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

“Just one little minute. These particulars – your maiden name, age and so on – they are correct?”

“Quite correct, Monsieur.”

“Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then.”

She signed quickly, in a graceful slanting hand-writing – Elena Andrenyi.

“Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?”

“No, Monsieur.” She smiled, flushed a little. “We were not married then; we have been married only a year.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?”

She stared at him as she stood poised for departure.

“Yes.”

“A pipe?”

“No. Cigarettes and cigars.”

“Ah! Thank you.”

She lingered, her eyes watching him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almondshaped with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very scarlet in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful.

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Madame,” Poirot waved an airy hand, “detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing-gown?”

She stared at him. Then she laughed.

“It is corn-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?”

“Very important, Madame.”

She asked curiously: “Are you really a detective, then?”

“At your service, Madame.”

“I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Jugo-Slavia – not until one got to Italy.”

“I am not a Jugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.”

“You belong to the League of Nations?”

“I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically. He went on: “I work mainly in London. You speak English?” he added in that language.

“I speak a leetle, yes.”

Her accent was charming. Poirot bowed once more.

“We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible.”

She smiled, inclined her head and departed.

“Elle est jolie femme,” said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed. “Well, that did not advance us much.”

“No,” said Poirot. “Two people who saw nothing and heard nothing.”

“Shall we now see the Italian?”

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.

Chapter 8 The Evidence Of Colonel Arbuthnot

Poirot roused himself with a slight start. His eyes twinkled a little as they met the eager ones of M. Bouc.

“Ah! my dear old friend,” he said, “you see I have become what they call the snob! The first class, I feel it should be attended to before the second class. Next, I think, we will interview the good-looking Colonel Arbuthnot.”

Finding the Colonel’s French to be of a severely limited description, Poirot conducted his interrogatory in English. Arbuthnot’s name, age, home address and exact military standing were all ascertained. Poirot proceeded:

“It is that you come home from India on what is called the leave – what we can call en permission?”

Colonel Arbuthnot, uninterested in what a pack of foreigners called anything, replied with true British brevity,

“Yes.”

“But you do not come home on the P. & O. boat?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I chose to come by the overland route for reasons of my own.”

(“And that,” his manner seemed to say, “is one for you, you interfering little jackanapes.”)

“You came straight through from India?”

The Colonel replied drily: “I stopped for one night to see Ur of the Chaldees, and for three days in Baghdad with the A.O.C., who happens to be an old friend of mine.”

“You stopped three days in Baghdad. I understand that the young English lady, Miss Debenham, also comes from Baghdad. Perhaps you met her there?”

“No, I did not. I first met Miss Debenham when she and I shared the railway convoy car from Kirkuk to Nissibin.”

Poirot leaned forward. He became persuasive and a little more foreign than he need have been.

“Monsieur, I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss Debenham are the only two English people on the train. It is necessary that I should ask you each your opinion of the other.”

“Highly irregular,” said Colonel Arbuthnot coldly.

“Not so. You see, this crime, it was most probably committed by a woman. The man was stabbed no fewer than twelve times. Even the chef de train said at once, ‘It is a woman.’ Well, then, what is my first task? To give all the women travelling on the Istanbul-Calais coach what Americans call the ‘once-over.’ But to judge of an Englishwoman is difficult. They are very reserved, the English. So I appeal to you, Monsieur, in the interest of justice. What sort of person is this Miss Debenham? What do you know about her?”

“Miss Debenham,” said the Colonel with some warmth, “is a lady.”

“Ah!” said Poirot with every appearance of being much gratified. “So you do not think that she is likely to be implicated in this crime?”

“The idea is absurd,” said Arbuthnot. “The man was a perfect stranger – she had never seen him before.”

“Did she tell you so?”