“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.
He shook his head.
“Those blows—the ones delivered with great force penetrating the muscle—never, never could anyone with so frail a physique inflict them.”
“But the feebler ones?”
“The feebler ones, yes.”
“I am thinking,” said Poirot, “of the incident this morning when I said to her that the strength was in her will rather than in her arm. It was in the nature of a trap, that remark. I wanted to see if she would look down at her right or her left arm. She did neither. She looked at them both. But she made a strange reply. She said, ‘No, I have no strength in these. I do not know whether to be sorry or glad.’ A curious remark that. It confirms me in my belief about the crime.”