Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [45]
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
‘You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?’
‘Yes.’
‘To London?’
‘Yes.’
‘What have you been doing in Baghdad?’
‘I have been acting as governess to two children.’
‘Are you returning to your post after your holiday?’
‘I am not sure.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Baghdad is rather out of things. I think I should prefer a post in London if I can hear of a suitable one.’
‘I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married.’
Miss Debenham did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The glance said plainly, ‘You are impertinent.’
‘What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment—Miss Ohlsson?’
‘She seems a pleasant, simple creature.’
‘What colour is her dressing-gown?’
Mary Debenham stared.
‘A kind of brownish colour—natural wool.’
‘Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressing-gown on the way from Aleppo to Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe.’
‘Yes, that is right.’
‘Have you any other dressing-gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet dressing-gown, for example?’
‘No, that is not mine.’
Poirot leaned forward. He was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
‘Whose, then?’
The girl drew back a little, startled.
‘I don’t know. What do you mean?’
‘You do not say, “No, I have no such thing.” You say, “That is not mine”—meaning that such a thing does belong to someone else.’
She nodded.
‘Somebody else on this train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘I told you just now. I don’t know. I woke up this morning about five o’clock with the feeling that the train had been standing still for a long time. I opened the door and looked out into the corridor, thinking we might be at a station. I saw someone in a scarlet kimono some way down the corridor.’
‘And you don’t know who it was? Was she fair or dark or grey-haired?’
‘I can’t say. She had on a shingle cap and I only saw the back of her head.’
‘And in build?’
‘Tallish and slim, I should judge, but it’s difficult to say. The kimono was embroidered with dragons.’
‘Yes, yes that is right, dragons.’
He was silent a minute. He murmured to himself:
‘I cannot understand. I cannot understand. None of this makes sense.’
Then, looking up, he said:
‘I need not keep you further, Mademoiselle.’
‘Oh!’ she seemed rather taken aback, but rose promptly. In the doorway, however, she hesitated a minute and then came back.
‘The Swedish lady—Miss Ohlsson, is it?—seems rather worried. She says you told her she was the last person to see this man alive. She thinks, I believe, that you suspect her on that account. Can’t I tell her that she has made a mistake? Really, you know, she is the kind of creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
She smiled a little as she spoke.
‘What time was it that she went to fetch the aspirin from Mrs Hubbard?’
‘Just after half-past ten.’
‘She was away—how long?’
‘About five minutes.’
‘Did she leave the compartment again during the night?’
‘No.’
Poirot turned to the doctor.
‘Could Ratchett have been killed as early as that?’
The doctor shook his head.
‘Then I think you can reassure your friend, Mademoiselle.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled suddenly at him, a smile that invited sympathy. ‘She’s like a sheep, you know. She gets anxious and bleats.’
She turned and went out.
Chapter 12
The Evidence of the German Lady’s-Maid
M. Bouc was looking at his friend curiously.
‘I do not quite understand you, mon vieux. You were trying to do—what?’
‘I was searching for a flaw, my friend.’
‘A flaw?’
‘Yes—in the armour of a young lady’s self-possession. I wished to shake her sang-froid. Did I succeed? I do not know. But I know this—she did not expect me to tackle the matter as I did.’
‘You suspect her,’ said M. Bouc slowly. ‘But why? She seems a very charming young lady—the last person in the world to be mixed up in a crime of this kind.’
‘I agree,’ said Constantine. ‘She is cold.