The Count wrote slowly and carefully.
“It is just as well that I should write this for you,” he said pleasantly. “The spelling of my country estate is a little difficult for those unacquainted with the language.”
He passed the paper across to Poirot and rose.
“It will be quite unnecessary for my wife to come here,” he said. “She can tell you nothing more than I have.”
A little gleam came into Poirot’s eye.
“Doubtless, doubtless,” he said. “But all the same I think I should like to have just one little word with Madame la Comtesse.”
“I assure you it is quite unnecessary.” The Count’s voice rang out authoritatively.
Poirot blinked gently at him.
“It will be a mere formality,” he said. “But, you understand, it is necessary for my report.”
“As you please.”
The Count gave way grudgingly. He made a short foreign bow and left the dining-car.
Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count’s names and titles. He passed on to the further information. “Accompanied by, wife; Christian name, Elena Maria; maiden name, Goldenberg; age, twenty.” A spot of grease had been dropped on it at some time by a careless official.
“A diplomatic passport,” said M. Bouc. “We must be careful, my friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing to do with the murder.”
“Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality.”
His voice dropped as the Countess Andrenyi entered the dining-car. She looked timid and extremely charming.
“You wish to see me, Messieurs?”
“A mere formality, Madam la Comtesse.” Poirot rose gallantly, bowed her into the seat opposite him. “It is only to ask you if you saw or heard anything last night that may throw light upon this matter.”
“Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep.”
“You did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on in the compartment next to yours? The American lady who occupies it had quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor.”
“I heard nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken a sleeping draught.”
“Ah! I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further.” Then, as she rose swiftly—“Just one little minute. These particulars—your maiden name, age and so on—they are correct?”
“Quite correct, Monsieur.”
“Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then.”
She signed quickly, in a graceful slanting hand-writing—Elena Andrenyi.
“Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?”
“No, Monsieur.” She smiled, flushed a little. “We were not married then; we have been married only a year.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?”
She stared at him as she stood poised for departure.
“Yes.”
“A pipe?”
“No. Cigarettes and cigars.”
“Ah! Thank you.”
She lingered, her eyes watching him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almond-shaped with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very scarlet in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful.
“Why did you ask me that?”
“Madame,” Poirot waved an airy hand, “detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing-gown?”
She stared at him. Then she laughed. “it is corn-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?”
“Very important, Madame.”
She asked curiously: “Are you really a detective, then?”
“At your service, Madame.”
“I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Jugo-Slavia—not until one got to Italy.”
“I am not a Jugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.”
“You belong to the League of Nations?”
“I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically. He went on: “I work mainly in London. You speak English?” he added in that language.
“I speak a leetle, yes.” Her accent was charming. Poirot bowed once more.
“We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible.”
She smiled, inclined her head and departed.
“Elle est jolie femme,” said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed. “Well, that did not advance us much.”
“No,” said Poirot. “Two people who saw nothing and heard nothing.”
“Shall we now see the Italian?”
Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.