Eleven

THE EVIDENCE OF MISS DEBENHAM

When Mary Debenham entered the dining car she confirmed Poirot’s previous estimate of her.

Very neatly¹ dressed in a little black suit with a French grey shirt, the smooth waves of her darkhead were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as calm and unruffled as her hair.

She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.

“Your name is Mary Hermione Debenham, and you are twenty-six years of age?” began Poirot.

“Yes.”

“English?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece ofpaper?”

She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.

“And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?”

“I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept.”

“Does it distress² you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?”

The question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes widened a little.

“I don’t quite understand you.”

“It was a perfectly³ simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you verymuch distressed⁴ that a crime should have been committed on this train?”

“I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at alldistressed.”

“A crime—it is all in the day’s work to you, eh?”

“It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen,” said Mary Debenham quietly.

“You are very Anglo-Saxon. Mademoiselle. Vous n’éprouvez pas d’émotion.”

She smiled a little.

“I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day.”

“They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“You were not acquainted with the dead man?”

“I saw him for the first time when lunching here yesterday.”

“And how did he strike you?”

“I hardly noticed him.”

“He did not strike you as an evil personality.”

She shrugged⁵ her shoulders slightly.

“Really, I cannot say I thought about it.”

Poirot looked at her keenly.

“You are, I think, a little bit contemptuous of the way I prosecute⁶ my inquiries,” he said with atwinkle. “Not so, you think, would an English inquiry⁷ be conducted. There everything would becut and dried—it would be all kept to the facts—a well-ordered business. But I, Mademoiselle,have my little originalities. I look first at my witness, I sum up his or her character, and I frame myquestions accordingly. Just a little minute ago I am asking questions of a gentleman who wants totell me all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I keep strictly⁸ to the point. I want him to answeryes or no, this or that. And then you come. I see at once that you will be orderly and methodical.

You will confine yourself to the matter in hand. Your answers will be brief and to the point. Andbecause, Mademoiselle, human nature is perverse⁹, I ask of you quite different questions. I askwhat you feel, what you thought. It does not please you this method?”

“If you will forgive my saying so, it seems somewhat of a waste of time. Whether or not I likedMr. Ratchett’s face does not seem likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him.”

“Do you know who the man Ratchett really was, Mademoiselle?”

She nodded.

“Mrs. Hubbard has been telling everyone.”

“And what do you think of the Armstrong affair?”

“It was quite abominable,” said the girl crisply.

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

“You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?”

“Yes.”

“To London?”

“Yes.”

“What have you been doing in Baghdad?”

“I have been acting¹⁰ as governess to two children.”

“Are you returning to your post after your holiday?”

“I am not sure.”

“Why is that?”

“Baghdad is rather out of things. I think I should prefer a post in London if I can hear of asuitable one.”

“I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married.”

Miss Debenham did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The glancesaid plainly, “You are impertinent.”

“What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment¹¹—Miss Ohlsson?”

“She seems a pleasant, simple creature.”

“What colour is her dressing¹² gown?”

Mary Debenham stared.

“A kind of brownish colour—natural wool.”

“Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressinggown on the way from Aleppo to Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe.”

“Yes, that is right.”

“Have you any other dressing gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet¹³ dressing gown, for example?”

“No, that is not mine.”

Poirot leaned forward. He was like a cat pouncing¹⁴ on a mouse.

“Whose, then?”

The girl drew back a little, startled.

“I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“You do not say, ‘No, I have no such thing.’ You say, ‘That is not mine’—meaning that such athing does belong to someone else.”

She nodded.

“Somebody else on this train?”

“Yes.”

“Whose is it?”

“I told you just now. I don’t know. I woke up this morning about five o’clock with the feelingthat the train had been standing¹⁵ still for a long time. I opened the door and looked out into thecorridor, thinking we might be at a station. I saw someone in a scarlet kimono some way down thecorridor.”

“And you don’t know who it was? Was she fair or dark or grey-haired?”

“I can’t say. She had on a shingle¹⁶ cap and I only saw the back of her head.”

“And in build?”

“Tallish and slim, I should judge, but it’s difficult to say. The kimono was embroidered¹⁷ withdragons.”

“Yes, yes that is right, dragons.”

He was silent a minute. He murmured to himself:

“I cannot understand. I cannot understand. None of this makes sense.”

Then, looking up, he said:

“I need not keep you further, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh!” she seemed rather taken aback, but rose promptly¹⁸. In the doorway¹⁹, however, shehesitated a minute and then came back.

“The Swedish lady—Miss Ohlsson, is it?—seems rather worried. She says you told her she wasthe last person to see this man alive. She thinks, I believe, that you suspect her on that account.

Can’t I tell her that she has made a mistake? Really, you know, she is the kind of creature whowouldn’t hurt a fly.”

She smiled a little as she spoke²⁰.

“What time was it that she went to fetch the aspirin²¹ from Mrs. Hubbard?”

“Just after half-past ten.”

“She was away—how long?”

“About five minutes.”

“Did she leave the compartment again during the night?”

“No.”

Poirot turned to the doctor.

“Could Ratchett have been killed as early as that?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Then I think you can reassure²² your friend, Mademoiselle.”

“Thank you.” She smiled suddenly at him, a smile that invited sympathy. “She’s like a sheep,you know. She gets anxious and bleats²³.”

She turned and went out.

 

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