Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [55]
He saw the dark intelligent eyes come slowly round and fasten themselves upon his face.
‘What exactly are you implying, M. Poirot?’
‘Nothing, Madame. I? Nothing.’
‘But yes. You think, do you not, that I should have a smart Frenchwoman to attend to my toilet?’
‘It would be, perhaps, more usual, Madame.’
She shook her head.
‘Schmidt is devoted to me.’ Her voice dwelt lingeringly on the words. ‘Devotion—c’est impayable.’
The German woman had arrived with the keys. The Princess spoke to her in her own language, telling her to open the valises and help the gentlemen in their search. She herself remained in the corridor looking out at the snow and Poirot remained with her, leaving M. Bouc to the task of searching the luggage.
She regarded him with a grim smile.
‘Well, Monsieur, do you not wish to see what my valises contain?’
He shook his head.
‘Madame, it is a formality, that is all.’
‘Are you so sure?’
‘In your case, yes.’
‘And yet I knew and loved Sonia Armstrong. What do you think, then? That I would not soil my hands with killing such canaille as that man Cassetti? Well, perhaps you are right.’
She was silent a minute or two, then she said:
‘With such a man as that, do you know what I should have liked to have done? I should have liked to call to my servants: “Flog this man to death and fling him out on the rubbish heap.” That is the way things were done when I was young. Monsieur.’
Still he did not speak, just listened attentively.
She looked at him with a sudden impetuosity.
‘You do not say anything, M. Poirot. What is it that you are thinking, I wonder?’
He looked at her with a very direct glance.
‘I think, Madame, that your strength is in your will—not in your arm.’
She glanced down at her thin, black-clad arms ending in those claw-like yellow hands with the rings on the fingers.
‘It is true,’ she said. ‘I have no strength in these—none. I do not know if I am sorry or glad.’
Then she turned abruptly back towards her carriage, where the maid was busily packing up the cases.
The Princess cut short M. Bouc’s apologies.
‘There is not need for you to apologize, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘A murder has been committed. Certain actions have to be performed. That is all there is to it.’
‘Vous êtes bien amiable, Madame.’
She inclined her head slightly as they departed.
The doors of the next two carriages were shut. M. Bouc paused and scratched his head.
‘Diable!’ he said. ‘This may be awkward. These are diplomatic passports. Their baggage is exempt.’
‘From Customs examination, yes. But a murder is different.’
‘I know. All the same—we do not want to have complications—’
‘Do not distress yourself, my friend. The Count and Countess will be reasonable. See how amiable Princess Dragomiroff was about it.’
‘She is truly grande dame. These two are also of the same position, but the Count impressed me as a man of somewhat truculent disposition. He was not pleased when you insisted on questioning his wife. And this will annoy him still further. Suppose—eh—we omit them. After all, they can have nothing to do with the matter. Why should I stir up needless trouble for myself.’
‘I do not agree with you,’ said Poirot. ‘I feel sure that Count Andrenyi will be reasonable. At any rate, let us make the attempt.’
And, before M. Bouc could reply, he rapped sharply on the door of No. 13.
A voice from within cried, ‘Entrez.’
The Count was sitting in the corner near the door reading a newspaper. The Countess was curled up in the opposite corner near the window. There was a pillow behind her head, and she seemed to have been asleep.
‘Pardon, Monsieur le Comte,’ began Poirot. ‘Pray forgive this intrusion. It is that we are making a search of all the baggage on the train. In most cases a mere formality. But it has to be done. M. Bouc suggests that, as you have a diplomatic passport, you might reasonably claim to be exempt from such a search.’
The Count considered for a moment.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But I do not think that I care for an