Six

THE EVIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS

“Let us hear what Pierre Michel has to say about this button,” he said.

The Wagon¹ Lit conductor was recalled. He looked at them inquiringly.

M. Bouc cleared his throat.

“Michel,” he said. “Here is a button from your tunic². It was found in the American lady’scompartment. 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 wasdropped by the man who was in Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment³ 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 droppedthat button.”

As the significance of M. Bouc’s word became plain to him, Pierre Michel flew into a violentstate of agitation⁴.

“It is not true, Monsieur, it is not true!” he cried. “You are accusing me of the crime. Me? I aminnocent. I am absolutely innocent. Why should I want to kill a Monsieur whom I have never seenbefore?”

“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 implore⁵ you, do so.”

The conductor of the next coach was summoned. He immediately confirmed Pierre Michel’sstatement. He added that the conductor from the Bucharest coach had also been there. The three ofthem had been discussing the situation caused by the snow. They had been talking some tenminutes 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 notbeen inside Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment at any time.

“Calm yourself, Michel,” said M. Bouc, “and cast your mind back to the moment when you ranto 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 hercompartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that theman slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does notcome at once. It is only the third or fourth peal⁶ that he hears. I should say myself that there wasample time—”

“For what? For what, mon cher? Remember that there are thick drifts of snow all round thetrain.”

“There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreatinto either of the toilets or he could disappear into one of the compartments⁷.”

“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, themurderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains thedoor on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment and is back safely in his owncompartment 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—PrincessDragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class passengers—Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli and the lady’s maid, Fr?ulein Schmidt.”

“Who will you see first—the Italian?”

“How you harp⁸ on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame laPrincesse 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 thetrouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc.

But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining car, inclinedher head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot.

Her small toad⁹-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, andyet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and anintellectual 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, youmust interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give all the assistance in my power.”

“You are most amiable¹⁰, Madame,” said Poirot.

“Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?”

“Your full Christian¹¹ names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write themyourself?”

Poirot proffered¹² 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 AvenueKleber, 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 dinneronwards?”

“Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I was in the dining car. I retiredto bed immediately after dinner. I read until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light. I wasunable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I suffer. At about a quarter to one Irang for my maid. She massaged¹³ me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot say exactlywhen 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 abrupt¹⁴ change of subject made the old lady raise her eyebrows¹⁵.

“Many times.”

“Were you at any time acquainted with a family of the name of Armstrong—a family in which atragedy 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 offriendship with her mother, the actress, Linda Arden. Linda Arden was a great genius, one of thegreatest tragic¹⁶ 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 retirement¹⁷. Her health is very delicate, she has tolie 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 bent¹⁸ 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 responsiblefor the kidnapping and murder of Mrs. Armstrong’s child.”

“Ah!”

The straight brows drew together. Princess Dragomiroff drew herself a little more erect¹⁹.

“In my view, then, this murder is an entirely²⁰ admirable happening! You will pardon my slightlybiased point of view.”

“It is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question you did not answer. Where isthe 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 believeshe married an Englishman some years ago and went to England, but at the moment I cannotrecollect 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 dressing²¹ 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 sopromptly.”

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 somehowfamiliar 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.”

 

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