Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
113
One of the restaurant attendants came through the door at the end and approached them. He 
addressed M. Bouc.
“The dinner, Monsieur, shall I serve it? It is ready some little time.” 
M. Bouc looked at Poirot. The latter nodded. “By all means, let dinner be served.” 
The attendant vanished through the doors at the other end. His bell could be heard ringing and 
his voice upraised: 
“
Premier service. Le dîner est servi. Premier dîner
—First service.” 

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Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
114
4 
THE GREASE SPOT ON A HUNGARIAN PASSPORT 
Poirot shared a table with M. Bouc and the doctor. 
The company assembled in the restaurant car was a very subdued one. They spoke little. Even 
the loquacious Mrs. Hubbard was unnaturally quiet. She murmured as she sat: 
“I don’t feel as though I had the heart to eat anything,” and then partook of everything offered 
her, encouraged by the Swedish lady who seemed to regard her as a special charge. 
Before the meal was served, Poirot had caught the chief attendant by the sleeve and 
murmured something to him. Constantine made a pretty good guess as to what the instructions 
had been when he noticed that the Count and Countess Andrenyi were always served last and 
that at the end of the meat there was a delay in making out their bill. It therefore came about that 
the Count and Countess were the last left in the restaurant car. 
When they rose at length and moved in the direction of the door, Poirot sprang up and 
followed them. 
“Pardon, Madame, you have dropped your handkerchief.” 
He was holding out to her the tiny monogrammed square. 
She took it, glanced at it, then handed it back to him. “You are mistaken, Monsieur, that is not 
my handkerchief.” 
“Not your handkerchief? Are you sure?” 
“Perfectly sure, Monsieur.” 
“And yet, Madame, it has your initial—the initial H.” 
The Count made a sudden movement. Poirot ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the 
Countess’s face. 
Looking steadily at him she replied: 
“I do not understand, Monsieur. My initials are E. A.” 
“I think not. Your name is Helena—not Elena. Helena Goldenberg, the younger daughter of 
Linda Arden—Helena Goldenberg, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong.” 
There was a dead silence for a minute or two. Both the Count and the Countess had gone 
deadly white. 
Poirot said in a gentler tone: “It is of no use denying. That is the truth, is it not?” 
The Count burst out furiously, “I demand, Monsieur, by what right you—” 
She interrupted him, putting up a small hand towards his mouth. 
“No, Rudolph. Let me speak. It is useless to deny what this gentleman says. We had better sit 
down and talk the matter out.” 
Her voice had changed. It still had the southern richness of tone, but it had become suddenly 
more clear cut and incisive. It was, for the first time, a definitely American voice. 
The Count was silenced. He obeyed the gesture of her hand and they both sat down opposite 
Poirot. 
“Your statement, Monsieur, is quite true,” said the Countess. “I am Helena Goldenberg, the 
younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong.” 
“You did not acquaint me with that fact this morning, Madame la Comtesse.” 
“No.” 

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