“I think not. Your name is Helena – not Elena. Helena Goldenberg, the younger daughter of Linda Arden – Helena Goldenberg, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong.”

There was a dead silence for a minute or two. Both the Count and the Countess had gone deadly white.

Poirot said in a gentler tone: “It is of no use denying. That is the truth, is it not?”

The Count burst out furiously, “I demand, Monsieur, by what right you–”

She interrupted him, putting up a small hand towards his mouth.

“No, Rudolph. Let me speak. It is useless to deny what this gentleman says. We had better sit down and talk the matter out.”

Her voice had changed. It still had the southern richness of tone, but it had become suddenly more clear cut and incisive. It was, for the first time, a definitely American voice.

The Count was silenced. He obeyed the gesture of her hand and they both sat down opposite Poirot.

“Your statement, Monsieur, is quite true,” said the Countess. “I am Helena Goldenberg, the younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong.”

“You did not acquaint me with that fact this morning, Madame la Comtesse.”

“No.”

“In fact, all that your husband and you told me was a tissue of lies.”

“Monsieur!” cried the Count angrily.

“Do not be angry, Rudolph. M. Poirot puts the fact rather brutally, but what he says is undeniable.”

“I am glad you admit the fact so freely, Madame. Will you now tell me your reasons for that, and also for altering your Christian name on your passport?”

“That was my doing entirely,” put in the Count.

Helena said quietly: “Surely, M. Poirot, you can guess my reason – our reason. This man who was killed is the man who murdered my baby niece, who killed my sister, who broke my brother-in-law’s heart. Three of the people I loved best and who made up my home – my world!”

Her voice rang out passionately. She was a true daughter of that mother the emotional force of whose acting had moved huge audiences to tears.

She went on more quietly.

“Of all the people on the train I alone had probably the best motive for killing him.”

“And you did not kill him, Madame?”

“I swear to you, M. Poirot – and my husband knows – and will swear also – that much as I may have been tempted to do so, I never lifted a hand against that man.”

“I, too, gentlemen.” said the Count. “I give you my word of honour that last night Helena never left her compartment. She took a sleeping draught exactly as I said. She is utterly and entirely innocent.”

Poirot looked from one to the other of them.

“On my word of honour,” repeated the Count.

Poirot shook his head slightly.

“And yet you took it upon yourself to alter the name in the passport?”

“Monsieur Poirot,” the Count said earnestly and passionately, “consider my position. Do you think I could stand the thought of my wife dragged through a sordid police case? She was innocent, I knew it, but what she said was true – because of her connection with the Armstrong family she would have been immediately suspected. She would have been questioned – attested, perhaps. Since some evil chance had taken us on the same train as this man Ratchett, there was, I felt sure, but one thing for it. I admit, Monsieur, that I lied to you – all, that is, save in one thing. My wife never left her compartment last night.”

He spoke with an earnestness that it was hard to gainsay.

“I do not say that I disbelieve you, Monsieur,” said Poirot slowly. “Your family is, I know, a proud and ancient one. It would be bitter indeed for you to have your wife dragged into an unpleasant police case. With that I can sympathise. But how then do you explain the presence of your wife’s handkerchief actually in the dead man’s compartment?”

“That handkerchief is not mine, Monsieur,” said the Countess.

“In spite of the initial H?”

“In spite of the initial. I have handkerchiefs not unlike that, but not one that is exactly of that pattern. I know, of course, that I cannot hope to make you believe me, but I assure you that it is so. That handkerchief is not mine.”

“It may have been placed there by someone in order to incriminate you?”

She smiled a little. “You are enticing me to admit that, after all, it is mine? But indeed, M. Poirot, it isn’t.” She spoke with great earnestness.

“Then why, if the handkerchief was not yours, did you alter the name in the passport?”

The Count answered this.

“Because we heard that a handkerchief had been found with the initial H on it. We talked the matter over together before we came to be interviewed. I pointed out to Helena that if it were seen that her Christian name began with an H she would immediately be subjected to much more rigorous questioning. And the thing was so simple – to alter Helena to Elena, was easily done.”

“You have, M. le Comte, the makings of a very fine criminal,” remarked Poirot dryly. “A great natural ingenuity, and an apparently remorseless determination to mislead justice.”

“Oh, no, no.” The girl leaned forward. “M. Poirot, he’s explained to you how it was.” She broke from French into English. “I was scared – absolutely dead scared, you understand. It had been so awful – that time – and to have it all raked up again. And to be suspected and perhaps thrown into prison. I was just scared stiff, M. Poirot. Can’t you understand at all?”

Her voice was lovely-deep-rich-pleading, the voice of the daughter of Linda Arden the actress.

Poirot looked gravely at her.

“If I am to believe you, Madame – and I do not say that I will not believe you – then you must help me.”

“Help you?”

“Yes. The reason for the murder lies in the past – in that tragedy which broke up your home and saddened your young life. Take me back into the past, Mademoiselle, that I may find there the link that explains the whole thing.”

“What can there be to tell you? They are all dead.” She repeated mournfully: “All dead – all dead – Robert, Sonia – darling, darling Daisy. She was so sweet – so happy – she had such lovely curls. We were all just crazy about her.”

“There was another victim, Madame. An indirect victim, you might say.”

“Poor Susanne? Yes, I had forgotten about her. The police questioned her. They were convinced that she had something to do with it. Perhaps she had – but if so only innocently. She had, I believe, chatted idly with someone, giving information as to the time of Daisy’s outings. The poor thing got terribly wrought up – she thought she was being held responsible.” She shuddered. “She threw herself out of the window. Oh! it was horrible.”

She buried her face in her hands.

“What nationality was she, Madame?”

“She was French.”

“What was her last name?”

“It’s absurd, but I can’t remember – we all called her Susanne. A pretty, laughing girl. She was devoted to Daisy.”

“She was the nursery-maid, was she not?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the nurse?”

“She was a trained hospital nurse. Stengelberg her name was. She too was devoted to Daisy – and to my sister.”

“Now, Madame, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, since you were on this train, seen anyone that you recognised?”

She stared at him. “I? No, no one at all.”

“What about Princess Dragomiroff?”

“Oh! her. I know her, of course. I thought you meant anyone – anyone from – from that time.”

“So I did, Madame. Now think carefully. Some years have passed, remember. The person might have altered his or her appearance.”

Helena pondered deeply. Then she said: “No – I am sure – there is no one.”

“You yourself – you were a young girl at the time – did you have no one to superintend your studies or to look after you?”

“Oh! yes, I had a dragon – a sort of governess to me and secretary to Sonia combined. She was English – or rather Scotch; a big red-haired woman.”

“What was her name?”

“Miss Freebody.”

“Young or old?”

“She seemed frightfully old to me. I suppose she couldn’t have been more than forty. Susanne, of course, used to look after my clothes and maid me.”

“And there were no other inmates of the house?”

“Only servants.”

“And you are certain, quite certain, Madame, that you have recognised no one on the train?”

She replied earnestly: “No one, Monsieur. No one at all.”

5. The Christian Name of Princess Dragomiroff

When the Count and Countess had departed, Poirot looked across at the other two.

“You see,” he said “we make progress.”

“Excellent work,” said M. Bouc cordially. “On my part, I should never have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Andrenyi. I will admit I thought them quite hors de combat. I suppose there is no doubt that she committed the crime? It is rather sad. Still, they will not guillotine her. There are extenuating circumstances. A few years’ imprisonment – that will be all.”

“In fact you are quite certain of her guilt.”

“My dear friend – surely there is no doubt of it? I thought your reassuring manner was only to smooth things over till we are dug out of the snow and the police take charge.”

“You do not believe the Count’s positive assertion – on his word of honor – that his wife is innocent?”

“Mon cher – naturally – what else could he say? He adores his wife. He wants to save her! He tells his lie very well – quite in the grand seigneur manner. But what else than a lie could it be?”

“Well, you know, I had the preposterous idea that it might be the truth.”

“No, no. The handkerchief, remember. The handkerchief clinches the matter.”

“Oh, I am not so sure about the handkerchief. You remember, I always told you that there were two possibilities as to the ownership of the handkerchief.”

“All the same–”

M. Bouc broke off. The door at the end had opened, and Princess Dragomiroff entered the dining-car. She came straight to them and all three men rose to their feet.

She spoke to Poirot, ignoring the others.

“I believe, Monsieur,” she said, “that you have a handkerchief of mine.”

Poirot shot a glance of triumph at the other two.

“Is this it, Madame?”

He produced the little square of fine cambric.

“That is it. It has my initial in the corner.”

“But, Madame la Princesse, that is the letter H,” said M. Bouc. “Your Christian name – pardon me – is Natalia.”

She gave him a cold stare.

“That is correct, Monsieur. My handkerchiefs are always initialled in the Russian characters. H is N in Russian.”

M. Bouc was somewhat taken aback. There was something about this indomitable old lady which made him feel flustered and uncomfortable.

“You did not tell us that this handkerchief was yours at the inquiry this morning.”

“You did not ask me,” said the Princess drily.

“Pray be seated, Madame,” said Poirot.

She sighed. “I may as well, I suppose.” She sat down.

“You need not make a long business of this, Messieurs.”

Your next question will be – How did my handkerchief come to be lying by a murdered man’s body! My reply to that is that I have no idea.”

“You have really no idea?”

“None whatever.”

“You will excuse me, Madame, but how much can we rely upon the truthfulness of your replies?”

Poirot said the words very softly.

Princess Dragomiroff answered contemptuously. “I suppose you mean because I did not tell you that Helena Andrenyi was Mrs. Armstrong’s sister?”

“In fact you deliberately lied to us in the matter.”

“Certainly. I would do the same again. Her mother was my friend. I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty – to one’s friends and one’s family and one’s caste.”

“You do not believe in doing your utmost to further the ends of justice?”

“In this case I consider that justice – strict justice – has been done.”

Poirot leaned forward.

“You see my difficulty, Madame. In this matter of the handkerchief, even, am I to believe you? Or are you shielding your friend’s daughter?”

“Oh! I see what you mean.” Her face broke into a grim smile. “Well, Messieurs, this statement of mine can be easily proved. I will give you the address of the people in Paris who make my handkerchiefs. You have only to show them the one in question and they will inform you that it was made to my order over a year ago. The handkerchief is mine, Messieurs.”

She rose.

“Have you anything further you wish to ask me?”

“Your maid, Madame, did she recognise this handkerchief when we showed it to her this morning?”

“She must have done so. She saw it and said nothing? Ah, well, that shows that she too can be loyal.”

With a slight inclination of her head she passed out of the dining-car.

“So that was it,” murmured Poirot softly. “I noticed just a trifling hesitation when I asked the maid if she knew to whom the handkerchief belonged. She was uncertain whether or not to admit that it was her mistress’s. But how does that fit in with that strange central idea of mine? Yes, it might well be.”

“Ah!” said M. Bouc with a characteristic gesture. “She is a terrible old lady, that!”

“Could she have murdered Ratchett?” asked Poirot of the doctor.