Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [34]
Poirot murmured:
‘It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will tell you so.’
With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart.
‘We have still to see eight passengers,’ said Poirot. ‘Five first-class passengers—Princess Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr Hardman. Three second-class passengers—Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli and the lady’s-maid, Fräulein Schmidt.’
‘Who will you see first—the Italian?’
‘How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, Michel.’
‘Oui, Monsieur,’ said the conductor, who was just leaving the car.
‘Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here,’ called M. Bouc.
But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining-car, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot.
Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once.
Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it.
She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc.
‘You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally, you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give all the assistance in my power.’
‘You are most amiable, Madame,’ said Poirot.
‘Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?’
‘Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?’
Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside.
‘You can write it,’ she said. ‘There is nothing difficult—Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Kleber, Paris.’
‘You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?’
‘Yes, I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid is with me.’
‘Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?’
‘Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I was in the dining-car. I retired to bed immediately after dinner. I read until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light. I was unable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I suffer. At about a quarter to one I rang for my maid. She massaged me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot say exactly when she left me. It may have been half an hour, it may have been later.’
‘The train had stopped then?’
‘The train had stopped.’
‘You heard nothing—nothing unusual during the time, Madame?’
‘I heard nothing unusual.’
‘What is your maid’s name?’
‘Hildegarde Schmidt.’
‘She has been with you long?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘You consider her trustworthy?’
‘Absolutely. Her people come from an estate of my late husband’s in Germany.’
‘You have been in America, I presume, Madame?’
The abrupt change of subject made the old lady raise her eyebrows.
‘Many times.’
‘Were you at any time acquainted with a family of the name of Armstrong—a family in which a tragedy occurred?’
With some emotion in her voice the old lady said:
‘You speak of friends of mine, Monsieur.’
‘You knew Colonel Armstrong well, then?’
‘I knew him slightly; but his wife, Sonia Armstrong, was my god-daughter. I was on terms of friendship with her mother, the actress, Linda Arden. Linda Arden was a great genius, one of the greatest tragic actresses in the world. As Lady Macbeth, as Magda, there was no one to touch her. I was not only