7. The Evidence of Count and Countess Andrenyi

Count and Countess AndrenyI were next summoned. The Count, however, entered the dining-car alone.

There was no doubt that he was a fine-looking man seen face to face. He was at least six feet in height, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds, and might have been taken for an Englishman had it not been for the length of his moustache and something in the line of the cheek-bone.

‘Well, Messieurs,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘You understand, Monsieur,’ said Poirot, ‘that in view of what has occurred I am obliged to put certain questions to all the passengers.’

‘Perfectly, perfectly,’ said the Count easily. ‘I quite understand your position. Not, I fear, that my wife and I can do much to assist you. We were asleep and heard nothing at all.’

‘Are you aware of the identity of the deceased, Monsieur?’

‘I understand it was the big American—a man with a decidedly unpleasant face. He sat at the table at meal times.’

He indicated with a nod of his head the table at which Ratchett and MacQueen had sat.

‘Yes, yes, Monsieur, you are perfectly correct. I meant did you know the name of the man?’

‘No.’ The Count looked thoroughly puzzled by Poirot’s queries.

‘If you want to know his name,’ he said, ‘surely it is on his passport?’

‘The name on his passport is Ratchett,’ said Poirot. ‘But that, Monsieur, is not his real name. He is the man Cassetti, who was responsible for a celebrated kidnapping outrage in America.’

He watched the Count closely as he spoke, but the latter seemed quite unaffected by the piece of news. He merely opened his eyes a little.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘That certainly should throw light upon the matter. An extraordinary country America.’

‘You have been there, perhaps, Monsieur le Comte?’

‘I was in Washington for a year.’

‘You knew, perhaps, the Armstrong family?’

‘Armstrong—Armstrong—it is difficult to recall—one met so many.’

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders.

‘But to come back to the matter in hand, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What more can I do to assist you?’

‘You retired to rest—when, Monsieur le Comte?’

Hercule Poirot’s eyes stole to his plan. Count and Countess AndrenyI occupied compartments No. 12 and 13 adjoining.

‘We had one compartment made up for the night whilst we were in the dining-car. On returning we sat in the other for a while—’

‘What number would that be?’

‘No. 13. We played picquet together. About eleven o’clock my wife retired for the night. The conductor made up my compartment and I also went to bed. I slept soundly until morning.’

‘Did you notice the stopping of the train?’

‘I was not aware of it till this morning.’

‘And your wife?’

The Count smiled.

‘My wife always takes a sleeping draught when travelling by train. She took her usual dose of trional.’

He paused.

‘I am sorry I am not able to assist you in any way.’

Poirot passed him a sheet of paper and a pen.

‘Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. It is a formality, but will you just let me have your name and address?’

The Count wrote slowly and carefully.

‘It is just as well I should write this for you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The spelling of my country estate is a little difficult for those unacquainted with the language.’

He passed the paper across to Poirot and rose.

‘It will be quite unnecessary for my wife to come here,’ he said. ‘She can tell you nothing more than I have.’

A little gleam came into Poirot’s eye.

‘Doubtless, doubtless,’ he said. ‘But all the same I think I should like to have just one little word with Madame la Comtesse.’

‘I assure you it is quite unnecessary.’

His voice rang out authoritatively.

Poirot blinked gently at him.

‘It will be a mere formality,’ he said. ‘But you understand, it is necessary for my report.’

‘As you please.’

The Count gave way grudgingly. He made a short, foreign bow and left the dining-car.

Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count’s name and titles. He passed on to the further information—accompanied by wife. Christian name Elena Maria; maiden name Goldenberg; age twenty. A spot of grease had been dropped some time by a careless official on it.

‘A diplomatic passport,’ said M. Bouc. ‘We must be careful, my friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing to do with the murder.’

‘Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality.’

His voice dropped as the Countess Andreny I entered the dining-car. She looked timid and extremely charming.

‘You wish to see me, Messieurs?’

‘A mere formality, Madame la Comtesse.’ Poirot rose gallantly, bowed her into the seat opposite him. ‘It is only to ask you if you saw or heard anything last night that may throw light upon this matter.’

‘Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep.’

‘You did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on in the compartment next to yours? The American lady who occupies it had quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor.’

‘I heard nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken a sleeping draught.’

‘Ah! I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further.’ Then, as she rose swiftly, ‘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, a graceful slanting handwriting.

Elena Andrenyi.

‘Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?’

‘No, Monsieur.’ She smiled, flushed a little. ‘We were not married then; we have only been married 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 watched him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almond shaped, 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 Yugoslavia—not until one got to Italy.’

‘I am not a Yugoslavian 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 lettle, 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.

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 interrogation 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 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 dryly:

‘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 less 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 Stamboul-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 interests of justice. What sort of a 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?’

‘She did. She commented at once upon his somewhat unpleasant appearance. If a woman is concerned, as you seem to think (to my mind without any evidence but mere assumption), I can assure you that Miss Debenham could not possibly be indicated.’

‘You feel warmly in the matter,’ said Poirot with a smile.

Colonel Arbuthnot gave him a cold stare.

‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

The stare seemed to abash Poirot. He dropped his eyes and began fiddling with the papers in front of him.

‘All this is by the way,’ he said. ‘Let us be pracыыыыtical and come to facts. This crime, we have reason to believe, took place at a quarter-past one last night. It is part of the necessary routine to ask everyone on the train what he or she was doing at that time.’

‘Quite so. At a quarter-past one, to the best of my belief, I was talking to the young American fellow—secretary to the dead man.’

‘Ah! Were you in his compartment, or was he in yours?’

‘I was in his.’

‘That is the young man of the name of MacQueen?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was a friend or acquaintance of yours?’

‘No, I never saw him before this journey. We fell into casual conversation yesterday and both became interested. I don’t as a rule like Americans—haven’t any use for ’em—’

Poirot smiled, remembering MacQueen’s strictures on ‘Britishers.’

‘—But I liked this young fellow. He’d got hold of some tomfool idiotic ideas about the situation in India; that’s the worst of Americans—they’re so sentimental and idealistic. Well, he was interested in what I had to tell him. I’ve had nearly thirty years experience of the country. And I was interested in what he had to tell me about the financial situation in America. Then we got down to world politics in general. I was quite surprised to look at my watch and find it was a quarter to two.’

‘That is the time you broke up this conversation?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Walked along to my own compartment and turned in.’

‘Your bed was made up ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is the compartment—let me see—No. 15—the one next but one to the end away from the dining-car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where was the conductor when you went to your compartment?’

‘Sitting at the end at a little table. As a matter of fact, MacQueen called him just as I went to my own compartment.’

‘Why did he call him?’

‘To make up his bed, I suppose. The compartment hadn’t been made up for the night.’

‘Now, Colonel Arbuthnot, I want you to think carefully. During the time you were talking to Mr MacQueen did anyone pass along the corridor outside the door?’

‘A good many people, I should think. I wasn’t paying attention.’

‘Ah! but I am referring to—let us say the last hour and a half of your conversation. You got out at Vincovci, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but only for about a minute. There was a blizzard on. The cold was something frightful. Made one quite thankful to get back to the fug, though as a rule I think the way these trains are overheated is something scandalous.’

M. Bouc sighed.

‘It is very difficult to please everybody,’ he said. ‘The English, they open everything—then others, they come along and shut everything. It is very difficult.’

Neither Poirot nor Colonel Arbuthnot paid any attention to him.

‘Now, Monsieur, cast your mind back,’ said Poirot encouragingly. ‘It was cold outside. You have returned to the train. You sit down again, you smoke—perhaps a cigarette, perhaps a pipe—’

He paused for the fraction of a second.

‘A pipe for me. MacQueen smoked cigarettes.’

‘The train starts again. You smoke your pipe. You discuss the state of Europe—of the world. It is late now. Most people have retired for the night. Does anyone pass the door—think?’

Arbuthnot frowned in the effort of remembrance.

‘Difficult to say,’ he said. ‘You see, I wasn’t paying any attention.’

‘But you have the soldier’s observation for detail. You notice without noticing, so to speak.’

The Colonel thought again, but shook his head.

‘I couldn’t say. I don’t remember anyone passing except the conductor. Wait a minute—and there was a woman, I think.’

‘You saw her? Was she old—young?’

‘Didn’t see her. Wasn’t looking that way. Just a rustle and a sort of smell of scent.’

‘Scent? A good scent?’

‘Well, rather fruity, if you know what I mean. I mean you’d smell it a hundred yards away. But mind you,’ the Colonel went on hastily, ‘this may have been earlier in the evening. You see, as you said just now, it was just one of those things you notice without noticing, so to speak. Some time that evening I said to myself, Woman —scent—got it on pretty thick.” But when it was I can’t be sure, except that—why, yes, it must have been after Vincovci.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I remember—sniffing, you know—just when I was talking about the utter washout’ Stalin’s Five Year Plan was turning out. I know the idea – woman – brought the idea of the position of women in Russia into my mind. And I know we hadn’t got on to Russia until pretty near the end of our talk.’

‘You can’t pin it down more definitely than that?’

‘N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half-hour.’

‘It was after the train had stopped?’

The other nodded.

‘Yes, I’m almost sure it was.’

‘Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Arbuthnot?’

‘Never. Don’t want to go.’

‘Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?’

‘Armstrong—Armstrong—I’ve known two or three Armstrongs. There was Tommy Armstrong in the 60th— you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong—he was killed on the Somme.’

‘I mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and whose only child was kidnapped and killed.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came across the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C.’

‘The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of Colonel Armstrong’s child.’

Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim.

‘Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to have seen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there.’

‘In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?’

‘Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the Mafia,’ said the Colonel. ‘Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.’

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that in any way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now looking back—as suspicious?’

Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. Unless—’ he hesitated.

‘But yes, continue, I pray of you.’

‘Well, it’s nothing really,’ said the Colonel slowly. ‘But you said anything.’’

‘Yes, yes. Go on.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door of the one beyond mine—the end one, you know—’

‘Yes, No. 16.’

‘Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course, I know there’s nothing in that—but it just struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want to see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Poirot doubtfully.

‘I told you there was nothing to it,’ said Arbuthnot apologetically. ‘But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.’

He rose.

‘Well, if you don’t want me any more—’

‘Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.’

The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by ‘foreigners’ had evaporated.

‘About Miss Debenham,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘You can take it from me that she’s all right. She’s a pukka sahib.’

Flushing a little, he withdrew.

‘What,’ asked Dr Constantine with interest, ‘does a pukka sahib mean?’

‘It means,’ said Poirot, ‘that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot.’

‘Oh!’ said Dr Constantine, disappointed. ‘Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.’

‘Exactly,’ said Poirot.

He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the table. Then he looked up.

‘Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,’ he said. ‘In the compartment of M. Ratchett I found a pipe-cleaner. M. Ratchett smoked only cigars.’

‘You think—?’

‘He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Armstrong—perhaps actually did know him though he won’t admit it.’

‘So you think it possible—’

Poirot shook his head violently.

‘That is just it—it is impossible—quite impossible—that an honourable, slightly stupid, upright Englishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how impossible it is?’

‘That is the psychology,’ said M. Bouc.

‘And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature and it is certainly not the signature of Colonel Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview.’

This time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he thought of him.