Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
116
“Because we heard that a handkerchief had been found with the initial H on it. We talked the 
matter over together before we came to be interviewed. I pointed out to Helena that if it were 
seen that her Christian name began with an H she would immediately be subjected to much more 
rigorous questioning. And the thing was so simple—to alter Helena to Elena, was easily done.” 
“You have, M. le Comte, the makings of a very fine criminal,” remarked Poirot dryly. “A 
great natural ingenuity, and an apparently remorseless determination to mislead justice.” 
“Oh, no, no.” The girl leaned forward. “M. Poirot, he’s explained to you how it was.” She 
broke from French into English. “I was scared—absolutely dead scared, you understand. It had 
been so awful—that time—and to have it all raked up again. And to be suspected and perhaps 
thrown into prison. I was just scared stiff, M. Poirot. Can’t you understand at all?” 
Her voice was lovely—deep—rich—pleading, the voice of the daughter of Linda Arden the 
actress. 
Poirot looked gravely at her. 
“If I am to believe you, Madame—and I do not say that I will 
not
believe you—then you must 
help me.” 
“Help you?” 
“Yes. The reason for the murder lies in the past—in that tragedy which broke up your home 
and saddened your young life. Take me back into the past, Mademoiselle, that I may find there 
the link that explains the whole thing.” 
“What can there be to tell you? They are all dead.” She repeated mournfully: “All dead—all 
dead—Robert, Sonia—darling, darling Daisy. She was so sweet—so happy—she had such 
lovely curls. We were all just crazy about her.” 
“There was another victim, Madame. An indirect victim, you might say.” 
“Poor Susanne? Yes, I had forgotten about her. The police questioned her. They were 
convinced that she had something to do with it. Perhaps she had—but if so only innocently. She 
had, I believe, chatted idly with someone, giving information as to the time of Daisy’s outings. 
The poor thing got terribly wrought up—she thought she was being held responsible.” She 
shuddered. “She threw herself out of the window. Oh! it was horrible.” 
She buried her face in her hands. 
“What nationality was she, Madame?” 
“She was French.” 
“What was her last name?” 
“It’s absurd, but I can’t remember—we all called her Susanne. A pretty, laughing girl. She 
was devoted to Daisy.” 
“She was the nursery-maid, was she not?” 
“Yes.” 
“Who was the nurse?” 
“She was a trained hospital nurse. Stengelberg her name was. She too was devoted to Daisy—
and to my sister.” 
“Now, Madame, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, 
since you were on this train, seen anyone that you recognised?” 
She stared at him. “I? No, no one at all.” 
“What about Princess Dragomiroff?” 
“Oh! her. I know her, of course. I thought you meant anyone—anyone from—from that time.” 
“So I did, Madame. Now think carefully. Some years have passed, remember. The person 
might have altered his or her appearance.” 

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