Murder on the Orient Express

“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?”

“Eh bien

, you may not know it, but there is a shop in London that was called until recently Debenham amp; Freebody. With the name Debenham running in her head, the Countess clutches at another 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 loyalty. 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.”

8. Further Surprising Revelations

“Nothing would surprise me now,” said M. Bouc.

“Nothing! Even if everybody in the train proved to have been in the Armstrong household, I should not express surprise.”

“That is a very profound remark,” said Poirot. “Would you like to see what your favorite suspect, the Italian, has to say for himself?”

“You are going to make another of these famous guesses of yours?”

“Precisely.”

“It is really a most extraordinary case,” said Constantine.

“No, it is most natural.”

M. Bouc flung up his arms in comic despair. “If this is what you call natural, mon ami–” Words failed him.

Poirot had by this time requested the dining-car attendant to fetch Antonio Foscarelli.

The big Italian had a wary look in his eye as he came in. He shot nervous glances from side to side like a trapped animal.

“What do you want!” he said. “I have nothing more to tell you – nothing, do you hear? Per Dio–” He struck his hand on the table.

“Yes, you have something more to tell us,” said Poirot firmly. “The truth!”

“The truth?” He shot an uneasy glance at Poirot. All the assurance and geniality had gone out of his manner.

“Mais oui. It may be that I know it already. But it will be a point in your favour if it comes from you spontaneously.”

“You talk like the American police. ‘Come clean’ – that is what they say – ‘come clean.’ ”