. le Comte, the makings of a very fine criminal,” remarked Poirot dryly. “A great natural ingenuity, and an apparently remorseless determination to mislead justice.”
“Oh, no, no,” the girl leaned forward. “M. Poirot, he’s explained to you how it was.” She broke from French into English. “I was scared—absolutely dead scared, you understand. It had been so awful—that time—and to have it all raked up again. And to be suspected and perhaps thrown into prison. I was just scared stiff, M. Poirot. Can’t you understand at all?”
Her voice was lovely—deep—rich—pleading, the voice of the daughter of Linda Arden the actress.
Poirot looked gravely at her.
