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 afterward, 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 maids 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 an admirer of her art, I was a personal friend.”
“She is dead?”
“No, no, she is alive, but she lives in complete retirement. Her health is very delicate, and 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 for 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 came 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 black 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.”
Murder on the Orient Express
7
THE EVIDENCE
“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 maids 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 an admirer of her art, I was a personal friend.”
“She is dead?”
“No, no, she is alive, but she lives in complete retirement. Her health is very delicate, and 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 for 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 came 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 black 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.”
Murder on the Orient Express
7
THE EVIDENCE
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