Poirot nodded. “And that is just what is not borne out by the facts,” he said.
“See you, if they were both in this together, what should we expect to find?
That each of them would provide an alibi for the other.
Is not that so?
But no – that does not happen.
Miss Debenham’s alibi is provided by a Swedish woman whom she has never seen before, and Colonel Arbuthnot’s alibi is vouched for by MacQueen, the dead mans secretary.
No, that solution of the puzzle is too easy.”
“You said there was another reason for your suspicions of her,” M. Bouc, reminded him.
Poirot smiled.
“Ah! but that is only psychological.
I ask myself, is it possible for Miss Debenham to have planned this crime?
Behind this business, I am convinced, there is a cool, intelligent, resourceful brain.
Miss Debenham answers to that description.”
M. Bouc shook his head.
“I think you are wrong, my friend.
I do not see that young English girl as a criminal.”
“Ah! Well,” said Poirot, picking up the last passport. “To the final name on our list. Hildegarde Schmidt, lady’s-maid.”
Summoned by the attendant, Hildegarde Schmidt came into the restaurant car and stood waiting respectfully.
Poirot motioned her to sit down.
She did so, folding her hands and waiting placidly till he questioned her.
She seemed a placid creature altogether – eminently respectable, perhaps not over-intelligent.
Poirot’s methods with Hildegarde Schmidt were a complete contrast to his handling of Mary Debenham.
He was at his kindest and most genial, setting the woman at her ease.
Then, having got her to write down her name and address, he slid gently into his questions.
The interview took place in German.
“We want to know as much as possible about what happened last night,” he said. “We know that you cannot give us much information bearing on the crime itself, but you may have seen or heard something that, while conveying nothing to you, may be valuable to us.
You understand?”
She did not seem to.
Her broad, kindly face remained set in its expression of placid stupidity as she answered: “I do not know anything, Monsieur.”
“Well, for instance you know that your mistress sent for you last night.”
“That, yes.”
“Do you remember the time?”
“I do not, Monsieur.
I was asleep, you see, when the attendant came and told me.”
“Yes, yes.
Was it usual for you to be sent for in this way?”
“It was not unusual, Monsieur.
The gracious lady often required attention at night.
She did not sleep well.”
“Eh bien, then, you received the summons and you got up.
Did you put on a dressing-gown?”
“No, Monsieur, I put on a few clothes.
I would not like to go in to her Excellency in my dressing-gown.”
“And yet it is a very nice dressing-gown – scarlet, is it not?”
She stared at him.
“It is a dark blue flannel dressing-gown, Monsieur.”
“Ah! continue. A little pleasantry on my part, that is all.
So you went along to Madame la Princesse.
And what did you do when you got there?”
“I gave her massage, Monsieur, and then I read aloud.