That is all there is to it.”
“Vous etes bien aimable, Madame.”
She inclined her head slightly as they departed.
The doors of the next two carriages were shut.
M. Bouc paused and scratched his head.
“Diable!” he said. “This may be awkward.
These are diplomatic passports. Their luggage is exempt.”
“From customs examination, yes. But a murder is different.”
“I know.
All the same – we do not want to have complications.”
“Do not distress yourself, my friend.
The Count and Countess will be reasonable.
See how amiable Princess Dragomiroff was about it.”
“She is truly grande dame.
These two are also of the same position, but the Count impressed me as a man of somewhat truculent disposition.
He was not pleased when you insisted on questioning his wife.
And this will annoy him still further.
Suppose – eh? – we omit them.
After all, they can have nothing to do with the matter.
Why should I stir up needless trouble for myself?”
“I do not agree with you,” said Poirot. “I feel sure that Count Andrenyi will be reasonable.
At any rate let us make the attempt.”
And before M. Bouc could reply, he rapped sharply on the door of No. 13.
A voice from within cried
“Entrez!”
The Count was sitting in the corner near the door reading a newspaper.
The Countess was curled up in the opposite corner near the window.
There was a pillow behind her head and she seemed to have been asleep.
“Pardon, Monsieur le Comte,” began Poirot. “pray forgive this intrusion.
It is that we are making a search of all the baggage on the train.
In most cases a mere formality. But it has to be done.
M. Bouc suggests that, as you have a diplomatic passport, you might reasonably claim to be exempt from such a search.”
The Count considered for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said. “But I do not think that I care to have an exception made in my case.
I should prefer that our baggage should be examined like that of the other passengers.”
He turned to his wife. “You do not object, I hope, Elena?”
“Not at all,” said the Countess without hesitation.
A rapid and somewhat perfunctory search followed.
Poirot seemed to be trying to mask an embarrassment by making various small pointless remarks, such as:
“Here is a label all wet on your suitcase, Madame,” as he lifted down a blue morocco case with initials on it and a coronet.
The Countess did not reply to this observation.
She seemed, indeed, rather bored by the whole proceeding, remaining curled up in her corner and staring dreamily out through the window whilst the men searched her luggage in the compartment next door.
Poirot finished his search by opening the little cupboard above the washbasin and taking a rapid glance at its contents – a sponge, face cream, powder and a small bottle labelled trional.
Then with polite remarks on either side, the search party withdrew.
Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment, that of the dead man, and Poirot’s own came next. They now came to the second-class carriages.
The first one, Nos. 10 and 11, was occupied by Mary Debenham, who was reading a book, and Greta Ohlsson, who was fast asleep but woke with a start at their entrance.
Poirot repeated his formula.
The Swedish lady seemed agitated, Mary Debenham calmly indifferent.
He addressed himself to the Swedish lady.
“If you permit, Mademoiselle, we will examine your baggage first, and then perhaps you would be so good as to see how the American lady is getting on.