Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
119
Your next question will be—How did my handkerchief come to be lying by a murdered man’s 
body! My reply to that is that I have no idea.” 
“You have really no idea?” 
“None whatever.” 
“You will excuse me, Madame, but how much can we rely upon the truthfulness of your 
replies?” 
Poirot said the words very softly. 
Princess Dragomiroff answered contemptuously. “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.” 

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