Seven

THE IDENTITY OF MARY DEBENHAM

She wore no hat. Her head was thrown back as though in defiance¹. The sweep of her hair backfrom her face, the curve of her nostril² suggested the figurehead of a ship plunging³ gallantly⁴ into arough sea. In that moment she was beautiful.

Her eyes went to Arbuthnot for a minute—just a minute.

She said to Poirot?

“You wished to see me?”

“I wished to ask you, Mademoiselle, why you lied to us this morning?”

“Lied to you? I don’t know what you mean.”

“You concealed⁵ the fact that at the time of the Armstrong tragedy you were actually living inthe house. You told me that you had never been in America.”

He saw her flinch⁶ for a moment and then recover herself.

“Yes,” she said. “That is true.”

“No, Mademoiselle, it was false.”

“You misunderstood me. I mean that it is true that I lied to you.”

“Ah, you admit it?”

Her lips curved into a smile.

“Certainly. Since you have found me out.”

“You are at least frank, Mademoiselle.”

“There does not seem anything else for me to be.”

“Well, of course, that is true. And now, Mademoiselle, may I ask you the reason for theseevasions?”

“I should have thought the reason leapt to the eye, M. Poirot?”

“It does not leap to mine, Mademoiselle.”

She said in a quiet, even voice with a trace of hardness in it:

“I have my living to get.”

“You mean—?”

She raised her eyes and looked him full in the face.

“How much do you know, M. Poirot, of the fight to get and keep decent employment? Do youthink that a girl who had been detained in connection with a murder case, whose name andperhaps photographs were reproduced in the English papers—do you think that any nice ordinarymiddle-class Englishwoman would want to engage that girl as governess to her daughters?”

“I do not see why not—if no blame attached to you.”

“Oh, blame—it is not blame—it is publicity⁷! So far, M. Poirot, I have succeeded in life. I havehad well-paid, pleasant posts. I was not going to risk the position I had attained⁸ when no good endcould have been served.”

“I will venture to suggest, Mademoiselle, that I would have been the best judge of that, notyou.”

She shrugged⁹ her shoulders.

“For instance, you could have helped me in the matter of identification.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it possible, Mademoiselle, that you did not recognize in the Countess Andrenyi Mrs.

Armstrong’s young sister whom you taught in New York?”

“Countess Andrenyi? No.” She shook her head. “It may seem extraordinary to you, but I did notrecognize her. She was not grown up, you see, when I knew her. That was over three years ago. Itis true that the Countess reminded me of someone—it puzzled me. But she looks so foreign—Inever connected her with the little American schoolgirl. It is true that I only glanced at hercasually when coming into the restaurant car. I noticed her clothes more than her face—” shesmiled faintly—“women do! And then—well, I had my own preoccupations.”

“You will not tell me your secret, Mademoiselle?”

Poirot’s voice was very gentle and persuasive¹⁰.

She said in a low voice:

“I can’t—I can’t.”

And suddenly, without warning she broke down, dropping her face down upon her outstretchedarms and crying as though her heart would break.

The Colonel sprang up and stood awkwardly beside her.

“I—look here—”

He stopped and, turning round, scowled¹¹ fiercely at Poirot.

“I’ll break every bone in your damned body, you dirty little whippersnapper,” he said.

“Monsieur,” protested M. Bouc.

Arbuthnot had turned back to the girl.

“Mary—for God’s sake—”

She sprang up.

“It’s nothing. I’m all right. You don’t need me any more, do you, M. Poirot? If you do, youmust come and find me. Oh, what an idiot—what an idiot I’m making of myself!”

She hurried out of the car. Arbuthnot, before following her, turned once more on Poirot.

“Miss Debenham’s got nothing to do with this business—nothing, do you hear? And if she’sworried and interfered¹² with, you’ll have me to deal with.”

He strode out.

“I like to see an angry Englishman,” said Poirot. “They are very amusing. The more emotionalthey feel the less command they have of language.”

But M. Bouc was not interested in the emotional reactions of Englishmen. He was overcome byadmiration of his friend.

“Mon cher, vous êtes épatant,” he cried. “Another miraculous¹³ guess. C’est formidable.”

“It is incredible how you think of these things,” said Dr. Constantine admiringly.

“Oh, I claim no credit this time. It was not a guess. Countess Andrenyi practically told me.”

“Comment? Surely not?”

“You remember I asked her about her governess or companion? I had already decided¹⁴ in mymind that if Mary Debenham were mixed up in the matter, she must have figured in the householdin some such capacity.”

“Yes, but the Countess Andrenyi described a totally different person.”

“Exactly. A tall, middle-aged¹⁵ woman with red hair—in fact, the exact opposite in every respectof Miss Debenham, so much so as to be quite remarkable¹⁶. But then she had to invent a namequickly, and there it was that the unconscious association of ideas gave her away. She said MissFreebody, you remember.”

“Yes?”

“Eh bien, you may not know it, but there is a shop in London that was called, until recently,Debenham & Freebody. With the name Debenham running in her head, the Countess clutches atanother name quickly, and the first that comes is Freebody. Naturally I understood immediately.”

“That is yet another lie. Why did she do it?”

“Possibly more loyalty¹⁷. It makes things a little difficult.”

“Ma foi,” said M. Bouc with violence. “But does everybody on this train tell lies?”

“That,” said Poirot, “is what we are about to find out.”

 

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