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"Ah! but that is only psychological. I ask myself, is it possible for Miss Debenham to have planned this crime? Behind this business, I am convinced, there is a cool, intelligent, resourceful brain. Miss Debenham answers to that description."
M. Bouc shook his head. "I think you are wrong, my friend. I do not see that young English girl as a criminal."
"Ah! Well," said Poirot, picking up the last passport. "To the final name on our list. Hildegarde Schmidt, lady's-maid."
Summoned by the attendant, Hildegarde Schmidt came into the restaurant car and stood waiting respectfully.
Poirot motioned her to sit down.
She did so, folding her hands and waiting placidly till he questioned her. She seemed a placid creature altogether - eminently respectable, perhaps not over-intelligent.
Poirot's methods with Hildegarde Schmidt were a complete contrast to his handling of Mary Debenham.
He was at his kindest and most genial, setting the woman at her ease. Then, having got her to write down her name and address, he slid gently into his questions.
The interview took place in German.
"We want to know as much as possible about what happened last night," he said. "We know that you cannot give us much information bearing on the crime itself, but you may have seen or heard something that, while conveying nothing to you, may be valuable to us. You understand?"
She did not seem to. Her broad, kindly face remained set in its expression of placid stupidity as she answered:
"I do not know anything, Monsieur."
"Well, for instance you know that your mistress sent for you last night."
"That, yes."
"Do you remember the time?"
"I do not, Monsieur. I was asleep, you see, when the attendant came and told me."
"Yes, yes. Was it usual for you to be sent for in this way?"
"It was not unusual, Monsieur. The gracious lady often required attention at night. She did not sleep well."
"Eh bien, then, you received the summons and you got up. Did you put on a dressing-gown?"
"No, Monsieur, I put on a few clothes. I would not like to go in to her Excellency in my dressing-gown."
"And yet it is a very nice dressing-gown - scarlet, is it not?"
She stared at him. "It is a dark blue flannel dressing-gown, Monsieur."
"Ah! continue. A little pleasantry on my part, that is all. So you went along to Madame la Princesse. And what did you do when you got there?"
"I gave her massage, Monsieur, and then I read aloud. I do not read aloud very well, but her Excellency says that is all the better - so it sends her better to sleep. When she became sleepy, Monsieur, she told me to go, so I closed the book and I returned to my own compartment."
"Do you know what time that was?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Well, how long had you been with Madame la Princesse?"
"About half an hour, Monsieur."
"Good, continue."
"First, I fetched her Excellency an extra rug from my compartment. It was very cold in spite of the heating. I arranged the rug over her, and she wished me good night. I poured her out some mineral water. Then I turned out the light and left her."
"And then?"
"There is nothing more, Monsieur. I returned to my carriage and went to sleep."
"And you met no one in the corridor?"
"No, Monsieur."
"You did not, for instance, see a lady in a scarlet kimono with dragons on it?"
Her mild eyes bulged at him. "No, indeed, Monsieur. There was nobody about except the attendant. Everyone was asleep."
"But you did see the conductor?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"What was he doing!"
"He came out of one of the compartments, Monsieur."
"What?" M. Bouc leaned forward. "Which one?"
Hildegarde Schmidt looked frightened again, and Poirot cast a reproachful glance at his friend.
"Naturally," he said. "The conductor often has to answer bells at night. Do you remember which compartment it was?"
"It was about the middle of the coach, Monsieur. Two or three doors from Madame la Princesse."
"Ah! tell us, if you please, exactly where this was and what happened?"
"He nearly ran into me, Monsieur. It was when I was returning from my compartment to that of the Princess with the rug."
"And he came out of a compartment and almost collided with you. In which direction was he going?"
"Towards me, Monsieur. He apologised and passed on down the corridor towards the dining-car. A bell began ringing, but I do not think he answered it." She paused and then said: "I do not understand. How is it -"
Poirot spoke reassuringly.
"It is just a question of time," he said. "All a matter of routine. This poor conductor, he seems to have had a busy night - first waking you and then answering bells."
