Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [36]
‘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 Andrenyi 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