Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [35]
‘She is dead?’
‘No, no, she is alive, but she lives in complete retirement. Her health is very delicate, she has to lie on a sofa most of the time.’
‘There was, I think, a second daughter?’
‘Yes, much younger than Mrs Armstrong.’
‘And she is alive?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Where is she?’
The old woman bent an acute glance at him.
‘I must ask you the reason of these questions. What have they to do with the matter in hand—the murder on this train?’
‘They are connected in this way, Madame, the man who was murdered was the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Mrs Armstrong’s child.’
‘Ah!’
The straight brows drew together. Princess Dragomiroff drew herself a little more erect.
‘In my view, then, this murder is an entirely admirable happening! You will pardon my slightly biased point of view.’
‘It is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question you did not answer. Where is the younger daughter of Linda Arden, the sister of Mrs Armstrong?’
‘I honestly cannot tell you, Monsieur. I have lost touch with the younger generation. I believe she married an Englishman some years ago and went to England, but at the moment I cannot recollect the name.’
She paused a minute and then said:
‘Is there anything further you want to ask me, gentlemen?’
‘Only one thing, Madame, a somewhat personal question. The colour of your dressing-gown.’
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
‘I must suppose you have a reason for such a question. My dressing-gown is of blue satin.’
‘There is nothing more, Madame. I am much obliged to you for answering my questions so promptly.’
She made a slight gesture with her heavily-beringed hand.
Then, as she rose, and the others rose with her, she stopped.
‘You will excuse me, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘but may I ask your name? Your face is somehow familiar to me.’
‘My name, Madame, is Hercule Poirot—at your service.’
She was silent a minute, then:
‘Hercule Poirot,’ she said. ‘Yes. I remember now. This is Destiny.’
She walked away, very erect, a little stiff in her movements.
‘Voilà une grande dame,’ said M. Bouc. ‘What do you think of her, my friend?’
But Hercule Poirot merely shook his head.
‘I am wondering,’ he said, ‘what she meant by Destiny.’
Chapter 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