Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе» / Murder on the Orient Express

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.

The Count was silenced. He obeyed the gesture of her hand and 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 that, 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 said 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 sympathise. 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.”