“I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to be so good as to accompany me to the next compartment.”
“Must I?” asked Katherine in a low voice.
“Someone must identify her,” said the Commissary, “and since the maid has disappeared”—he coughed significantly—“you appear to be the person who has seen most of her since she joined the train.”
“Very well,” said Katherine quietly; “if it is necessary—”
She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of approval.
“Mademoiselle is sensible,” he said. “May I accompany you, M. Caux?”
“Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot.”
They went out into the corridor, and M. Caux unlocked the door of the dead woman’s compartment. The blinds on the far side had been drawn halfway up to admit light. The dead woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have thought her asleep. The bedclothes were drawn up over her, and her head was turned to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand on her shoulder and turned the body back so that the face came into view. Katherine flinched a little and dug her nails into her palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the features almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.
“When was that done, I wonder?” he demanded. “Before death or after?”
“The doctor says after,” said M. Caux.
“Strange,” said Poirot, drawing his brows together. He turned to Katherine. “Be brave, Mademoiselle; look at her well. Are you sure that this is the woman you talked to in the train yesterday?”