“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.”
“It did not settle the point about the left-handedness.”
“No.
By the way, did you notice that Count Andrenyi keeps his handkerchief in his right-hand breast pocket?”
M. Bouc shook his head.
His mind reverted to the astonishing revelations of the last half-hour.
He murmured: “Lies – and again lies. It amazes me, the number of lies we had told to us this morning.”
“There are more still to discover,” said Poirot cheerfully.
“You think so?”
“I shall be very much disappointed if it is not so.”
“Such duplicity is terrible,” said M. Bouc. “But it seems to please you,” he added reproachfully.
“It has this advantage,” said Poirot. “If you confront anyone who has lied with the truth, he will usually admit it – often out of sheer surprise.
It is only necessary to guess right to produce your effect.