Murder on the Orient Express - Christie Agatha - Страница 36

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“Yes, yes,” said M. Bouc impatiently. “I see all that. But where does the handkerchief come in?”

“I am returning to it by a somewhat circuitous route. To begin with, you must realise that the threatening letters were in the nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out of an indifferently written American crime novel. They are not real. They are, in fact, simply intended for the police. What we have to ask ourselves is: ‘Did they deceive Ratchett?’ On the face of it, the answer seems to be No. His instructions to Hardman seem to point to a definite ‘private’ enemy, of whose identity he was well aware. That is, if we accept Hardman’s story as true. But Ratchett certainly received one letter of a very different character – the one containing a reference to the Armstrong baby, a fragment of which we found in his compartment. In case Ratchett had not realised it sooner, this was to make sure that he understood the reason of the threats against his life. That letter, as I have said all along, was not intended to be found. The murderer’s first care was to destroy it. This, then, was the second hitch in his plans. The first was the snow, the second was our reconstruction of that fragment.

“That the note was destroyed so carefully can mean only one thing. There must be on the train someone so intimately connected with the Armstrong family that the finding of that note would immediately direct suspicion upon that person.

“Now we come to the other two clues that we found. I pass over the pipe-cleaner. We have already said a good deal about that. Let us pass on to the handkerchief. Taken at its simplest it is a clue which directly incriminates someone whose initial is H, and it was dropped there unwittingly by that person.”

“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 the blame 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 voila: 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 his 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 English with a foreign accent, 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, with 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; it is quite likely that she 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 attache in Washington.”

“But Princess Dragomiroff says that the girl 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 the actress’s 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 realised 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 diner est servi. Premier diner – First service.”

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 had 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 made a pretty good guess as to what the instructions had been when he noticed that the Count and Countess Andrenyi were always served last and that at the end of the meat 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 the 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.

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