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

She wore no hat. Her head was thrown back as though in defiance. “The sweep of her hair back from her face, the curve of her nostril suggested the figure-head of a ship plunging gallantly into a rough 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 concealed the fact that at the time of the Armstrong tragedy you were actually living in the house. You told me that you had never been in America.”

“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 these evasions?”

“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 you think that a girl who had been detained in connection with a murder case, whose name and perhaps photograph were reproduced in the English papers – do you think that any nice ordinary middle-class woman 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 the publicity! So far, M. Poirot, I have succeeded in life. I have had well-paid, pleasant posts. I was not going to risk the position I had attained when no good end could have been served.”

“I will venture to suggest, Mademoiselle, that I would have been the best judge of that, not you.”

She shrugged 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 recognise 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 not recognise her. She was not grown up, you see, when I knew her. That was over three years ago. It is true that the Countess reminded me of someone; it puzzled me. But she looks so foreign – I never connected her with the little American schoolgirl. I only glanced at her casually when coming into the restaurant car, and I noticed her clothes more than her face.” She smiled 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 persuasive.

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 outstretched arms 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 scowled fiercely at Poirot. “I’ll break every bone in your damned body, you dirty little whipper-snapper,” 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, you must 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’s worried and interfered 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 emotional they feel, the less command they have of language.”

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

“Mon cher, vous êtes épatant!” he cried. “Another miraculous guess.”

“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 decided in my mind that if Mary Debenham were mixed up in the matter, she must have figured in the household in some such capacity.”

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

“Exactly. A tall middle-aged woman with red hair – in fact, the exact opposite in every respect of Miss Debenham, so much so as to be quite remarkable. But then she had to invent a name quickly, and there it was that the unconscious association of ideas gave her away. She said, Miss Freebody, you remember.”

“Yes?”