Three

CERTAIN SUGGESTIVE POINTS

It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke¹.

M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine had started by trying to obey Poirot’s instructions. They hadendeavoured to see through the maze² of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution.

M. Bouc’s thoughts had run something as follows:

“Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already thought…Poirot obviously thinksthis English girl is mixed up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is most unlikely…TheEnglish are extremely cold. Probably it is because they have no figures…But that is not the point.

It seems that the Italian could not have done it—a pity. I suppose the English valet is not lyingwhen he said the other never left the compartment³? But why should he? It is not easy to bribe⁴ theEnglish, they are so unapproachable. The whole thing is most unfortunate. I wonder when we shallget out of this. There must be some rescue work in progress. They are so slow in these countries…it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything. And the police of these countries, they will bemost trying to deal with—puffed up with importance, touchy⁵, on their dignity. They will make agrand affair of all this. It is not often that such a chance comes their way. It will be in all thenewspapers….”

And from there on M. Bouc’s thoughts went along a well-worn course which they had alreadytraversed some hundred times.

Dr. Constantine’s thoughts ran thus:

“He is queer, this little man. A genius? Or a crank? Will he solve this mystery? Impossible. Ican see no way out of it. It is all too confusing…Everyone is lying, perhaps…But even then thatdoes not help one. If they are all lying it is just as confusing as if they were speaking the truth.

Odd about those wounds. I cannot understand it…It would be easier to understand if he had beenshot—after all, the term gunman must mean that they shoot with a gun. A curious country,America. I should like to go there. It is so progressive. When I get home I must get hold ofDemetrius Zagone—he has been to America, he has all the modern ideas…I wonder what Zia isdoing at this moment. If my wife ever finds out—”

His thoughts went on to entirely⁶ private matters.

Hercule Poirot sat very still.

One might have thought he was asleep.

And then, suddenly, after a quarter of an hour’s complete immobility, his eyebrows⁷ began tomove slowly up his forehead. A little sigh escaped him. He murmured beneath his breath:

“But, after all, why not? And if so—why, if so, that would explain everything.”

His eyes opened. They were green like a cat’s. He said softly:

“Eh bien. I have thought. And you?”

Lost in their reflections, both men started violently.

“I have thought also,” said M. Bouc just a shade guilty. “But I have arrived at no conclusion.

The elucidation⁸ of crime is your métier, not mine, my friend.”

“I, too, have reflected with great earnestness,” said the doctor unblushingly, recalling histhoughts from certain pornographic details. “I have thought of many possible theories, but not onethat really satisfies me.”

Poirot nodded amiably⁹. His nod seemed to say:

“Quite right. That is the proper thing to say. You have given me the cue I expected.”

He sat very upright, threw out his chest, caressed¹⁰ his moustache and spoke in the manner of apractised speaker addressing a public meeting.

“My friends, I have reviewed the facts in my mind, and have also gone over to myself theevidence of the passengers—with this result. I see, nebulously as yet, a certain explanation thatwould cover the facts as we know them. It is a very curious explanation, and I cannot be sure asyet that it is the true one. To find out definitely, I shall have to make certain experiments.

“I would like first to mention certain points which appear to me suggestive. Let us start with aremark made to me by M. Bouc in this very place on the occasion of our first lunch together on thetrain. He commented on the fact that we were surrounded by people of all classes, of all ages, ofall nationalities. That is a fact somewhat rare at this time of year. The Athens-Paris and theBucharest-Paris coaches, for instance, are almost empty. Remember also one passenger who failedto turn up. It is, I think, significant. Then there are some minor¹¹ points that strike me as suggestive—for instance, the position of Mrs. Hubbard’s sponge bag, the name of Mrs. Armstrong’s mother,the detective methods of M. Hardman, the suggestion of M. MacQueen that Ratchett himselfdestroyed the charred¹² note we found, Princess Dragomiroff’s Christian¹³ name, and a grease spot ona Hungarian passport.”

The two men stared at him.

“Do they suggest anything to you, those points?” asked Poirot.

“Not a thing,” said M. Bouc frankly¹⁴.

“And M. le docteur?”

“I do not understand in the least of what you are talking.” M. Bouc, meanwhile, seizing uponthe one tangible¹⁵ thing his friend had mentioned, was sorting through the passports. With a grunt¹⁶ hepicked up that of Count and Countess Andrenyi and opened it.

“Is this what you mean? This dirty mark?”

“Yes. It is a fairly fresh grease spot. You notice where it occurs?”

“At the beginning of the description of the Count’s wife—her Christian name, to be exact. But Iconfess that I still do not see the point.”

“I am going to approach it from another angle. Let us go back to the handkerchief found at thescene of the crime. As we have stated not long ago—three people are associated with the letter H.

Mrs. Hubbard, Miss Debenham and the maid, Hildegarde Schmidt. Now let us regard thathandkerchief from another point of view. It is, my friends, an extremely expensive handkerchief—an objet de luxe, hand made, embroidered¹⁷ in Paris. Which of the passengers, apart from the initial,was likely to own such a handkerchief? Not Mrs. Hubbard, a worthy¹⁸ woman with no pretensionsto reckless extravagance in dress. Not Miss Debenham; that class of English-woman has a daintylinen handkerchief, but not an expensive wisp of cambric costing perhaps two hundred francs.

And certainly not the maid. But there are two women on the train who would be likely to ownsuch a handkerchief. Let us see if we can connect them in any way with the letter H. The twowomen I refer to are Princess Dragomiroff—”

“Whose Christian name is Natalia,” put in M. Bouc ironically.

“Exactly. And her Christian name, as I said just now, is decidedly suggestive. The other womanis Countess Andrenyi. And at once something strikes us—”

“You!”

“Me, then. Her Christian name on her passport is disfigured by a blob of grease. Just anaccident, anyone would say. But consider that Christian name. Elena. Suppose that, instead ofElena, it were Helena. That capital H could be turned into a capital E and then run over the small enext to it quite easily—and then a spot of grease dropped to cover up the alteration¹⁹.”

“Helena,” cried M. Bouc. “It is an idea, that.”

“Certainly it is an idea! I look about for any confirmation²⁰, however slight, of my idea—and Ifind it. One of the luggage labels on the Countess’s baggage is slightly damp. It is one thathappens to run over the first initial on top of the case. That label has been soaked off and put onagain in a different place.”

“You begin to convince me,” said M. Bouc, “But the Countess Andrenyi—surely—”

“Ah, now, mon vieux, you must turn yourself round and approach an entirely different angle ofthe case. How was this murder intended to appear to everybody? Do not forget that the snow hasupset all the murderer’s original plan. Let us imagine, for a little minute, that there is no snow, thatthe train proceeded on its normal course. What, then, would have happened?

“The murder, let us say, would still have been discovered in all probability at the Italian frontierearly this morning. Much of the same evidence would have been given to the Italian police. Thethreatening letters would have been produced by M. MacQueen, M. Hardman would have told hisstory, Mrs. Hubbard would have been eager to tell how a man passed through her compartment,the button would have been found. I imagine that two things only would have been different. Theman would have passed through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment just before one o’clock—and theWagon Lit uniform would have been found cast off in one of the toilets.”

“You mean?”

“I mean that the murder was planned to look like an outside job. The assassin would have beenpresumed to have left the train at Brod, where the train is timed to arrive at 00:58. Somebodywould probably have passed a strange Wagon²¹ Lit conductor in the corridor. The uniform would beleft in a conspicuous²² place so as to show clearly just how the trick had been played. No suspicionwould have been attached to the passengers. That, my friends, was how the affair was intended toappear to the outside world.

“But the accident to the train changes everything. Doubtless we have here the reason why theman remained in the compartment with his victim so long. He was waiting for the train to go on.

But at last he realized that the train was not going on. Different plans would have to be made. Themurderer would now be known to be still on the train.”

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

“I am returning to it by a somewhat circuitous²³ route. To begin with, you must realize that thethreatening letters were in the nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out of anindifferently written American crime novel. They are not real. They are, in fact, simply intendedfor the police. What we have to ask ourselves is, ‘Did they deceive Ratchett?’ On the face of it, theanswer seems to be, ‘No.’ His instructions to Hardman seem to point to a definite ‘private’ enemyof the identity of whom he was well aware. That is if we accept Hardman’s story as true. ButRatchett certainly received one letter of a very different character—the one containing a referenceto the Armstrong baby, a fragment of which we found in his compartment. In case Ratchett hadnot realized it sooner, this was to make sure that he understood the reason of the threats against hislife. That letter, as I have said all along, was not intended to be found. The murderer’s first carewas to destroy it. This, then, was the second hitch²⁴ in his plans. The first was the snow, the secondwas our reconstruction²⁵ of that fragment.

“That note being destroyed so carefully can only mean one thing. There must be on the trainsomeone so intimately connected with the Armstrong family that the finding of that note wouldimmediately direct suspicion upon that person.

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

“Exactly,” said Dr. Constantine. “She finds out that she has dropped the handkerchief andimmediately takes steps to conceal²⁶ 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 castsuspicion for it on someone else. Well, there is on the train a certain person connected intimatelywith the Armstrong family — a woman. Suppose, then, that you leave there a handkerchiefbelonging to that woman. She will be questioned, her connection with the Armstrong family willbe 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 takesteps to conceal her identity.”

“Ah, really? That is what you think? That is truly the opinion of the police court. But I knowhuman nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of beingtried 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 CountessAndrenyi 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 inAmerica, she says.”

“Exactly, and she speaks broken English, and she has a very foreign appearance which sheexaggerates. But it should not be difficult to guess who she is. I mentioned just now the name ofMrs. Armstrong’s mother. It was Linda Arden, and she was a very celebrated²⁷ actress—amongother 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 acting²⁸ name. Linda Arden, the name by which she wasknown all over the world, was not her real name. It may have been Goldenberg—she quite likelyhad central European blood in her veins—a strain of Jewish, perhaps. Many nationalities drift toAmerica. I suggest to you, gentlemen, that that young sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s, little more thana 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? PrincessDragomiroff loved Linda Arden as great ladies do love great artists. She was godmother to one ofher daughters. Would she forget so quickly the married name of the other daughter? It is notlikely. No, I think we can safely say that Princess Dragomiroff was lying. She knew Helena wason 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 promptly²⁹ lies—is vague, cannot remember, but ‘thinks Helena married an Englishman’—a suggestion as far awayfrom the truth as possible.”

One of the restaurant attendants came through the door at the end and approached them. Headdressed 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 andhis voice upraised:

“Premier³⁰ Service. Le d?ner est servi. Premier d?ner—First Service.”

 

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