MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS
Agatha Christie

Agatha  Christie is the world's best known mystery writer.  Her
books have sold over a billion copies in the English language and
another  billion in 44 foreign languages. She is the most  widely
published author of all time in any language, outsold only by the
Bible and Shakespeare.
Her  writing  career spanned more than half a  century,  during
which she wrote 79 novels and short story collections, as well as
14  plays,  one  of which, The Mousetrap, is the  longest-running
play in history. Two of the characters she created, the brilliant
little   Belgian   Hercule  Poirot  and  the  irrepressible   and
relentless   Miss   Marple,  went  on  to   become   world-famous
detectives. Both have been widely dramatized in feature films and
made-for-TV movies.
Agatha  Christie  also  wrote six  romantic  novels  under  the
pseudonym  Mary  Westmacott. As well, she wrote  four  nonfiction
books  including an autobiography and an entertaining account  of
the  many  expeditions she shared with her archaeologist  husband
Sir Max Mallowan.
Agatha Christie died in 1976.

CONTENTS
PART I
THE FACTS
1
AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS
2
THE TOKATLIAN HOTEL
3
POIROT REFUSES A CASE
4
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
5
THE CRIME
6
A WOMAN
7
THE BODY
8
THE ARMSTRONG KIDNAPPING CASE
PART II
THE EVIDENCE
1
THE EVIDENCE OF THE WAGON LIT CONDUCTOR
2
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SECRETARY
3
THE EVIDENCE OF THE VALET
4
THE EVIDENCE OF THE AMERICAN LADY                                                                                   3
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SWEDISH LADY
6
THE EVIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS
7
THE EVIDENCE OF COUNT AND COUNTESS ANDRENYI
8
THE EVIDENCE OF COLONEL ARBUTHNOT
9
THE EVIDENCE OF MR. HARDMAN
10
THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN
11
THE EVIDENCE OF MISS DEBENHAM
12
THE EVIDENCE OF THE GERMAN LADY'S-MAID
13
SUMMARY OF THE PASSENGERS' EVIDENCE
14
THE EVIDENCE OF THE WEAPON
15
THE EVIDENCE OF THE PASSENGERS' LUGGAGE
PART III
HERCULE POIROT SITS BACK AND THINKS
1
WHICH OF THEM?
2
TEN QUESTIONS
3
CERTAIN SUGGESTIVE POINTS
4
THE GREASE SPOT ON A HUNGARIAN PASSPORT
5
THE CHRISTIAN NAME OF PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF
6
A SECOND INTERVIEW WITH COLONEL ARBUTHNOT
7
THE IDENTITY OF MARY DEBENHAM
8
FURTHER SURPRISING REVELATIONS
9
POIROT PROPOUNDS TWO SOLUTIONS


PART I
THE FACTS
1
AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS
It was five o'clock on a winter's morning in Syria. Alongside the
platform at Aleppo stood the train grandly designated in  railway
guides  as  the  Taurus Express. It consisted of  a  kitchen  and
dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local coaches.
By  the  step  leading up into the sleeping-car stood  a  young
French  lieutenant,  resplendent in uniform  conversing,  with  a
small man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible  but
a  pink-tipped  nose  and  the  two points  of  an  upward-curled
moustache.
It  was  freezingly  cold,  and  this  job  of  seeing  off   a
distinguished  stranger was not one to be envied, but  Lieutenant
Dubosc  performed his part manfully. Graceful phrases  fell  from
his  lips  in polished French. Not that he knew what it  was  all
about. There had been rumours, of course, as there always were in
such  cases.  The General's-his General's-temper had grown  worse
and  worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger-all the
way  from  England, it seemed. There had been a  week-a  week  of
curious  tensity.  And then certain things had happened.  A  very
distinguished officer had committed suicide, another had suddenly
resigned, anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety,  certain
military  precautions were relaxed. And the  General,  Lieutenant
Dubosc's  own particular General, had suddenly looked  ten  years
younger.
Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the
stranger.  "You  have  saved  us, mon  cher,"  said  the  General
emotionally,  his great white moustache trembling  as  he  spoke.
"You  have  saved the honour of the French Army-you have  averted
much  bloodshed! How can I thank you for acceding to my  request?
To have come so far-"
To  which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had  made  a
fitting reply including the phrase-"But indeed, do I not remember
that  once  you  saved my life?" And then the  General  had  made
another  fitting reply to that, disclaiming any  merit  for  that
past  service;  and with more mention of France, of  Belgium,  of
glory,  of  honour and of such kindred things they  had  embraced
each other heartily and the conversation had ended.
As  to  what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still
in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off
M.  Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with
all  the  zeal  and  ardour befitting  a  young  officer  with  a
promising career ahead of him.
"To-day  is Sunday," said Lieutenant Dubosc. "Tomorrow,  Monday
evening, you will be in Stamboul."
It  was  not  the  first  time he had  made  this  observation.
Conversations on the platform, before the departure of  a  train,
are apt to be somewhat repetitive in character.
"That is so," agreed M. Poirot.
"And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?"
"Mais  oui.  Stamboul, it is a city I have  never  visited.  It
would be a pity to pass through-comme a." He snapped his fingers
descriptively. "Nothing presses-I shall remain there as a tourist
for a few days."
"La  Sainte  Sophie, it is very fine," said Lieutenant  Dubosc,
who had never seen it.
A  cold  wind  came  whistling  down  the  platform.  Both  men
shivered.  Lieutenant  Dubosc managed  to  cast  a  surreptitious
glance at his watch. Five minutes to five-only five minutes more!
Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened
once more into speech.
"There  are few people travelling this time of year," he  said,
glancing up at the windows of the sleeping-car above them.
"That is so," agreed M. Poirot.
"Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!"
"That happens?"
"It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet."
"Let  us hope, then," said M. Poirot. "The weather reports from
Europe, they are bad.
"Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow."
"In Germany, too, I have heard."
"Eh  bien,"  said  Lieutenant Dubosc hastily as  another  pause
seemed to be about to occur. "Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you
will be in Constantinople."
"Yes,"  said  M.  Poirot, and went on desperately,  "La  Sainte
Sophie, I have heard it is very fine."
"Magnificent, I believe."
Above  their  heads  the  blinds of  one  of  the  sleeping-car
compartments was pushed aside and a young woman looked out.
Mary  Debenham had had little sleep since she left  Baghdad  on
the  preceding Thursday. Neither in the train to Kirkuk,  nor  in
the  Rest  House at Mosul, nor last night on the  train  had  she
slept properly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness
of her overheated compartment, she got up and peered out.
This  must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just  a  long,
poorly lighted platform with loud, furious altercations in Arabic
going on somewhere. Two men below her window were talking French.
One  was  a  French  officer, the other was  a  little  man  with
enormous  moustaches.  She smiled faintly.  She  had  never  seen
anyone quite so heavily muffled up. It must be very cold outside.
That  was  why  they heated the train so terribly. She  tried  to
force the window down lower, but it would not go.
The  Wagon Lit conductor had come up to the two men. The  train
was  about  to  depart, he said. Monsieur had better  mount.  The
little  man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he  had!  In
spite  of  her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled. A ridiculous-
looking  little man. The sort of little man one could never  take
seriously.
Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting speech. He had thought
it out beforehand and had kept it till the last minute. It was  a
very beautiful, polished speech.
Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind...
"En  voiture, Monsieur," said the Wagon Lit conductor. With  an
air  of  infinite reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the  train.
The  conductor  climbed  after him. M.  Poirot  waved  his  hand.
Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute. The train, with a  terrific
jerk, moved slowly forward.
"Enfin!" murmured M. Hercule Poirot.
"Brrrrrrrr," said Lieutenant Dubosc, realising to the full  how
cold he was.
"Voil,  Monsieur!" The conductor displayed to  Poirot  with  a
dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment  and  the
neat  arrangement of his luggage. "The little valise of Monsieur,
I have put it here."
His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed  in
it a folded note.
"Merci,  Monsieur."  The conductor became brisk  and  business-
like.  "I  have  the tickets of Monsieur. I will  also  take  the
passport,  please.  Monsieur breaks his journey  in  Stamboul,  I
understand?"
M.  Poirot  assented. "There are not many people travelling,  I
imagine?" he said.
"No, Monsieur. I have only two other passengers-both English. A
Colonel  from  India  and  a  young English  lady  from  Baghdad.
Monsieur requires anything?"
Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.
Five  o'clock  in  the morning is an awkward time  to  board  a
train.  There were still two hours before dawn. Conscious  of  an
inadequate  night's sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully
accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
When  he  awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth  to  the
restaurant car in search of hot coffee.
There  was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young
English lady referred to by the conductor. She was tall, slim and
dark-perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind of  cool
efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way
she  called  to  the  attendant to bring her  more  coffee  which
bespoke  a knowledge of the world and of travelling. She  wore  a
dark-coloured  travelling dress of some thin  material  eminently
suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.
M.  Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself
by studying her without appearing to do so.
She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care
of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and
efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features
and the delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished black
head  with  its neat waves of hair, and her eyes-cool, impersonal
and grey. But she was, he decided, just a little too efficient to
be what he called "jolie femme."
Presently another person entered the restaurant car. This was a
tall  man  of between forty and fifty, lean of figure,  brown  of
skin, with hair slightly grizzled round the temples.
"The Colonel from India," said Poirot to himself.
The  newcomer  gave  a little bow to the girl.  "Morning,  Miss
Debenham."
"Good morning, Colonel Arbuthnot."
The Colonel was standing with a hand on the chair opposite her.
"Any objections?" he asked.
"Of course not. Sit down."
"Well, you know, breakfast isn't always a chatty meal."
"I should hope not. But I don't bite."
The Colonel sat down. "Boy," he called in peremptory fashion.
He gave an order for eggs and coffee.
His eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed
on  indifferently.  Poirot, reading the English  mind  correctly,
knew that he had said to himself. "Only some damned foreigner."
True  to  their  nationality, the two English people  were  not
chatty. They exchanged a few brief remarks and presently the girl
rose and went back to her compartment.
At lunch time the other two again shared a table and again they
both  completely ignored the third passenger. Their  conversation
was more animated than at breakfast. Colonel Arbuthnot talked  of
the  Punjab and occasionally asked the girl a few questions about
Baghdad  where,  it  became clear, she had  been  in  a  post  as
governess.  In  the course of conversation they  discovered  some
mutual  friends, which had the immediate effect  of  making  them
more  friendly and less stiff. They discussed old Tommy  Somebody
and old Reggie Someone Else. The Colonel inquired whether she was
going straight through to England or whether she was stopping  in
Stamboul.
"No, I'm going straight on."
"Isn't that rather a pity?"
"I  came  out  this way two years ago and spent three  days  in
Stamboul then."
"Oh!  I see. Well, I may say I'm very glad you are going  right
through, because I am."
He  made a kind of clumsy little bow, flushing a little  as  he
did so.
"He  is  susceptible, our Colonel," thought Hercule  Poirot  to
himself with some amusement. "The train, it is as dangerous as  a
sea voyage!"
Miss  Debenham  said evenly that that would be very  nice.  Her
manner was slightly repressive.
The  Colonel, Hercule Poirot noticed, accompanied her  back  to
her  compartment.  Later  they  passed  through  the  magnificent
scenery  of the Taurus. As they looked down towards the  Cilician
Gates,  standing  in  the corridor side  by  side,  a  sigh  came
suddenly  from the girl. Poirot was standing near them and  heard
her murmur:
"It's so beautiful! I wish-I wish-"
"Yes?"
"I wish I could enjoy it!"
Arbuthnot did not answer. The square line of his jaw  seemed  a
little sterner and grimmer.
"I wish to Heaven you were out of all this," he said.
"Hush, please. Hush."
"Oh!  it's  all  right." He shot a slightly annoyed  glance  in
Poirot's  direction. Then he went on: "But I don't like the  idea
of  your  being  a governess-at the beck and call  of  tyrannical
mothers and their tiresome brats."
She laughed with just a hint of uncontrol in the sound.
"Oh! you mustn't think that. The downtrodden governess is quite
an  exploded myth. I can assure you that it's the parents who are
afraid of being bullied by me."
They  said  no  more. Arbuthnot was, perhaps,  ashamed  of  his
outburst.
"Rather an odd little comedy that I watch here," said Poirot to
himself thoughtfully.
He was to remember that thought of his later.
They  arrived at Konya that night about half-past  eleven.  The
two  English travellers got out to stretch their legs, pacing  up
and down the snowy platform.
M.  Poirot  was  content to watch the teeming activity  of  the
station  through a window pane. After about ten minutes, however,
he  decided that a breath of air would not perhaps be a bad thing
after  all.  He  made careful preparations, wrapping  himself  in
several  coats  and  mufflers  and encasing  his  neat  boots  in
goloshes. Thus attired, he descended gingerly to the platform and
began to pace its length. He walked out beyond the engine.
It was the voices which gave him the clue to the two indistinct
figures  standing in the shadow of a traffic van.  Arbuthnot  was
speaking.
"Mary-"
The girl interrupted him.
"Not  now.  Not  now.  When it's all  over.  When  it's  behind
us-then-"
Discreetly M. Poirot turned away. He wondered....
He  would  hardly have recognised the cool, efficient voice  of
Miss Debenham....
"Curious," he said to himself.
The next day he wondered whether, perhaps, they had quarrelled.
They  spoke  little to each other. The girl, he  thought,  looked
anxious. There were dark circles under her eyes.
It was about half-past two in the afternoon when the train came
to  a halt. Heads were poked out of windows. A little knot of men
were  clustered by the side of the line looking and  pointing  at
something under the dining-car.
Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor who  was
hurrying  past. The man answered, and Poirot drew back  his  head
and, turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham who was standing
just behind him.
"What  is the matter?" she asked rather breathlessly in French.
"Why are we stopping?"
"It  is  nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught
fire  under the dining-car. Nothing serious. It is put out.  They
are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you."
She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the
idea of danger aside as something completely unimportant.
"Yes, yes, I understand that. But the time!"
"The time?"
"Yes, this will delay us."
"It is possible-yes," agreed Poirot.
"But  we can't afford delay! This train is due in at 6.55,  and
one  has  to  cross  the Bosphorus and catch the  Simplon  Orient
Express on the other side at nine o'clock. If there is an hour or
two of delay we shall miss the connection."
"It is possible, yes," he admitted.
He  looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window  bar
was not quite steady; her lips, too, were trembling.
"Does it matter to you very much, Mademoiselle?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, it does. I-I must catch that train."
She  turned  away from him and went down the corridor  to  join
Colonel Arbuthnot.
Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train
started again. It arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late,
having made up time on the journey.
The  Bosphorus  was  rough  and M. Poirot  did  not  enjoy  the
crossing. He was separated from his travelling companions on  the
boat and did not see them again.
On  arrival  at  the  Galata Bridge he drove  straight  to  the
Tokatlian Hotel.
2
THE TOKATLIAN HOTEL
At the Tokatlian, Hercule Poirot asked for a room with bath. Then
he stepped over to the concierge's desk and inquired for letters.
There  were three waiting for him and a telegram. His  eyebrows
rose a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected.
He  opened it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed
words stood out clearly.
Development   you  predicted  in  Kassner   case   has   come
unexpectedly. Please return immediately.
"Voil  ce  qui  est  embtant," muttered  Poirot  vexedly.  He
glanced  up  at  the clock. "I shall have to go on to-night,"  he
said  to  the  concierge. "At what time does the  Simplon  Orient
leave?"
"At nine o'clock, Monsieur."
"Can you get me a sleeper?"
"Assuredly, Monsieur. There is no difficulty this time of year.
The trains are almost empty. First-class or second?"
"First."
"Trs bien, Monsieur. How far are you going?"
"To London."
"Bien,  Monsieur. I will get you a ticket to London and reserve
your sleeping-car accommodation in the Stamboul-Calais coach."
Poirot glanced at the clock again. It was ten minutes to eight.
"I have time to dine?"
"But assuredly, Monsieur."
The  little Belgian nodded. He went over and cancelled his room
order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.
As  he was giving his order to the waiter, a hand was placed on
his shoulder.
"Ah,  mon  vieux, but this is an unexpected pleasure!"  said  a
voice behind him.
The  speaker  was a short stout elderly man, his  hair  cut  en
brosse. He was smiling delightedly.
Poiret sprang up.
"M. Bouc!"
"M. Poirot!"
M.   Bouc   was   a  Belgian,  a  director  of  the   Compagnie
Internationale  des  Wagons Lits, and his acquaintance  with  the
former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.
"You find yourself far from home, mon cher," said M. Bouc.
"A little affair in Syria."
"Ah! and you return home-when?"
"To-night."
"Splendid!  I,  too. That is to say, I go as far  as  Lausanne,
where  I  have  affairs.  You travel on  the  Simplon  Orient,  I
presume?"
"Yes.  I  have just asked them to get me a sleeper. It  was  my
intention  to  remain  here some days, but  I  have.  received  a
telegram recalling me to England on important business."
"Ah!" sighed M. Bouc. "Les affaires-les affaires! But you,  you
are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!"
"Some little success I have had, perhaps." Hercule Poirot tried
to look modest but failed signally.
M. Bouc laughed.
"We will meet later," he said.
Hercule  Poirot  addressed himself to the task of  keeping  his
moustaches out of the soup.
That  difficult task accomplished, he glanced round him  whilst
waiting  for the next course. There were only about half a  dozen
people in the restaurant, and of those half dozen there were only
two that interested Hercule Poirot.
These  two  sat  at  a table not far away. The  younger  was  a
likeable-looking  young man of thirty, clearly  an  American.  It
was,  however,  not  he but his companion who had  attracted  the
little detective's attention.
He  was  a  man  perhaps of between sixty and seventy.  From  a
little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist.  His
slightly  bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling  mouth  that
displayed a very white set of false teeth-all seemed to speak  of
a  benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this  assumption.
They  were small, deep-set and crafty. Not only that. As the man,
making  some  remark to his young companion, glanced  across  the
room,  his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment and just for  that
second  there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural tensity  in
the glance.
Then he rose.
"Pay the bill, Hector," he said.
His  voice  was slightly husky in tone. It had a  queer,  soft,
dangerous quality.
When  Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the  other  two
men  were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought
down.  The  younger  was  supervising the process.  Presently  he
opened the glass door and said:
"Quite ready now, Mr. Ratchett."
The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.
"Eh bien," said Poirot. "What do you think of those two?"
"They are Americans," said M. Bouc.
"Assuredly  they are Americans. I meant what did you  think  of
their personalities?"
"The young man seemed quite agreeable."
"And the other?"
"To  tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him.  He
produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?"
Hercule Poirot was a moment in replying.
"When he passed me in the restaurant," he said at last, "I  had
a  curious  impression. It was as though a wild animal-an  animal
savage, but savage! you understand-had passed me by."
"And yet he looked altogether of the most respectable."
"Prcisment!  The  body-the cage-is  everything  of  the  most
respectable-but through the bars, the wild animal looks out."
"You are fanciful, mon vieux," said M. Bouc.
"It  may  be  so. But I could not rid myself of the  impression
that evil had passed me by very close."
"That respectable American gentleman?"
"That respectable American gentleman."
"Well,"  said M. Bouc cheerfully, "it may be so. There is  much
evil in the world."
At  that  moment the door opened and the concierge came towards
them. He looked concerned and apologetic.
"It  is extraordinary, Monsieur," he said to Poirot. "There  is
not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train."
"Comment?"  cried M. Bouc. "At this time of year?  Ah,  without
doubt there is some party of journalists-of politicians-?"
"I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the concierge,  turning  to  him
respectfully. "But that's how it is."
"Well,  well."  M.  Bouc turned to Poirot. "Have  no  fear,  my
friend.   We   will  arrange  something.  There  is  always   one
compartment, the No. 16, which is not engaged. The conductor sees
to  that!"  He smiled, then glanced up at the clock.  "Come,"  he
said, "it is time we started."
At the station M. Bouc was greeted with respectful empressement
by the brown-uniformed Wagon Lit conductor.
"Good evening, Monsieur. Your compartment is the No. 1."
He  called  to the porters and they wheeled their load  halfway
along  the  carriage  on  which the  tin  plates  proclaimed  its
destination:
ISTANBUL TRIESTE CALAIS
"You are full up to-night, I hear?"
"It is incredible, Monsieur. All the world elects to travel to-
night!"
"All the same you must find room for this gentleman here. He is
a friend of mine. He can have the No. 16."
"It is taken, Monsieur."
"What? The No. 16?"
A   glance  of  understanding  passed  between  them,  and  the
conductor smiled. He was a tall sallow man of middle age.
"But    yes,    Monsieur.   As   I    told    you,    we    are
full-full-everywhere."
"But what passes itself?" demanded M. Bouc angrily. "There is a
conference somewhere? It is a party?"
"No,  Monsieur.  It is only chance. It just happens  that  many
people have elected to travel to-night."
M. Bouc made a clicking sound of annoyance.
"At  Belgrade,"  he said, "there will be the  slip  coach  from
Athens. There will also be the Bucharest-Paris coach. But  we  do
not reach Belgrade until to-morrow evening. The problem is for to-
night. There is no second-class berth free?"
"There is a second-class berth, Monsieur-"
"Well, then-"
"But  it is a lady's berth. there is already a German woman  in
the compartment-a lady's maid."
"L- l, that is awkward," said M. Bouc.
"Do  not  distress yourself, my friend," said Poirot.  "I  must
travel in an ordinary carriage."
"Not at all. Not at all." He turned once more to the conductor.
"Everyone has arrived?"
"It  is  true," said the man, "that there is one passenger  who
has not yet arrived." He spoke slowly, with hesitation.
"But speak then!"
"No.  7  berth-a second-class. The gentleman has not yet  come,
and it is four minutes to nine."
"Who is it?"
"An  Englishman,"  the  conductor consulted  his  list.  "A  M.
Harris."
"A  name  of  good omen," said Poirot. "I read my  Dickens.  M.
Harris he will not arrive."
"Put  Monsieur's luggage in No. 7," said M. Bouc. "If  this  M.
Harris  arrives we will tell him that he is too late-that  berths
cannot be retained so long-we will arrange the matter one way  or
another. What do I care for a M. Harris?"
"As Monsieur pleases," said the conductor. He spoke to Poirot's
porter,  directing him where to go. Then he stood aside from  the
steps to let Poirot enter the train.
"Tout     fait  au  bout,  Monsieur,"  he  called.  "The   end
compartment but one."
Poirot  passed  along the corridor, a somewhat  slow  progress,
since  most of the people travelling were standing outside  their
carriages.
His  polite  "Pardons"  were uttered  with  the  regularity  of
clockwork.  At last he reached the compartment indicated.  Inside
it, reaching up to a suitcase, was the tall young American of the
Tokatlian.
He frowned as Poirot entered.
"Excuse  me,"  he said. "I think you've made a mistake."  Then,
laboriously in French: "Je crois qua vous avez un erreur."
Poirot replied in English. "You are Mr. Harris?"
"No, my name is MacQueen. I-"
But  at that moment the voice of the Wagon Lit conductor  spoke
from  over  Poirot's  shoulder-an apologetic,  rather  breathless
voice.
"There  is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman
has to come in here."
He  was hauling up the corridor window as he spoke and began to
lift in Poirot's luggage.
Poirot  noticed  the apology in his tone with  some  amusement.
Doubtless  the man had been promised a good tip if he could  keep
the compartment for the sole use of the other traveller. However,
even  the  most  munificent  of tips lose  their  effect  when  a
Director of the Company is on board and issues his orders.
The  conductor emerged from the compartment, having  swung  the
suitcases up onto the racks.
"Voil,  Monsieur,"  he said. "All is arranged.  Yours  is  the
upper berth, the No. 7. We start in one minute."
He  hurried  off  down  the  corridor.  Poirot  re-entered  the
compartment.
"A phenomenon I have seldom seen," he said cheerfully. "A Wagon
Lit conductor himself puts up the luggage! It is unheard of!"
His  fellow  traveller smiled. He had evidently  got  over  his
annoyance-had probably decided that it was no good  to  take  the
matter  otherwise  than philosophically. "The train's  remarkably
full," he said.
A  whistle  blew,  there  was a long melancholy  cry  from  the
engine.  Both men stepped out into the corridor. Outside a  voice
shouted, "En voiture!"
"We're off," said MacQueen.
But they were not quite off. The whistle blew again.
"I  say,  sir," said the young man suddenly. "If  you'd  rather
have  the lower berth-easier and all that-well, that's all  right
by me."
A likeable young fellow.
"No, no," protested Poirot. "I would not deprive you-"
"That's all right-"
"You are too amiable-"
Polite protests on both sides.
"It is for one night only," explained Poirot. "At Belgrade-"
"Oh! I see. You're getting out at Belgrade-"
"Not exactly. You see-"
There  was  a sudden jerk. Both men swung round to the  window,
looking  out at the long lighted platform as it slid slowly  past
them.
The  Orient Express had started on its three-day journey across
Europe.
3
POIROT REFUSES A CASE
M.  Hercule Poirot was a little late in entering the luncheon-car
on  the following day. He had risen early, had breakfasted almost
alone, and had spent the morning going over the notes of the case
that  was  recalling  him to London. He had seen  little  of  his
travelling companion.
M.  Bouc, who was already seated, gated a greeting and summoned
his  friend to the empty place opposite him. Poirot sat down  and
soon found himself in the favoured position of being at the table
which  was served first and with the choicest morsels. The  food,
too, was unusually good.
It  was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese  that
M.  Bouc  allowed his attention to wander to matters  other  than
nourishment.  He  was  at the stage of a meal  when  one  becomes
philosophic.
"Ah!"  he  sighed. "If I had but the pen of a Balzac!  I  would
depict this scene." He waved a hand.
"It is an idea, that," said Poirot.
"Ah, you agree? It has not been done, I think? And yet-it lends
itself  to romance, my friend. All around us are people,  of  all
classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days  these
people,  these  strangers to one another, are  brought  together.
They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each
other.  At the end of three days they part, they go their several
ways, never perhaps to see each other again."
"And yet," said Poirot, "suppose an accident-"
"Ah, no, my friend-"
"From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree.  But
nevertheless  let  us  just  for one  moment  suppose  it.  Then,
perhaps, all these here are linked together-by death."
"Some  more wine," said M. Bouc, hastily pouring it  out.  "You
are morbid, mon cher. It is, perhaps the digestion."
"It  is  true," agreed Poirot, "that the food in Syria was  not
perhaps quite suited to my stomach."
He  sipped  his  wine.  Then, leaning  back,  he  ran  his  eye
thoughtfully  round  the dining-car. There were  thirteen  people
seated  there  and,  as  M. Bouc had said,  of  all  classes  and
nationalities. He began to study them.
At  the  table  opposite them were three  men.  They  were,  he
guessed,  single  travellers  graded  and  placed  there  by  the
unerring  judgment of the restaurant attendants.  A  big  swarthy
Italian  was picking his teeth with gusto. Opposite him  a  spare
neat  Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of  the
well-trained  servant. Next to the Englishman was a big  American
in a loud suit-possibly a commercial traveller.
"You've got to put it over big," he was saying in a loud, nasal
voice.
The  Italian  removed  his toothpick  to  gesticulate  with  it
freely.
"Sure," he said. "That whatta I say alla de time."
The Englishman looked out of the window and coughed.
Poirot's eye passed on.
At  a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest
old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction-it
fascinated rather than repelled. She sat very upright. Round  her
neck  was a collar of very large pearls which, improbable  though
it  seemed,  were  real. Her hands were covered with  rings.  Her
sable  coat  was pushed back on her shoulders. A very  small  and
expensive  black toque was hideously unbecoming  to  the  yellow,
toad-like face beneath it.
She  was  speaking now to the restaurant attendant in a  clear,
courteous, but completely autocratic tone.
"You will be sufficiently amiable to place in my compartment  a
bottle  of  mineral water and a large glass of orange juice.  You
will arrange that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces  for
dinner this evening-also some boiled fish."
The attendant replied respectfully that it should be done.
She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance
caught  Poirot's and swept over him with the nonchalance  of  the
uninterested aristocrat.
"That  is  Princess Dragomiroff," said M. Bouc in a  low  tone.
"She is a Russian. Her husband realised all his money before  the
Revolution  and  invested it abroad. She  is  extremely  rich.  A
cosmopolitan."
Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.
"She  is  a  personality," said M. Bouc. "Ugly as sin  but  she
makes herself felt. You agree?"
Poirot agreed.
At  another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting  with
two other women. One of them was tall and middle-aged, in a plaid
blouse  and  tweed  skirt. She had a mass of  faded  yellow  hair
unbecomingly  arranged in a large bun, wore glasses,  and  had  a
long mild amiable face rather like a sheep. She was listening  to
the  third woman, a stout, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was
talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing
for breath or coming to a stop.
"-and  so  my daughter said, 'Why,' she said, 'you  just  can't
apply American methods in this country. It's natural to the folks
here to be indolent,' she said. 'They just haven't got any hustle
in  them-' But all the same you'd be surprised to know  what  our
college  there is doing. They've got a fine staff of teachers.  I
guess  there's  nothing like education. We've got  to  apply  our
Western  ideals and teach the East to recognise them. My daughter
says-"
The train plunged into a tunnel. The calm, monotonous voice was
drowned.
At  the  next  table, a small one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot-alone.
His  gaze  was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham's head.  They
were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed.
Why?
Perhaps,   Poirot  thought,  Mary  Debenham  had  demurred.   A
governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl
with her living to get has to be discreet.
His  glance shifted to the other side of the carriage.  At  the
far  end,  against the wall, was a middle-aged woman  dressed  in
black  with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian,
he thought. Probably the German lady's-maid.
Beyond her were a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly
together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was
not  English.  Though only the back of his head  was  visible  to
Poirot,  the  shape  of it and the set of the shoulders  betrayed
him. A big man, well made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot
saw  his  profile. A very handsome man of thirty-odd with  a  big
fair moustache.
The  woman  opposite him was a mere girl-twenty at a  guess.  A
tight-fitting  little black coat and skirt, white  satin  blouse,
small  chic  black  toque  perched at the fashionable  outrageous
angle. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin,
large brown eyes, jet black hair. She was smoking a cigarette  in
a  long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. She  wore
one  large  emerald set in platinum. There was  coquetry  in  her
glance and voice.
"Elle  est  jolie-et  chic,"  murmured  Poirot.  "Husband   and
wife-eh?"
M.  Bouc  nodded. "Hungarian Embassy, I believe," he  said.  "A
handsome couple."
There  were  only  two more lunchers-Poirot's fellow  traveller
MacQueen  and  his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter  sat  facing
Poirot,   and   for   the   second  time  Poirot   studied   that
unprepossessing face, noting the false benevolence  of  the  brow
and the small, cruel eyes.
Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend's expression.
"It is at your wild animal you look?" he asked.
Poirot nodded.
As  his  coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to  his  feet.
Having started before Poirot he had finished some time ago.
"I  return  to my compartment," he said. "Come along  presently
and converse with me."
"With pleasure."
Poirot  sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The  attendant
was  passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting
payment for bills. The elderly American lady's voice rose  shrill
and plaintive.
"My daughter said: 'Take a book of food tickets and you'll have
no  trouble-no  trouble at all.' Now, that isn't so.  Seems  they
have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there's that bottle  of
mineral water-and a queer sort of water too. They didn't have any
Evian or Vichy, which seems queer to me."
"It  is-they  must-how  do  you say?-serve  the  water  of  the
country," explained the sheep-faced lady.
"Well,  it seems queer to me." She looked distastefully at  the
heap  of small change on the table in front of her. "Look at  all
this  peculiar stuff he's given me. Dinars or something.  Just  a
lot of rubbish, it looks like! My daughter said-"
Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight  bow
to  the  other  two. Colonel Arbuthnot got up and  followed  her.
Gathering up her despised money the American woman followed suit,
followed  by  the  other  one like a sheep.  The  Hungarians  had
already  departed. The restaurant car was empty save  for  Poirot
and Ratchett and MacQueen.
Ratchett  spoke to his companion, who got up and left the  car.
Then  he  rose  himself,  but instead of  following  MacQueen  he
dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.
"Can  you  oblige  me  with a light?" he said.  His  voice  was
soft-faintly nasal. "My name is Ratchett."
Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket  and
produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it
but did not strike a light.
"I think," he went on, "that I have the pleasure of speaking to
Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?"
Poirot   bowed  again.  "You  have  been  correctly   informed,
Monsieur."
The  detective  was  conscious of  those  strange  shrewd  eyes
summing him up before the other spoke again.
"In  my  country," he said, "we come to the point quickly.  Mr.
Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows went up a trifle.
"My  clientle, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very
few cases."
"Why, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means
big money." He repeated again in his soft, persuasive voice, "Big
money."
Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said:  "What
is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur-er-Ratchett?"
"Mr.  Poirot,  I  am a rich man-a very rich man.  Men  in  that
position have enemies. I have an enemy."
"Only one enemy?"
"Just  what  do  you  mean  by that question?"  asked  Ratchett
sharply.
"Monsieur,  in  my experience when a man is in  a  position  to
have,  as  you  say,  enemies, then it does not  usually  resolve
itself into one enemy only."
Ratchett seemed relieved by-Poirot's answer. He said quickly:
"Why, yes, I appreciate that point. Enemy or enemies-it doesn't
matter. What does matter is my safety."
"Safety?"
"My life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Now I'm a man who can
take  pretty good care of himself." From the pocket of  his  coat
his  hand  brought a small automatic into sight for a moment.  He
continued grimly. "I don't think I'm the kind of man to be caught
napping.  But,  as I look at it, I might as well  make  assurance
doubly sure. I fancy you're the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. And
remember-big money."
Poirot  looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes.  His  face
was  completely expressionless. The other could have had no  clue
as to what thoughts were passing in that mind.
"I  regret, Monsieur," he said at length, "that I cannot oblige
you."
The other looked at him shrewdly. "Name your figure, then,"  he
said.
Poirot shook his head.
"You do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in
my  profession. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs
and my caprices. I take now only such cases as-interest me."
"You've  got a pretty good nerve," said Ratchett. "Will  twenty
thousand dollars tempt you?"
"It will not."
"If  you're holding out for more, you won't get it. I know what
a thing's worth to me."
"I, also, M. Ratchett."
"What's wrong with my proposition?"
Poirot  rose.  "If you will forgive me for being personal-I  do
not like your face, M. Ratchett," he said.
And with that he left the restaurant car.
4
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
The  Simplon Orient Express arrived at Belgrade at a  quarter  to
nine that evening. It was not due to depart again until 9.15,  so
Poirot  descended  to the platform. He did not,  however,  remain
there  long. The cold was bitter, and though the platform  itself
was protected, heavy snow was falling outside. He returned to his
compartment. The conductor, who was on the platform stamping  his
feet and waving his arms to keep warm, spoke to him.
"Your valises have been moved, Monsieur. To the compartment No.
1, the compartment of M. Bouc."
"But where is Monsieur Bouc, then?"
"He  has  moved into the coach from Athens which has just  been
put on."
Poirot  went  in  search  of  his friend.  M.  Bouc  waved  his
protestations aside.
"It is nothing. It is nothing. It is more convenient like this.
You are going through to England, so it is better that you should
stay in the through coach to Calais. Me, I am very well here.  It
is  most  peaceful. This coach is empty save for myself  and  one
little Greek doctor. Ah! my friend, what a night! They say  there
has not been so much snow for years. Let us hope we shall not  be
held up. I am not too happy about it, I can tell you."
At  9.15  punctually the train pulled out of the  station,  and
shortly  afterwards Poirot got up, said good night to his friend,
and made his way along the corridor back into his own coach which
was in front next to the dining-car.
On  this, the second day of the journey, barriers were breaking
down.  Colonel  Arbuthnot  was  standing  at  the  door  of   his
compartment  talking  to MacQueen. When MacQueen  saw  Poirot  he
broke off something he was saying. He looked very much surprised.
"Why,"  he cried, "I thought you'd left us. You said  you  were
getting off at Belgrade."
"You  misunderstood me," said Poirot, smiling. "I remember now,
the  train  started from Stamboul just as we were  talking  about
it."
"But, man, your baggage. It's gone."
"It has been moved into another compartment, that is all."
"Oh! I see."
He  resumed his conversation with Arbuthnot, and Poirot  passed
on down the corridor.
Two  doors from his own compartment, the elderly American, Mrs.
Hubbard, was standing talking to the sheep-like lady, who  was  a
Swede. Mrs. Hubbard was pressing a magazine on the other.
"No,  do take it, my dear," she said. "I've got plenty of other
things  to  read.  My, isn't the cold something  frightful?"  She
nodded amicably to Poirot.
"You are most kind," said the Swedish lady.
"Not  at all. I hope you'll sleep well and that your head  will
be better in the morning."
"It is the cold only. I make now myself a cup of tea."
"Have  you got some aspirin? Are you sure now? I've got plenty.
Well, good night, my dear."
She  turned  to  Poirot conversationally  as  the  other  woman
departed.
"Poor creature, she's a Swede. As far as I can make out she's a
kind  of missionary. A teaching one. A nice creature, but doesn't
talk  much  English. She was most interested in what I  told  her
about my daughter."
Poirot,  by  now,  knew  all  about  Mrs.  Hubbard's  daughter.
Everyone on the train who could understand English did!  How  she
and  her  husband were on the staff of a big American college  in
Smyrna,  and  how this was Mrs. Hubbard's first  journey  to  the
East,  and what she thought of the Turks and their slipshod  ways
and the condition of their roads.
The  door  next  to  them opened and the thin  pale  manservant
stepped  out.  Inside, Poirot caught a glimpse  of  Mr.  Ratchett
sitting  up in bed. He saw Poirot and his face changed, darkening
with anger. Then the door was shut.
Mrs. Hubbard drew Poirot a little wide.
"You  know, I'm dead scared of that man. Oh! not the  valet-the
other. His master. Master, indeed! There's something wrong  about
that man. My daughter always says I'm very intuitive. 'When Mamma
gets  a  hunch, she's dead right,' that's what my daughter  says.
And  I've got a hunch about that man. He's next door to me and  I
don't like it. I put my grips against the communicating door last
night.  I thought I heard him trying the handle. Duo you know,  I
shouldn't  be  a bit surprised if that man turned  out  to  be  a
murderer-one of these train robbers you read about. I daresay I'm
foolish, but there it is. I'm absolutely scared to death  of  the
man!  My  daughter said I'd have an easy journey, but  somehow  I
don't  feel happy about it. It may be foolish, but I feel  as  if
anything  might happen-anything at all. And how that  nice  young
fellow can bear to be his secretary, I can't think."
Colonel  Arbuthnot and MacQueen were coming towards  them  down
the corridor.
"Come into my carriage," MacQueen was saying. "It isn't made up
for the night yet. Now what I want to get right about your policy
in India is this-"
The  two men passed and went on down the corridor to MacQueen's
carriage.
Mrs.  Hubbard said good night to Poirot. "I guess I'll go right
to bed and read," she said. "Good night."
"Good night, Madame."
Poirot passed into his own compartment, which was the next  one
beyond Ratchett's. He undressed and got into bed, read for  about
half an hour and then turned out the light.
He  awoke some hours later, awoke with a start. He knew what it
was  that  had wakened him-a loud groan, almost a cry,  somewhere
close  at  hand.  At the same moment the ting of a  bell  sounded
sharply.
Poirot  sat up and switched on the light. He noticed  that  the
train was at a standstill-presumably at a station.
That  cry  had startled him. He remembered that it was Ratchett
who  had  the next compartment. He got out of bed and opened  the
door  just  as  the Wagon Lit conductor came hurrying  along  the
corridor  and  knocked on Ratchett's door. Poirot kept  his  door
open  a crack and watched. The conductor tapped a second time.  A
bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down.  The
conductor glanced over his shoulder. At the same moment  a  voice
from  within the next compartment called out: "Ce n'est rien.  Je
me suis tromp."
"Bien, Monsieur." The conductor scurried off again, to knock at
the door where the light was showing.
Poirot returned to bed, his mind relieved, and switched off the
light.  He glanced at his watch. It was just twenty-three minutes
to one.
5
THE CRIME
He found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing
he  missed the motion of the train. If it was a station  outside,
it  was  curiously  quiet. By contrast the noises  on  the  train
seemed  unusually loud. He could hear Ratchett moving about  next
door-a  click as he pulled down the washbasin, the sound  of  the
tap  running, a splashing noise, then another click as the  basin
shut  to  again.  Footsteps passed up the corridor  outside,  the
shuffling footsteps of someone in bedroom slippers.
Hercule  Poirot lay awake staring at the ceiling. Why  was  the
station  outside so silent? His throat felt dry. He had forgotten
to  ask  for his usual bottle of mineral water. He looked at  his
watch again. Just after a quarter past one. He would ring for the
conductor and ask for some mineral water. His finger went out  to
the  bell, but he paused as in the stillness he heard a ting. The
man couldn't answer every bell at once.
Ting... Ting... Ting...
It  sounded  again and again. Where was the man?  Somebody  was
getting impatient.
Ti-i-i-ing!
Whoever  it  was,  was keeping a finger solidly  on  the  push-
button.
Suddenly  with a rush, his footsteps echoing up the aisle,  the
man came. He knocked at a door not far from Poirot's own.
Then came voices-the conductor's, deferential, apologetic;  and
a woman's, insistent and voluble.
Mrs. Hubbard!
Poirot smiled to himself.
The  altercation-if  it  was one-went on  for  some  time.  Its
proportions were ninety per cent of Mrs. Hubbard's to a  soothing
ten per cent of the conductor's. Finally the matter seemed to  be
adjusted. Poirot heard distinctly a "Bonne nuit, Madame,"  and  a
closing door.
He pressed his own finger on the bell.
The conductor arrived promptly. He looked hot and worried.
"De l'eau minrale, s'il vous Plat."
"Bien, Monsieur." Perhaps a twinkle in Poirot's eye led him  to
unburden himself. "La dame amricaine-"
"Yes?"
He wiped his forehead. "Imagine to yourself the time I have had
with  her!  She insists-but insists-that there is a  man  in  her
compartment!  Figure to yourself, Monsieur. In a  space  of  this
size." He swept a hand round. "Where would he conceal himself?  I
argue  with her. I point out that it is impossible. She  insists.
She  woke up, and there was a man there. And how, I ask,  did  he
get  out  and leave the door bolted behind him? But she will  not
listen  to  reason. As though there were not enough to  worry  us
already. This snow-"
"Snow?"
"But  yes,  Monsieur. Monsieur has not noticed? The  train  has
stopped. We have run into a snowdrift. Heaven knows how  long  we
shall be here. I remember once being snowed up for seven days."
"Where are we?"
"Between Vincovci and Brod."
"L-l," said Poirot vexedly.
The man withdrew and returned with the water.
"Bon soir, Monsieur."
Poirot drank a glass of water and composed himself to sleep.
He  was  just dropping off when something again woke him.  This
time  it  was  as though something heavy had fallen with  a  thud
against the door.
He  sprang  up, opened it and looked out. Nothing. But  to  his
right,  some  distance down the corridor, a woman  wrapped  in  a
scarlet kimono was retreating from him. At the other end, sitting
on  his  little  seat, the conductor was entering up  figures  on
large sheets of paper. Everything was deathly quiet.
"Decidedly  I suffer from the nerves," said Poirot and  retired
to bed again. This time he slept till morning.
When he awoke the train was still at a standstill. He raised  a
blind and looked out. Heavy banks of snow surrounded the train.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was past nine o'clock.
At  a  quarter to ten, neat, spruce and dandified as  ever,  he
made  his  way to the restaurant car, where a chorus of  woe  was
going on.
Any  barriers there might have been between the passengers  had
now  quite  broken down. All were united by a common  misfortune.
Mrs. Hubbard was loudest in her lamentations.
"My  daughter  said it would be the easiest way in  the  world.
Just  sit in the train until I got to Parrus. And now we  may  be
here for days and days," she wailed. "And my boat sails day after
to-morrow. How am I going to catch it now? Why, I can't even wire
to cancel my passage. I'm just too mad to talk about it!"
The  Italian said that he had urgent business himself in Milan.
The  large  American  said that that was "too  bad,  Ma'am,"  and
soothingly expressed a hope that the train might make up time.
"My  sister-her children wait me," said the Swedish  lady,  and
wept. "I get no word to them. What they think? They will say  bad
things have happen to me."
"How  long shall we be here?" demanded Mary Debenham.  "Doesn't
anybody know?"
Her  voice sounded impatient, but Poirot noted that there  were
no  signs of that almost feverish anxiety which she had displayed
during the check to the Taurus Express.
Mrs. Hubbard was off again.
"There  isn't anybody knows a thing on this train. And nobody's
trying to do anything. Just a pack of useless foreigners. Why, if
this  were  at  home, there'd be someone at least  trying  to  do
something!"
Arbuthnot turned to Poirot and spoke in careful British French.
"Vous  tes un directeur de la ligne, je crois, Monsieur.  Vous
pouvez nous dire-"
Smiling, Poirot corrected him.
"No,  no,"  he said in English. "It is not I. You  confound  me
with my friend, M. Bouc."
"Oh, I'm sorry"
"Not  at  all. It is most natural. I am now in the  compartment
that he had formerly."
M.  Bouc  was not present in the restaurant car. Poirot  looked
about to notice who else was absent.
Princess  Dragomiroff  was missing, and the  Hungarian  couple.
Also Ratchett, his valet, and the German lady's-maid.
The Swedish lady wiped her eyes.
"I  am  foolish," she said. "I am bad to cry. All  is  for  the
best, whatever happen."
This Christian spirit, however, was far from being shared.
"That's  all very well," said MacQueen restlessly. "We  may  be
here for days."
"What is this country anyway?" demanded Mrs. Hubbard tearfully.
On  being told it was Jugo-Slavia, she said: "Oh! one of  these
Balkan things. What can you expect?"
"You  are  the only patient one, Mademoiselle," said Poirot  to
Miss Debenham.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "What can one do?"
"You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle."
"That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is  more
selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion."
She  was speaking more to herself than to him. She was not even
looking  at  him. Her gaze went past him, out of  the  window  to
where the snow lay in heavy masses.
"You are a strong character, Mademoiselle," said Poirot gently.
"You are, I think, the strongest character amongst us."
"Oh! no. No, indeed. I know one far, far stronger than I am."
"And that is-?"
She seemed suddenly to come to herself, to realise that she was
talking  to  a  stranger  and foreigner, with  whom,  until  this
morning, she had exchanged only half a dozen sentences.
She laughed, a polite but estranging laugh.
"Well-that  old  lady, for instance. You have probably  noticed
her. A very ugly old lady but rather fascinating. She has only to
lift  a little finger and ask for something in a polite voice-and
the whole train runs."
"It runs also for my friend M. Bouc," said Poirot. "But that is
because he is a director of the line, not because he has a strong
character."
Mary Debenham smiled.
The  morning  wore away. Several people, Poirot  amongst  them,
remained  in the dining-car. The communal life was felt,  at  the
moment, to pass the time better. He heard a good deal more  about
Mrs. Hubbard's daughter, and he heard the lifelong habits of  Mr.
Hubbard,  deceased, from his rising in the morning and commencing
breakfast  with a cereal to his final rest at night in  the  bed-
socks that Mrs. Hubbard herself had been in the habit of knitting
for him.
It  was  when  he  was listening to a confused account  of  the
missionary  aims of the Swedish lady that one of  the  Wagon  Lit
conductors came into the car and stood at his elbow.
"Pardon, Monsieur."
"Yes?"
"The  compliments of M. Bouc, and he would be glad if you would
be so kind as to come to him for a few minutes."
Poirot  rose, uttered excuses to the Swedish lady and  followed
the  man out of the dining-car. It was not his own conductor, but
a big fair man.
He followed his guide down the corridor of his own carriage and
along  the  corridor of the next one. The man tapped at  a  door,
then stood aside to let Poirot enter.
The  compartment was not M. Bouc's own. It was  a  second-class
one-chosen  presumably because of its slightly  larger  size.  It
certainly gave the impression of being crowded.
M.  Bouc  himself was sitting on the small seat in the opposite
corner.  In the corner next the window, facing him, was  a  small
dark  man  looking  out  at  the  snow.  Standing  up  and  quite
preventing  Poirot from advancing any farther were a big  man  in
blue uniform (the chef de train) and his own Wagon Lit conductor.
"Ah! my good friend," cried M. Bouc. "Come in. We have need  of
you."
The little man in the window shifted along the seat, and Poirot
squeezed past: the other two men and sat down facing his friend.
The  expression on M. Bouc's face gave him, as  he  would  have
expressed it, furiously to think. It was clear that something out
of the common had happened.
"What has occurred?" he asked.
"You  may  well  ask that. First this snow-this  stoppage.  And
now-"
He  paused-and a sort of strangled gasp came from the Wagon Lit
conductor.
"And now what?"
"And now a passenger lies dead in his berth-stabbed."
M. Bouc spoke with a kind of calm desperation.
"A passenger? Which passenger?"
"An American. A man called-called-" he consulted some notes  in
front of him. "Ratchett. That is right-Ratchett?"
"Yes, Monsieur," the Wagon Lit man gulped.
Poirot looked at him. He was as white as chalk.
"You  had better let that man sit down," he said. "He may faint
otherwise."
The  chef  de train moved slightly and the Wagon Lit  man  sank
down in the corner and buried his face in his hands.
"Brr!" said Poirot. "This is serious!"
"Certainly  it  is  serious. To begin with,  a  murder-that  in
itself  is a calamity of the first water. But not only that,  the
circumstances are unusual. Here we are, brought to a  standstill.
We  may  be  here  for  hours-and not  only  hours-days!  Another
circumstance-passing through most countries we have the police of
that   country  on  the  train.  But  in  Jugo-Slavia,  no.   You
comprehend?"
"It is a position of great difficulty," said Poirot.
"There  is worse to come. Dr. Constantine-I forgot, I have  not
introduced you. Dr. Constantine, M. Poirot."
The little dark man bowed, and Poirot returned the bow.
"Dr. Constantine is of the opinion that death occurred at about
1 A.M."
"It  is difficult to speak exactly in these matters," said  the
doctor,  "but  I  think I can say definitely that death  occurred
between midnight and two in the morning."
"When was this M. Ratchett last seen alive?" asked Poirot.
"He is known to have been alive at about twenty minutes to one,
when he spoke to the conductor," said M. Bouc.
"That  is  quite  correct," said Poirot. "I myself  heard  what
passed. That is the last thing known?"
"Yes."
Poirot turned toward the doctor, who continued.
"The  window of M. Ratchett's compartment was found wide  open,
leading one to suppose that the murderer escaped that way. But in
my opinion that open window is a blind. Anyone departing that way
would have left distinct traces in the snow. There were none."
"The crime was discovered-when?" asked Poirot.
"Michel!"
The  Wagon Lit conductor sat up. His face still looked pale and
frightened.
"Tell this gentleman exactly what occurred," ordered M. Bouc.
The man spoke somewhat jerkily.
"The valet of this M. Ratchett, he tapped several times at  the
door  this morning. There was no answer. Then, half an hour  ago,
the  restaurant car attendant came. He wanted to know if Monsieur
was taking djeuner. It was eleven o'clock, you comprehend.
"I  open  the door for him with my key. But there is  a  chain,
too,  and  that is fastened. There is no answer and  it  is  very
still in there, and cold-but cold. With the window open and  snow
drifting  in. I thought the gentleman had had a fit,  perhaps.  I
got the chef de train. We broke the chain and went in. He was-Ah!
c'tait terrible!"
He buried his face in his hands again.
"The  door  was locked and chained on the inside," said  Poirot
thoughtfully. "It was not suicide-eh?"
The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh. "Does a man who commits
suicide stab himself in ten-twelve-fifteen places?" he asked.
Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said.
"It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first
time.  "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman  would  stab
like that."
Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully.
"She  must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is  not
my  desire to speak technically-that is only confusing; but I can
assure you that one or two of the blows were delivered with  such
force as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle."
"It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Poirot.
"It  was  most  unscientific," returned Dr.  Constantine.  "The
blows  seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random.  Some
have  glanced  off,  doing hardly any damage.  It  is  as  though
somebody  had  shut his eyes and then in a frenzy struck  blindly
again and again."
"C'est  une  femme," said the chef de train again.  "Women  are
like  that.  When they are enraged they have great strength."  He
nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of
his own.
"I  have,  perhaps, something to contribute to  your  store  of
knowledge,"  said Poirot. "M. Ratchett spoke to me yesterday.  He
told  me, as far as I was able to understand him, that he was  in
danger of his life."
"  'Bumped  off'-that is the American expression, is  it  not?"
asked M. Bouc. "Then it is not a woman. It is a 'gangster'  or  a
'gunman.' "
The  chef de train looked pained at seeing his theory  come  to
nought.
"If  so,"  said  Poirot,  "it seems  to  have  been  done  very
amateurishly." His tone expressed professional disapproval.
"There  is  a  large  American on the train,."  said  M.  Bouc,
pursuing  his idea. "A common-looking man with terrible  clothes.
He  chews  the gum, which I believe is not done in good  circles.
You know whom I mean?"
The Wagon Lit conductor to whom he had appealed nodded.
"Oui,  Monsieur,  the No. 16. But it cannot  have  been  he.  I
should have seen him enter or leave the compartment."
"You  might  not.  You  might not. But we  will  go  into  that
presently. The question is, what to do?" He looked at Poirot.
Poirot looked back at him.
"Come,  my  friend," said M. Bouc. "You comprehend  what  I  am
about  to  ask of you. I know your powers. Take command  of  this
investigation! No, no, do not refuse. See, to us it is  serious-I
speak  for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits.  By  the
time the Jugo-Slavian police arrive, how simple if we can present
them  with the solution! Otherwise delays, annoyances, a  million
and one inconveniences. Perhaps, who knows, serious annoyance  to
innocent  persons.  Instead-you solve the  mystery!  We  say,  'A
murder has occurred-this is the criminal!'"
"And suppose I do not solve it?"
"Ah, mon cher!" M. Bouc's voice became positively caressing. "I
know  your reputation. I know something of your methods. This  is
the  ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all  these
people,  to  discover their bona fides-all that  takes  time  and
endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to
solve  a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and  think?
Do  that.  Interview the passengers on the train, view the  body,
examine what clues there are, and then-well, I have faith in you!
I  am  assured  that it is no idle boast of yours. Lie  back  and
think-use  (as  I  have heard you say so often) the  little  grey
cells of the mind-and you will know!"
He leaned forward, looking affectionately at the detective.
"Your  faith  touches me, my friend," said Poirot  emotionally.
"As  you  say,  this cannot be a difficult case.  I  myself  last
night-but  we will not speak of that now. In truth, this  problem
intrigues  me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that  many
hours  of  boredom lay ahead whilst we are stuck here. And  now-a
problem lies ready to my hand."
"You accept then?" said M. Bouc eagerly.
"C'est entendu. You place the matter in my hands."
"Good-we are all at your service."
"To  begin  with,  I should like a plan of the  Istanbul-Calais
coach,  with  a  note  of  the people who  occupied  the  several
compartments,  and I should also like to see their passports  and
their tickets."
"Michel will get you those."
The Wagon Lit conductor left the compartment.
"What other passengers are there on the train?" asked Poirot.
"In  this  coach Dr. Constantine and I are the only travellers.
In  the coach from Bucharest is an old gentleman with a lame leg.
He  is  well known to the conductor. Beyond that are the ordinary
carriages,  but these do not concern us, since they  were  locked
after dinner had been served last night. Forward of the Istanbul-
Calais coach there is only the dining-car."
"Then  it  seems," said Poirot slowly, "as though we must  look
for  our murderer in the Istanbul-Calais coach." He turned to the
doctor. "That is what you were hinting, I think?"
The  Greek nodded. "At half an hour after midnight we ran  into
the snowdrift. No one can have left the train since then."
M.  Bouc  said solemnly, "The murderer is with us-on the  train
now..."
6
A WOMAN
"First  of all," said Poirot, "I should like a word or  two  with
young   Mr.  MacQueen.  He  may  be  able  to  give  us  valuable
information."
"Certainly," said M. Bouc. He turned to the chef de train. "Get
Mr. MacQueen to come here."
The chef de train left the carriage.
The  conductor returned with a bundle of passports and tickets.
M. Bouc took them from him.
"Thank you, Michel. It would be best now, I think, if you  were
to  go  back  to  your post. We will take your evidence  formally
later."
"Very  good, Monsieur," said Michel, and in his turn  left  the
carriage.
"After  we have seen young MacQueen," said Poirot, "perhaps  M.
le docteur will come with me to the dead man's carriage."
"Certainly."
"After we have finished there-"
But  at  this  moment  the chef de train returned  with  Hector
MacQueen.
M.  Bouc  rose.  "We  are  a  little  cramped  here,"  he  said
pleasantly.  "Take  my seat, Mr. MacQueen.  M.  Poirot  will  sit
opposite you-so."
He  turned to the chef de train. "Clear all the people  out  of
the  restaurant car," he said, "and let it be left  free  for  M.
Poirot. You will conduct your interviews there, mon cher?"
"It would be the most convenient, yes," agreed Poirot.
MacQueen  had  stood looking from one to the other,  not  quite
following the rapid flow of French.
"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" he began laboriously. "Pourquoi-?"
With a vigorous gesture Poirot motioned him to the seat in  the
corner. He took it and began once more.
"Pourquoi-?" Then checking himself and relapsing into  his  own
tongue: "What's up on the train? Has anything happened?"
He looked from one man to another.
Poirot   nodded.  "Exactly.  Something  has  happened.  Prepare
yourself for a shock. Your employer, M. Ratchett, is dead!"
MacQueen's mouth pursed itself into a whistle. Except that  his
eyes  grew  a  shade  brighter, he showed no signs  of  shock  or
distress.
"So they got him after all," he said.
"What exactly do you mean by that phrase, Mr. MacQueen?"
MacQueen hesitated.
"You  are  assuming,"  said  Poirot,  "that  M.  Ratchett   was
murdered?"
"Wasn't he?" This time MacQueen did show surprise. "Why,  yes,"
he  said  slowly. "That's just what I did think. Do you  mean  he
just  died  in  his sleep? Why, the old man was  as  tough  as-as
tough-"
He stopped, at a loss for a simile.
"No,  no,"  said Poirot. "Your assumption was quite  right.  M.
Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you
were so sure it was murder, and not just-death."
MacQueen  hesitated.  "I must get this clear,"  he  said.  "Who
exactly are you? And where do you come in?"
"I  represent  the Compagnie Internationale des  Wagons  Lits."
Poirot  paused, then added, "I am a detective. My name is Hercule
Poirot."
If  he  expected  an effect he did not get one.  MacQueen  said
merely, "Oh! yes?" and waited for him to go on.
"You know the name perhaps?"
"Why,  it does seem kind of familiar. Only I always thought  it
was a woman's dressmaker."
Hercule Poirot looked at him with distaste. "It is incredible!"
he said.
"What's incredible?"
"Nothing. Let us advance with the matter in hand. I want you to
tell  me, M. MacQueen, all that you know about the dead man.  You
were not related to him?"
"No. I am-was-his secretary."
"For how long have you held that post?"
"Just over a year."
"Please give me all the information you can."
"Well,  I met Mr. Ratchett just over a year ago when I  was  in
Persia-"
Poirot interrupted.
"What were you doing there?'
"I  had come over from New York to look into an oil concession.
I don't suppose you want to hear all about that. My friends and I
had  been  let in rather badly over it. Mr. Ratchett was  in  the
same  hotel. He had just had a row with his secretary. He offered
me the job and I took it. I was at a loose end and glad to find a
well-paid job ready made, as it were."
"And since then?"
"We've  travelled about. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the  world.
He  was  hampered  by knowing no languages. I  acted  more  as  a
courier than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life."
"Now tell me as much as you can about your employer."
The  young  man shrugged his shoulders. A perplexed  expression
passed over his face.
"That's not so easy."
"What was his full name?"
"Samuel Edward Ratchett."
"He was an American citizen?"
"Yes."
"What part of America did he come from?"
"I don't know."
"Well, tell me what you do know."
"The  actual truth is, Mr. Poirot, that I know nothing at  all!
Mr. Ratchett never spoke of himself or of his life in America."
"Why do you think that was?"
"I  don't  know.  I imagined that he might be  ashamed  of  his
beginnings. Some men are."
"Does that strike you as a satisfactory solution?"
"Frankly, it doesn't."
"Has he any relatives?"
"He never mentioned any."
Poirot pressed the point.
"You must have formed some theory, Mr. MacQueen."
"Well, Yes, I did. For one thing, I don't believe Ratchett  was
his  real  name. I think he left America definitely in  order  to
escape  someone  or something. I think he was successful-until  a
few weeks ago."
"And then?"
"He began to get letters-threatening letters."
"Did you see them?"
"Yes.  It was my business to attend to his correspondence.  The
first letter came a fortnight ago."
"Were these letters destroyed?"
"No,  I  think I've got a couple still in my files-one  I  know
Ratchett tore up in a rage. Shall I get them for you?"
"If you would be so good."
MacQueen left the compartment. He returned a few minutes  later
and laid down two sheets of rather dirty notepaper before Poirot.
The first letter ran as follows:
Thought you'd double-cross us and get away with it, did  you?
Not  on your life. We're out to GET you, Ratchett, and we  WILL
get you!
There was no signature.
With  no  comment beyond raised eyebrows, Poirot  picked  up  the
second letter.
We're going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon.
We're going to GET you-see?
Poirot laid the letter down.
"The  style  is  monotonous!"  he  said.  "More  so  than   the
handwriting."
MacQueen stared at him.
"You  would not observe," said Poirot pleasantly. "It  requires
the  eye  of one used to such things. This letter was not written
by  one  person, M. MacQueen. Two or more persons  wrote  it-each
writing  one  letter of a word at a time. Also, the  letters  are
printed. That makes the task of identifying the handwriting  much
more  difficult."  He paused, then said: "Did you  know  that  M.
Ratchett had applied for help to me?"
"To you?"
MacQueen's astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the
young man had not known of it.
The detective nodded. "Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he
act when he received the first letter?"
MacQueen hesitated.
"It's  difficult to say. He-he-passed it off with  a  laugh  in
that  quiet way of his. But somehow-" he gave a slight  shiver-"I
felt  that  there  was  a  good  deal  going  on  underneath  the
quietness."
Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.
"Mr.  MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly,  exactly  how
you regarded your employer? Did you like him?"
Hector MacQueen took a moment or two before replying.
"No," he said at last. "I did not."
"Why."
"I  can't  exactly  say. He was always quite  pleasant  in  his
manner."  He  paused, then said: "I'll tell you  the  truth,  Mr.
Poirot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel
and  dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no  reasons
to advance for my opinion."
"Thank  you, Mr. MacQueen. One further question: when  did  you
last see Mr. Ratchett alive?"
"Last  evening about-" he thought for a minute-"ten o'clock,  I
should  say.  I  went  into his compartment  to  take  down  some
memoranda from him."
"On what subject?"
"Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia.  What
had  been delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been
a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject."
"And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Do  you  know when Mr. Ratchett received the last  threatening
letter?"
"On the morning of the day we left Constantinople."
"There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. MacQueen.  Were
you on good terms with your employer?"
The young man's eyes twinkled suddenly.
"This  is  where  I'm supposed to go all goosefleshy  down  the
back.  In  the  words of a best seller, 'You've nothing  on  me.'
Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms."
"Perhaps,  Mr.  MacQueen, you will give me your full  name  and
your address in America."
MacQueen  gave his name-Hector Willard MacQueen-and an  address
in New York.
Poirot leaned back against the cushions.
"That is all for the present, Mr. MacQueen," he said. "I should
be  obliged if you would keep the matter of Mr. Ratchett's  death
to yourself for a little time."
"His valet, Masterman, will have to know."
"He probably knows already," said Poirot drily. "If so, try  to
get him to hold his tongue."
"That  oughtn't to be difficult. He's a Britisher  and,  as  he
calls  it,  he  'keeps  to himself.' He  has  a  low  opinion  of
Americans, and no opinion at all of any other nationality."
"Thank you, Mr. MacQueen."
The American left the carriage.
"Well?" demanded M. Bouc. "You believe what he says, this young
man?"
"He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any
affection for his employer, as he probably would have done had he
been  involved in any way. It is true, Mr. Ratchett did not  tell
him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I  do
not  think that that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy
Mr.  Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel  on  every
possible occasion."
"So  you  pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime,"
said M. Bouc jovially.
Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.
"Me,  I suspect everybody till the last minute," he said.  "All
the  same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed
MacQueen  losing  his  head and stabbing  his  victim  twelve  or
fourteen  times.  It is not in accord with his psychology-not  at
all."
"No,"  said  M. Bouc thoughtfully. "That is the act  of  a  man
driven  almost crazy with a frenzied hate-it suggests rather  the
Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de
train insisted-a woman."
7
THE BODY
Followed  by  Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way  to  the  next
coach  and to the compartment occupied by the murdered  man.  The
conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key.
The  two  men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly  to  his
companion.
"How much has been disarranged in this compartment?"
"Nothing  has been touched. I was careful not to move the  body
in making my examination."
Poirot nodded. He looked round him.
The  first  thing that struck the senses was the intense  cold.
The  window was pushed down as far as it would go, and the  blind
was drawn up.
"Brrr," observed Poirot.
The other smiled appreciatively.
"I did not like to close it," he said.
Poirot examined the window carefully.
"You  are right," he announced. "Nobody left the carriage  this
way.  Possibly  the  open  window was intended  to  suggest  that
somebody  did;  but if so, the snow has defeated  the  murderer's
intention."
He  examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a  small
case from his pocket he blew a little powder over the frame.
"No  fingerprints at all," he said. "That means  it:  has  been
wiped. Well, if there had been fingerprints they would have  told
us very little. They would have been those of Mr. Ratchett or his
valet  or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes  of  that
kind nowadays.
"And  that  being so," he added cheerfully, "we might  as  well
shut the window. Positively it is the cold storage in here!"
He  suited the action to the word and then turned his attention
for the first time to the motionless figure lying in the bunk.
Ratchett lay on his back. His pyjama jacket, stained with rusty
patches, had been unbuttoned and thrown back.
"I had to see the nature of the wounds, you see," explained the
doctor.
Poirot  nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he  straightened
himself with a slight grimace.
"It is not pretty," he said. "Someone must have stood there and
stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?"
"I  make  it  twelve.  One  or two  are  so  slight  as  to  be
practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would be
capable of causing death."
Something  in  the doctor's tone caught Poirot's attention.  He
looked at him sharply. The little Greek was standing staring down
at the body with a puzzled frown.
"Something  strikes you as odd, does it not?" he asked  gently.
"Speak, my friend. There is something here that puzzles you?"
"You are right," acknowledged the other.
"What is it?"
"You see these two wounds-here and here-" He pointed. "They are
deep.  Each cut must have severed blood vessels-and yet the edges
do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected."
"Which suggests?"
"That the man was already dead-some little time dead-when  they
were delivered. But that is surely absurd."
"It  would  seem  so,"  said Poirot thoughtfully.  "Unless  our
murderer figured to himself that he had not accomplished his  job
properly  and came back to make quite sure-but that is manifestly
absurd! Anything else?"
"Well, just one thing."
"And that?"
"You  see  this wound here-under the right arm-near  the  right
shoulder.  Take  this pencil of mine. Could you  deliver  such  a
blow?"
Poirot poised his hand.
"Prcisment,"  he  said. "I see. With the  right  hand  it  is
exceedingly  difficult,  almost impossible.  One  would  have  to
strike  backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck  with
the left hand-"
"Exactly, M. Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with
the left hand."
"So  that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult
than that, is it not?"
"As  you say, M. Poirot. Some of these other blows are just  as
obviously right-handed."
"Two  people.  We are back at two people again,"  murmured  the
detective. He asked abruptly: "Was the electric light on?"
"It  is  difficult  to say. You see, it is turned  off  by  the
conductor every morning about ten o'clock."
"The switches will tell us," said Poirot.
He  examined the switch of the top light and also the roll-back
bed-head light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.
"Eh bien," he said thoughtfully. "We have here a hypothesis  of
the First and the Second Murderer, as the great Shakespeare would
put  it.  The  First  Murderer stabbed his victim  and  left  the
compartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer  came  in
in  the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done, and
stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez-vous de a?"
"Magnificent!" said the little doctor with enthusiasm.
The other's eyes twinkled.
"You  think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little  like  the
nonsense."
"What other explanation can there be?"
"That  is  just  what  I  am asking  myself.  Have  we  here  a
coincidence,  or what? Are there any other inconsistencies,  such
as would point to two people being concerned?"
"I  think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already
said,  point  to  a  weakness-a lack of strength  or  a  lack  of
determination.  They  are feeble, glancing blows.  But  this  one
here-and this one-" Again he pointed. "Great strength was  needed
for those blows. They have penetrated the muscle."
"They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?"
"Most certainly."
"They could not have been delivered by a woman?"
"A  young,  vigorous, athletic woman might  have  struck  them,
especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion; but it is
in my opinion highly unlikely."
Poirot was silent a moment or two.
The other asked anxiously, "You understand my point?"
"Perfectly," said Poirot. "The matter begins to clear itself up
wonderfully!  The  murderer was a man of  great  strength-he  was
feeble-it was a woman-it was a right-handed person-it was a left-
handed  person. Ah! c'est rigolo, tout a!" He spoke with  sudden
anger.  "And the victim-what does he do in all this? Does he  cry
out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?"
He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic
pistol which Ratchett had shown him the day before.
"Fully loaded, you see," he said.
They  looked  round them. Ratchett's day clothing  was  hanging
from the hooks on the wall. On the small table formed by the  lid
of the wash basin were various objects. False teeth in a glass of
water.  Another glass, empty. A bottle of mineral water. A  large
flask.  An  ash-tray  containing the butt of  a  cigar  and  some
charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.
The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.
"Here  is  the  explanation of the victim's inertia,"  he  said
quietly.
"Drugged?"
"Yes."
Poirot  nodded.  He picked up the two matches  and  scrutinised
them carefully.
"You have a clue then?" demanded the little doctor eagerly.
"Those two matches are of different shapes," said Poirot.  "One
is flatter than the other. You see?"
"It  is  the  kind you get on the train," said the doctor.  "In
paper covers."
Poirot  was  feeling  in  the pockets of  Ratchett's  clothing.
Presently  he  pulled  out  a box of matches.  He  compared  them
carefully with the burnt ones.
"The  rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett," he  said.
"Let us see if he had also the flatter kind."
But a further search showed no other matches.
Poirot's  eyes  were darting about the compartment.  They  were
bright  and  sharp  like a bird's. One felt  that  nothing  could
escape their scrutiny.
With  a little exclamation he bent and picked-up something from
the floor.
It  was  a small square of cambric, very dainty. In the  corner
was an embroidered initial-H.
"A woman's handkerchief," said the doctor. "Our friend the chef
de train was right. There is a woman concerned in this."
"And  most  conveniently she leaves her  handkerchief  behind!"
said  Poirot.  "Exactly as it happens in the  books  and  on  the
films-and to make things even easier for us, it is marked with an
initial."
"What a stroke of luck for us!" exclaimed the doctor.
"Is it not?" said Poirot.
Something in his tone surprised the doctor, but before he could
ask for elucidation Poirot had made another dive onto the floor.
This time he held out on the palm of his hand-a pipe-cleaner.
"It  is  perhaps the property of Mr. Ratchett?"  suggested  the
doctor.
"There  was  no pipe in any of his pockets, and no  tobacco  or
tobacco pouch."
"Then it is a clue."
"Oh!   decidedly.  And  again  dropped  most  conveniently.   A
masculine  clue,  this  time, you note! One  cannot  complain  of
having  no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance.
By the way, what have you done with the weapon?"
"There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have  taken
it away with him."
"I wonder why," mused Poirot.
"Ah!"  The  doctor  had  been delicately exploring  the  pyjama
pockets of the dead man.
"I  overlooked  this," he said. "I unbuttoned  the  jacket  and
threw it straight back."
From  the  breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The  case
was dented savagely, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.
"You  see?" cried Constantine eagerly. "This gives us the  hour
of  the  crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between  midnight
and  two  in the morning is what I said, and probably  about  one
o'clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters.  Eh
bien, here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour
of the crime."
"It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible."
The  doctor  looked at him curiously. "You will pardon  me,  M.
Poirot, but I do not quite understand you."
"I  do  not  understand  myself," said  Poirot.  "I  understand
nothing at all. And, as you perceive, it worries me."
He  sighed and bent over the little table examining the charred
fragment of paper. He murmured to himself, "What I need  at  this
moment is an old-fashioned woman's hat-box."
Dr.  Constantine  was at a loss to know what to  make  of  this
singular  remark.  In  any  case Poirot  gave  him  no  time  for
questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for  the
conductor.
The man arrived at a run.
"How many women are there in this coach?"
The conductor counted on his fingers.
"One,  two,  three-six,  Monsieur. The  old  American  lady,  a
Swedish lady, the young English lady, the Countess Andrenyi,  and
Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff and her maid."
Poirot considered.
"They all have hat-boxes, yes?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Then  bring me-let me see-yes, the Swedish lady's and that  of
the  lady's-maid. Those two are the only hope. You will tell them
it  is  a  customs regulation-something-anything that  occurs  to
you."
"That  will  be  all right, Monsieur. Neither lady  is  in  her
compartment at the moment."
"Then be quick."
The  conductor  departed. He returned with  the  two  hatboxes.
Poirot  opened  that of the maid, and tossed it  aside.  Then  he
opened   the  Swedish  lady's  and  uttered  an  exclamation   of
satisfaction.  Removing the hats carefully,  he  disclosed  round
humps of wire-netting.
"Ah,  here  is what we need! About fifteen years ago  hat-boxes
were  made like this. You skewered through the hat with a  hatpin
on to this hump of wire-netting."
As  he  spoke  he was skillfully removing two of  the  attached
humps.  Then  he repacked the hat-box and told the  conductor  to
return both boxes where they belonged.
When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion.
"See  you,  my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely  upon  the
expert   procedure.  It  is  the  psychology  I  seek,  not   the
fingerprint  or  the  cigarette ash. But in  this  case  I  would
welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment is  full
of clues, but can I be sure that those clues are really what they
seem to be?"
"I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot."
"Well,  to  give you an example-we find a woman's handkerchief.
Did  a woman drop it? Or did a man, committing the crime, say  to
himself: 'I will make this look like a woman's crime. I will stab
my enemy an unnecessary number of times, making some of the blows
feeble  and ineffective, and I will drop this handkerchief  where
no  one  can  miss it'? That is one possibility.  Then  there  is
another.  Did a woman kill him, and did she deliberately  drop  a
pipe-cleaner  to  make  it look like a  man's  work?  Or  are  we
seriously  to  suppose that two people, a man and a  woman,  were
separately concerned, and that each was so careless as to drop  a
clue  to  his  or  her identity? It is a little  too  much  of  a
coincidence, that!"
"But  where does the hat-box come in?" asked the doctor,  still
puzzled.
"Ah!  I  am  coming  to that. As I say, these  clues-the  watch
stopped  at  a  quarter  past one, the  handkerchief,  the  pipe-
cleaner-they may be genuine, or they may be faked. As to  that  I
cannot yet tell. But there is one clue here which-though again  I
may  be  wrong-I  believe has not been faked. I  mean  this  flat
match,  M. le docteur. I believe that that match was used by  the
murderer,  not  by  Mr.  Ratchett.  It  was  used  to   burn   an
incriminating paper of some kind. Possibly a note. If  so,  there
was something in that note, some mistake, some error, that left a
possible  clue  to the assailant. I am going to try  to  discover
what that something was."
He went out of the compartment and returned a few moments later
with a small spirit stove and a pair of curling-tongs.
"I  use  them  for the moustaches," he said, referring  to  the
latter.
The  doctor  watched him with great interest. Poirot  flattened
out  the  two  humps  of wire, and with great care  wriggled  the
charred scrap of paper on to one of them. He clapped the other on
top  of it and then, holding both pieces together with the tongs,
held the whole thing over the flame of the spirit-lamp.
"It  is  a  very  makeshift affair, this,"  he  said  over  his
shoulder. "Let us hope that it will answer our purpose."
The doctor watched the proceedings attentively. The metal began
to  glow.  Suddenly  he saw faint indications of  letters.  Words
formed themselves slowly-words of fire.
It  was a very tiny scrap. Only three words and part of another
showed.
-member little Daisy Armstrong
"Ah!" Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.
"It tells you something?" asked the doctor.
Poirot's eyes were shining. He laid down the tongs carefully.
"Yes," he said. "I know the dead man's real name. I know why he
had to leave America."
"What was his name?"
"Cassetti."
"Cassetti?" Constantine knitted his brows. "It brings  back  to
me  something. Some years ago. I cannot remember...  It  was  a
case in America, was it not?"
"Yes," said Poirot. "A case in America."
Further  than that Poirot was not disposed to be communicative.
He looked round him as he went on:
"We  will  go into all that presently. Let us first  make  sure
that we have seen all there is to be seen here."
Quickly and deftly he went once more through the pockets of the
dead  man's clothes but found nothing there of interest. He tried
the communicating door which led through to the next compartment,
but it was bolted on the other side.
"There  is  one  thing  that  I do not  understand,"  said  Dr.
Constantine. "If the murderer did not escape through the  window,
and  if this communicating door was bolted on the other side, and
if  the  door into the corridor was not only locked on the inside
but chained, how then did the murderer leave the compartment?"
"That  is  what the audience says when a person bound hand  and
foot is shut into a cabinet-and disappears."
"You mean-?"
"I  mean," explained Poirot, "that if the murderer intended  us
to  believe  that he had escaped by way of the window,  he  would
naturally   make  it  appear  that  the  other  two  exits   were
impossible. Like the 'disappearing person' in the cabinet, it  is
a trick. It is our business to find out how the trick is done.
He  locked  the communicating door on their side-"in case,"  he
said, "the excellent Mrs. Hubbard should take it into her head to
acquire  first-hand  details  of  the  crime  to  write  to   her
daughter."
He looked round once more.
"There  is  nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin  M.
Bouc."
8
THE ARMSTRONG KIDNAPPING CASE
They found M. Bouc finishing an omelet.
"I  thought  it  best to have lunch served immediately  in  the
restaurant car," he said. "Afterwards it will be cleared  and  M.
Poirot  can conduct his examination of the passengers  there.  In
the  meantime  I  have ordered them to bring us three  some  food
here."
"An excellent idea," said Poirot.
None  of the three men was hungry, and the meal was soon eaten;
but  not  till they were sipping their coffee did M. Bouc mention
the subject that was occupying all their minds.
"Eh bien?" he asked.
"Eh  bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know
why it was imperative he should leave America."
"Who was he?"
"Do you remember reading of the Armstrong baby? This is the man
who murdered little Daisy Armstrong. Cassetti."
"I  recall  it now. A shocking affair-though I cannot  remember
the details."
"Colonel  Armstrong  was  an  Englishman-a  V.C.  He  was  half
American,  his  mother having been a daughter of W.  K.  Van  der
Halt,  the  Wall Street millionaire. He married the  daughter  of
Linda Arden, the most famous tragic American actress of her  day.
They  lived  in  America  and  had one  child-a  girl  whom  they
idolized. When she was three years old she was kidnapped, and  an
impossibly high sum demanded as the price of her return.  I  will
not weary you with all the intricacies that followed. I will come
to  the moment when, after the parents had paid over the enormous
sum  of  two hundred thousand dollars, the child's dead body  was
discovered;  it  had been dead for at least a  fortnight.  Public
indignation rose to fever point. And there was worse  to  follow.
Mrs. Armstrong was expecting another baby. Following the shock of
the  discovery, she gave birth prematurely to a dead  child,  and
herself died. Her broken-hearted husband shot himself."
"Mon  Dieu,  what  a tragedy. I remember now,"  said  M.  Bouc.
"There was also another death, if I remember rightly?"
"Yes, an unfortunate French or Swiss nursemaid. The police were
convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They  refused
to  believe her hysterical denials. Finally, in a fit of  despair
the  poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was
proved  afterwards that she had been absolutely innocent  of  any
complicity in the crime."
"It is not good to think of," said M. Bouc.
"About six months later, this man Cassetti was arrested as  the
head  of the gang who had kidnapped the child. They had used  the
same  methods in the past. If the police seemed likely to get  on
their  trail,  they  killed their prisoner,  hid  the  body,  and
continued  to extract as much money as possible before the  crime
was discovered.
"Now,  I  will make clear to you this, my friend. Cassetti  was
the man! But by means of the enormous wealth he had piled up, and
owing  to  the  secret hold he had over various persons,  he  was
acquitted on some technical inaccuracy. Notwithstanding that,  he
would  have  been lynched by the populace had he not been  clever
enough  to  give  them  the slip. It is  now  clear  to  me  what
happened. He changed his name and left America. Since then he has
been a gentleman of leisure, travelling abroad and living on  his
rentes."
"Ah!  quel  animal!" M. Bouc's tone was redolent  of  heartfelt
disgust. "I cannot regret that he is dead-not at all!"
"I agree with you."
"Tout de mme, it is not necessary that he should be killed  on
the Orient Express. There are other places."
Poirot smiled a little. He realised that M. Bouc was biased  in
the matter.
"The  question we have now to ask ourselves is this," he  said.
"Is  this  murder the work of some rival gang whom  Cassetti  had
double-crossed  in  the  past,  or  is  it  an  act  of   private
vengeance?"
He  explained  his discovery of the few words  on  the  charred
fragment of paper.
"If I am right in my assumption, then, the letter was burnt  by
the  murderer.  Why? Because it mentioned the  name  'Armstrong,'
which is the clue to the mystery."
"Are there any members of the Armstrong family living?"
"That, unfortunately, I do not know. I think I remember reading
of a younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong's."
Poirot  went on to relate the joint conclusions of himself  and
Dr.  Constantine. M. Bouc brightened at the mention of the broken
watch.
"That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly."
"Yes," said Poirot. "It is very convenient."
There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both
the other two look at him curiously.
"You  say  that  you  yourself  heard  Ratchett  speak  to  the
conductor at twenty minutes to one?" asked M. Bouc.
Poirot related just what had occurred.
"Well,"  said  M. Bouc, "that proves at least that  Cassetti-or
Ratchett, as I shall continue to call him-was certainly alive  at
twenty minutes to one."
"Twenty-three minutes to one, to be precise."
'Then  at twelve thirty-seven, to put it formally, Mr. Ratchett
was alive. That is one fact, at least."
Poirot  did not reply. He sat looking thoughtfully in front  of
him.
There  was  a  tap  on  the door and the  restaurant  attendant
entered.
"The restaurant car is free now, Monsieur," he said.
"We will go there," said M. Bouc, rising.
"I may accompany you?" asked Constantine.
"Certainly,   my  dear  doctor.  Unless  M.  Poirot   has   any
objection?"
"Not at all. Not at all," said Poirot.
After  a  little  politeness in the matter of precedence-"Aprs
vous, Monsieur"-"Mais non, aprs vous"-they left the compartment.

PART II
THE EVIDENCE
1
THE EVIDENCE OF THE WAGON LIT CONDUCTOR
In the restaurant car all was in readiness.
Poirot  and  M. Bouc sat together on one side of a  table.  The
doctor sat across the aisle.
On  the  table  in front of Poirot was a plan of the  Istanbul-
Calais coach with the names of the passengers marked in red  ink.
The  passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. There  was
writing paper, ink, pen, and pencils.
"Excellent,"  said Poirot. "We can open our  Court  of  Inquiry
without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence  of
the  Wagon  Lit conductor. You probably know something about  the
man.  What character has he? Is he a man on whose word you  would
place reliance?"
"I  should  say  so,  most assuredly. Pierre  Michel  has  been
employed  by  the  company  for  over  fifteen  years.  He  is  a
Frenchman-lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable  and  honest.
Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains."
Poirot  nodded comprehendingly. "Good," he said.  "Let  us  see
him."
Pierre  Michel had recovered some of his assurance, but he  was
still extremely nervous.
"I  hope  Monsieur  will  not think that  there  has  been  any
negligence  on my part," he said anxiously, his eyes  going  from
Poirot  to M. Bouc. "It is a terrible thing that has happened.  I
hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?"
Having soothed the man's fears, Poirot began his questions.  He
first  elicited Michel's name and address, his length of service,
and  the  length  of  time he had been on this particular  route.
These  particulars  he  already knew, but the  routine  questions
served to put the man at his ease.
"And  now," went on Poirot, "let us come to the events of  Last
night. M. Ratchett retired to bed-when?"
"Almost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before  we
left  Belgrade. So he did on the previous night. He had  directed
me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so."
"Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?"
"His  valet,  Monsieur, and the young American  gentleman,  his
secretary."
"Anyone else?"
"No, Monsieur, not that I know of."
"Good. And that is the last you saw or heard of him?"
"No,  Monsieur.  You forget he rang his bell  about  twenty  to
one-soon after we had stopped."
"What happened exactly?"
"I  knocked at the door, but he called out and said he had made
a mistake."
"In English or in French?"
"In French."
"What were his words exactly?"
"Ce n'est rien. Je me suis tromp."
"Quite right," said Poirot. "That is what I heard. And then you
went away?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Did you go back to your seat?"
"No,  Monsieur, I went first to answer another  bell  that  had
just rung."
"Now,  Michel,  I  am  going to ask you an important  question.
Where were you at a quarter past one?'
"I,  Monsieur? I was at my little seat at the end-facing up the
corridor."
"You are sure?"
"Mais oui-at least-"
"I  went into the next coach, the Athens coach, to speak to  my
colleague  there. We spoke about the snow. That was at some  time
soon after one o'clock. I cannot say exactly."
"And you returned-when?"
"One  of my bells rang, Monsieur-I remember-I told you. It  was
the American lady. She had rung several times."
"I recollect," said Poirot. "And after that?"
"After  that,  Monsieur? I answered your bell and  brought  you
some mineral water. Then, about half an hour later, I made up the
bed  in  one of the other compartments-that of the young American
gentleman, Mr. Ratchett's secretary."
"Was  Mr.  MacQueen alone in his compartment when you  went  to
make up his bed?"
"The  English Colonel from No. 15 was with him. They  had  been
sitting talking."
"What did the Colonel do when he left Mr. MacQueen?"
"He went back to his own compartment."
"No. 15-that is quite close to your seat, is it not?"
"Yes,  Monsieur, it is the second compartment from that end  of
the corridor."
"His bed was already made up?"
"Yes, Monsieur. I had made it up while he was at dinner."
"What time was all this?"
"I  could not say exactly, Monsieur. Not later than two o'clock
certainly."
"And after that?"
"After that, Monsieur, I sat in my seat till morning."
"You did not go again into the Athens coach?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Perhaps you slept?"
"I  do  not think so, Monsieur. The train being at a standstill
prevented me from dozing off as I usually do."
"Did  you  see  any of the passengers moving  up  or  down  the
corridor?"
The man reflected. "One of the ladies went to the toilet at the
far end, I think."
"Which lady?"
"I  do not know, Monsieur. It was far down the corridor and she
had  her  back to me. She had on a kimono of scarlet with dragons
on it."
Poirot nodded. "And after that?"
"Nothing, Monsieur, until the morning."
"You are sure?"
"Ah, pardon-you yourself, Monsieur, opened your door and looked
out for a second."
"Good,  my friend," said Poirot. "I wondered whether you  would
remember  that. By the way, I was awakened by what  sounded  like
something  heavy falling against my door. Have you any idea  what
that could have been?"
The man stared at him. "There was nothing, Monsieur. Nothing, I
am positive of it."
"Then   I   must   have   had  the  cauchemar,"   said   Poirot
philosophically.
"Unless,"  put in M. Bouc, "it was something in the compartment
next door that you heard."
Poirot  took no notice of the suggestion. Perhaps  he  did  not
wish to before the Wagon Lit conductor.
"Let  us pass to another point," he said. "Supposing that  last
night  an assassin joined the train. Is it quite certain that  he
could not have left it after committing the crime?"
Pierre Michel shook his head.
"Nor that he can be concealed on it somewhere?"
"It  has been well searched," said M. Bouc. "Abandon that idea,
my friend."
"Besides,"  said Michel, "no one could get on to the  sleeping-
car without my seeing them."
"When was the last stop?"
"Vincovci."
"What time was that?"
"We  should have left there at 11:58, but owing to the  weather
we were twenty minutes late."
"Someone  might have come along from the ordinary part  of  the
train?"
"No,  Monsieur. After the service of dinner, the  door  between
the ordinary carriages and the sleeping-cars is locked."
"Did you yourself descend from the train at Vincovci?"
"Yes, Monsieur. I got down onto the platform as usual and stood
by  the  step  up  into the train. The other conductors  did  the
same."
"What about the forward door-the one near the restaurant car?"
"It is always fastened on the inside."
"It is not so fastened now."
The man looked surprised; then his face cleared. "Doubtless one
of the passengers opened it to look out on the snow."
"Probably," said Poirot.
He tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two.
"Monsieur does not blame me?" said the man timidly.
Poirot smiled on him kindly.
"You  have had the evil chance, my friend," he said.  "Ah!  one
other point while I remember it. You said that another bell  rang
just  as you were knocking at M. Ratchett's door. In fact I heard
it myself Whose was it?"
"It  was  the  bell  of  Madame la Princesse  Dragomiroff.  She
desired me to summon her maid."
"And you did so?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
Poirot  studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then  he
inclined his head.
"That is all," he said, "for the moment."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
The man rose. He looked at M. Bouc.
"Do  not distress yourself," said the latter kindly; "I  cannot
see that there has been any negligence on your part."
Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.
2
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SECRETARY
For a minute or two Poirot remained lost, in thought.
"I  think," he said at last, "that it would be well to  have  a
further word with Mr. MacQueen, in view of what we now know."
The young American appeared promptly.
"Well," he said, "how are things going?"
"Not  too  badly. Since our last conversation,  I  have  learnt
something-the identity of Mr. Ratchett."
Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly. "Yes?" he said.
"  'Ratchett,' as you suspected, was merely an alias.  The  man
'Ratchett'  was  Cassetti,  who  ran  the  celebrated  kidnapping
stunts-including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong."
An  expression  of  utter astonishment appeared  on  MacQueen's
face. Then it darkened. "The damned skunk!" he exclaimed.
"You had no idea of this, Mr. MacQueen?"
"No,  sir," said the young American decidedly. "If I  had,  I'd
have  cut  off  my  right  hand before it  had  a  chance  to  do
secretarial work for him!"
"You feel strongly about the matter, Mr. MacQueen?"
"I  have  a particular reason for doing so. My father  was  the
district  attorney who handled the case, Mr. Poirot. I  saw  Mrs.
Armstrong  more than once-she was a lovely woman. So  gentle  and
heartbroken." His face darkened. "If ever a man deserved what  he
got,  Ratchett-or Cassetti-is the man. I'm rejoiced at  his  end.
Such a man wasn't fit to live!"
"You  almost feel as though you would have been willing  to  do
the good deed yourself?"
"I  do.  I-" He paused, then added rather guiltily, "Seems  I'm
kind of incriminating myself."
"I should be more inclined to suspect you, Mr. MacQueen, if you
displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer's decease."
"I  don't  think I could do that even to save myself  from  the
chair,"  said MacQueen grimly. Then he added: "If I'm  not  being
unduly  curious,  just  how did you figure this  out?  Cassetti's
identity, I mean."
"By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment."
"But surely-I mean-that was rather careless of the old man?"
"That depends," said Poirot, "on the point of view."
The  young  man seemed to find this remark rather baffling.  He
stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out.
"The  task  before me," said Poirot, "is to make  sure  of  the
movements  of every one on the train. No offence need  be  taken,
you understand. It is only a matter of routine."
"Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if  I
can."
"I  need  hardly ask you the number of your compartment,"  said
Poirot, smiling, "since I shared it with you for a night.  It  is
the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure
you had it to yourself."
"That's right."
"Now, Mr. MacQueen, I want you to describe your movements  last
night from the time of leaving the dining-car."
"That's quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a  bit,
got out on the platform at Belgrade, decided it was too cold, and
got in again. I talked for a while to a young English lady who is
in  the  compartment next to mine. Then I fell into  conversation
with  that  Englishman, Colonel Arbuthnot-as a matter of  fact  I
think  you  passed us as we were talking. Then I went in  to  Mr.
Ratchett and, as I told you, took down some memoranda of  letters
he wanted written. I said good tight to him and left him. Colonel
Arbuthnot was still standing in the corridor. His compartment was
already made up for the night, so I suggested that he should come
along to mine. I ordered a couple of drinks and we got right down
to  it. Discussed world politics and the Government of India  and
our  own troubles with Prohibition and the Wall Street crisis.  I
don't  as  a  rule  cotton to Britishers-they're  a  stiff-necked
lot-but I liked this one."
"Do you know what time it was when he left you?"
"Pretty late. Nearly two o'clock, I should say."
"You noticed that the train had stopped?"
'Oh,  yes. We wondered a bit. Looked out and saw the snow lying
very thick, but we didn't think it was serious."
"What happened when Colonel Arbuthnot finally said good night?"
"He went along to his compartment and I called to the conductor
to make up my bed."
"Where were you whilst he was making it?"
"Standing  just  outside  the door in the  corridor  smoking  a
cigarette."
"And then?"
"And then I went to bed and slept till morning."
"During the evening did you leave the train at all?"
"Arbuthnot and I thought we'd get out at-what was the  name  of
the  place?-Vincovci-to  stretch our  legs  a  bit.  But  it  was
bitterly cold-a blizzard on. We soon hopped back again."
"By which door did you leave the train?"
"By the one nearest to our compartment."
"The one next to the dining-car?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember if it was bolted?"
MacQueen considered.
"Why, yes, I seem to remember it was. At least there was a kind
of bar that fitted across the handle. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes. On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?"
"Why,  no-I don't think I did. I got in last. No, I don't  seem
to  remember doing so." He added suddenly, "Is that an  important
point?"
"It  may  be.  Now,  I presume, Monsieur, that  while  you  and
Colonel   Arbuthnot  were  sitting  talking  the  door  of   your
compartment into the corridor was open?"
Hector MacQueen nodded.
"I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that
corridor after the train left Vincovci up to the time you  parted
company for the night."
MacQueen drew his brows together.
"I  think  the  conductor passed along once," he said,  "coming
from  the  direction of the dining-car. And a  woman  passed  the
other way, going towards it."
"Which woman?"
"I  couldn't say. I didn't really notice. You see I was arguing
a point with Arbuthnot. I just seem to remember a glimpse of some
scarlet silk affair passing the door. I didn't look, and anyway I
wouldn't  have seen the person's face. As you know,  my  carriage
faces the dining-car end of the train, so a woman going along the
corridor in that direction would have her back to me as  soon  as
she'd passed."
Poirot nodded. "She was going to the toilet, I presume?"
"I suppose so."
"And you saw her return?"
"Well,  no,  now  that  you mention it,  I  didn't  notice  her
returning but I suppose she must have done so."
"One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, Mr. MacQueen?"
"No, sir, I do not."
Poirot  paused  a moment. "I think that is all  at  present.  I
should now like to see the valet of Mr. Ratchett. By the way, did
both you and he always travel second-class?"
"He   did.  But  I  usually  went  first-if  possible  in   the
compartment  adjoining Mr. Ratchett's. Then he had  most  of  his
baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me
easily  whenever he chose. But on this occasion  all  the  first-
class berths were booked except the one that he took."
"I comprehend. Thank you, Mr. MacQueen."
3
THE EVIDENCE OF THE VALET
The  American  was  succeeded by the  pale  Englishman  with  the
inexpressive  face  whom Poirot had already noticed  on  the  day
before. He stood waiting very correctly. Poirot motioned  to  him
to sit down.
"You are, I understand, the valet of M. Ratchett."
"Yes, sir."
"Your name?"
"Edward Henry Masterman."
"Your age?"
"Thirty-nine."
"And your home address?"
"21 Friar Street, Clerkenwell."
"You have heard that your master has been murdered?"
"Yes, sir. A very shocking occurrence."
"Will  you  now tell me, please, at what hour you last  saw  M.
Ratchett?"
The valet considered.
"It must have been about nine o'clock, sir, last night. That or
a little after."
"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened."
"I  went in to Mr. Ratchett as usual, sir, and attended to  his
wants."
"What were your duties exactly?"
"To  fold or hang up his clothes, sir, put his dental plate  in
water and see that he had everything he wanted for the night."
"Was his manner much the same as usual?"
The valet considered a moment.
"Well, sir, I think he was upset."
"In what way-upset?"
"Over  a letter he'd been reading. He asked me if it was I  who
had put it in his compartment. Of course I told him I hadn't done
any  such  thing,  but  he  swore at  me  and  found  fault  with
everything I did."
"Was that unusual?"
"Oh,  no,  sir.  He lost his temper easily-as I  say,  it  just
depended what had happened to upset him."
"Did your master ever take a sleeping draught?"
Dr. Constantine leaned forward a little.
"Always  when  travelling by train, sir. He  said  he  couldn't
sleep otherwise."
"Do you know what drug he was in the habit of taking?"
"I  couldn't  say,  I'm sure, sir. There was  no  name  on  the
bottle-just 'The Sleeping Draught to be taken at bedtime.' "
"Did he take it last night?"
"Yes,  sir. I poured it into a glass and put it on top  of  the
toilet table ready for him."
"You didn't actually see him drink it?"
"No, sir."
"What happened next?"
"I  asked  if there was anything further, and also  asked  what
time he would like to be called in the morning. He said he didn't
want to be disturbed till he rang."
"Was that usual?"
"Quite usual, sir. When he was ready to get up he used to  ring
the bell for the conductor and then send him for me."
"Was he usually an early or a late riser?"
"It  depended,  sir, on his mood. Sometimes  he'd  get  up  for
breakfast, sometimes he wouldn't get up till just on lunch time."
"So  that you weren't alarmed when the morning wore on  and  no
summons came?"
"No, sir."
"Did you know that your master had enemies?"
"Yes, sir." The man spoke quite unemotionally.
"How did you know?"
"I  had  heard  him  discussing some  letters,  sir,  with  Mr.
MacQueen."
"Had you an affection for your employer, Masterman?"
Masterman's  face  became, if possible, even more  inexpressive
than it was normally.
"I  should  hardly  like to say that, sir. He  was  a  generous
employer."
"But you didn't like him?"
"Shall  we  put  it that I don't care very much for  Americans,
sir?"
"Have you ever been in America?"
"No, sir."
"Do  you  remember  reading  in  the  paper  of  the  Armstrong
kidnapping case?"
A little colour came into the man's cheeks.
"Yes,  indeed,  sir.  A little baby girl,  wasn't  it?  A  very
shocking affair."
"Did  you  know  that  your employer,  Mr.  Ratchett,  was  the
principal instigator in that affair?"
"No,  indeed, sir." The valet's tone held positive  warmth  and
feeling for the first time. "I can hardly believe it, sir."
"Nevertheless, it is true. Now, to pass to your  own  movements
last night. A matter of routine, you understand. What did you  do
after leaving your master?"
"I  told Mr. MacQueen, sir, that the master wanted him. Then  I
went to my own compartment and read."
"Your compartment was-"
"The end second-class one, sir. Next to the dining-car."
Poirot was looking at his plan.
"I see-and you had which berth?"
"The lower one, sir."
"That is No. 4?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is there anyone in with you?"
"Yes, sir. A big Italian fellow."
"Does he speak English?"
"Well,   a  kind  of  English,  sir."  The  valet's  tone   was
deprecating. "He's been in America-Chicago, I understand."
"Do you and he talk together much?"
"No, sir. I prefer to read."
Poirot  smiled. He could visualize the scene-the large, voluble
Italian,  and  the  snub direct administered by  the  gentleman's
gentleman.
"And what, may I ask, are you reading?" he inquired.
"At present, sir, I am reading Love's Captive, by Mrs. Arabella
Richardson."
"A good story?"
"I find it highly enjoyable, sir."
"Well,  let  us continue. You returned to your compartment  and
read Love's Captive till-when?"
"At about ten thirty, sir, this Italian wanted to go to bed. So
the conductor came and made the beds up."
"And then you went to bed and to sleep?"
"I went to bed, sir, but I didn't sleep."
"Why didn't you sleep?"
"I had the toothache, sir."
"Oh, l-l-that is painful."
"Most painful, sir."
"Did you do anything for it?"
"I applied a little oil of cloves, sir, which relieved the pain
a  little, but I was still not able to get to sleep. I turned the
light on above my head and continued to read-to take my mind off,
as it were."
"And did you not go to sleep at all?"
"Yes, sir, I dropped off about four in the morning."
"And your companion?"
"The Italian fellow? Oh, he just snored."
"He did not leave the compartment at all during the night?"
"No, sir."
"Did you?"
"No, sir."
"Did you hear anything during the night?"
"I  don't  think  so, sir. Nothing unusual, I mean.  The  train
being at a standstill made it all very quiet."
Poirot was silent a moment or two. Then he spoke.
"Well, I think there is very little more to be said. You cannot
throw any light upon the tragedy?"
"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, sir."
"As far as you know, was there any quarrel or bad blood between
your master and Mr. MacQueen?"
"Oh! no, sir. Mr. MacQueen was a very pleasant gentleman."
"Where were you in service before you came to Mr. Ratchett?"
"With Sir Henry Tomlinson, sir, in Grosvenor Square."
"Why did you leave him?"
"He  was  going  to East Africa, sir, and did  not  require  my
services any longer. But I am sure he will speak for me,  sir.  I
was with him some years."
"And you have been with Mr. Ratchett-how long?"
"Just over nine months, sir."
"Thank you, Masterman. By the way, are you a pipe-smoker?"
"No, sir. I only smoke cigarettes-gaspers, sir."
"Thank you, that will do."
Poirot gave him a nod of dismissal.
The valet hesitated a moment.
"You'll  excuse me, sir, but the elderly American  lady  is  in
what I might describe as a state, sir. She's saying she knows all
about the murderer. She's in a very excitable condition, sir."
"In  that case," said Poirot, smiling, "we had better  see  her
next."
"Shall I tell her, sir? She's been demanding to see someone  in
authority for a long time. The conductor's been trying to  pacify
her."
"Send  her  to us, my friend," said Poirot. "We will listen  to
her story now."
4
THE EVIDENCE OF THE AMERICAN LADY
Mrs.  Hubbard  arrived  in the dining-car  in  such  a  state  of
breathless excitement that she was hardly able to articulate  her
words.
"Now  just tell me this-who's in authority here? I've got  some
very  important information, very important indeed, and I'm going
to  tell it to someone in authority just as soon as I can. If you
gentlemen-"
Her  wavering glance fluctuated between the three  men.  Poirot
leaned forward.
"Tell it to me, Madame," he said. "But first, pray be seated."
Mrs.  Hubbard plumped heavily down on to the seat  opposite  to
him.
"What I've got to tell you is just this. There was a murder  on
the  train  last night, and the murderer was right  there  in  my
compartment!"
She paused to give dramatic emphasis to her words.
"You are sure of this, Madame?"
"Of  course I'm sure! The idea! I know what I'm talking  about.
I'll  tell you everything there is to tell. I'd gotten  into  bed
and gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up-everything was dark-and
I  knew there was a man in my compartment. I was just so scared I
couldn't  scream, if you know what I mean. I just lay  there  and
thought,  'Mercy, I'm going to be killed!' I just can't  describe
to  you  how I felt. These nasty trains, I thought, and  all  the
outrages I'd read of. And I thought, 'Well, anyway, he won't  get
my  jewellery'-because, you see, I'd put that in a  stocking  and
hidden it under my pillow-which isn't any too comfortable, by the
way;  kinda  bumpy, if you know what I mean. But  that's  neither
here nor there. Where was I?"
"You   realised,  Madame,  that  there  was  a  man   in   your
compartment."
"Yes,  well, I just lay there with my eyes closed, and wondered
what  I'd  do.  And  I thought, well, I'm just thankful  that  my
daughter doesn't know the plight I'm in. And then, somehow, I got
my  wits about me and I felt about with my hand and I pressed the
bell  for  the  conductor. I pressed it and  I  pressed  it,  but
nothing happened-and I can tell you, I thought my heart was going
to  stop  beating.  'Mercy,'  I said to  myself,  'maybe  they've
murdered  every single soul on the train.' It was at a standstill
anyhow  and there was a nasty quiet feel in the air. But  I  just
went  on  pressing  that bell and oh! the  relief  when  I  heard
footsteps  coming running down the corridor and a  knock  on  the
door! 'Come in,' I screamed, and I switched on the lights at  the
same time. And would you believe it, there wasn't a soul there!"
This seemed to Mrs. Hubbard to be a dramatic climax rather than
an anticlimax.
"And what happened next, Madame?"
"Why,  I  told the man what had happened and he didn't seem  to
believe me. Seemed to imagine I'd dreamed the whole thing. I made
him  look under the seat, though he said there wasn't room for  a
man to squeeze himself in there. It was plain enough that the man
had got away-but there had been a man there, and it just made  me
mad the way the conductor tried to soothe me down! I'm not one to
imagine things, Mr.-I don't think I know your name?"
"Poirot,  Madame;  and  this is M.  Bouc,  a  director  of  the
company, and Dr. Constantine."
Mrs. Hubbard murmured, "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," to  all
three of them in an abstracted manner and then plunged once  more
into her recital.
"Now  I'm just not going to pretend I was as bright as I  might
have  been. I got it into my head that it was the man  from  next
door-the  poor fellow who's been killed. I told the conductor  to
look  at  the door between the compartments, and sure  enough  it
wasn't  bolted. Well, I soon saw to that. I told him to  bolt  it
then  and  there,  and after he'd gone out I got  up  and  put  a
suitcase against it to make sure."
"What time was this, Mrs. Hubbard?"
"Well, I'm sure I can't tell you. I never looked to see. I  was
so upset."
"And what is your theory now?"
"Why, I should say it was just as plain as plain could be.  The
man in my compartment was the murderer. Who else could he be?"
"And you think he went back into the adjoining compartment?"
"How do I know where he went? I had my eyes tight shut."
"He might have slipped out through the door into the corridor."
"Well, I couldn't say. You see, I had my eyes tight shut."
Mrs. Hubbard sighed convulsively.
"Mercy, I was scared! If my daughter only knew-"
"You do not think, Madame, that what you heard was the noise of
someone   moving   about   next  door-in   the   murdered   man's
compartment?"
"No,  I do not, Mr.-what is it?-Poirot. The man was right there
in  the same compartment with me. And what's more I've got  proof
of it."
Triumphantly,  she  hauled  a  large  handbag  into  view   and
proceeded to burrow in its interior.
She  took out in turn two large clean handkerchiefs, a pair  of
horn-rimmed  glasses, a bottle of aspirin, a packet of  Glauber's
Salts,  a celluloid tube of bright green peppermints, a bunch  of
keys,  a pair of scissors, a book of American Express cheques,  a
snapshot of an extraordinarily plain-looking child, some letters,
five strings of pseudo-Oriental beads, and a small metal object-a
button.
"You  see  this button? Well, it's not one of my buttons.  It's
not  off  anything I've got. I found it this morning when  I  got
up."
As she placed it on the table, M. Bouc. leaned forward and gave
an  exclamation. "But this is a button from the tunic of a  Wagon
Lit attendant!"
"There way be a natural explanation for that," said Poirot.
He turned gently to the lady.
"This  button,  Madame, may have dropped from  the  conductor's
uniform, either when he searched your cabin or when he was making
the bed up last night."
"I just don't know what's the matter with all you people. Seems
as  though you don't want to do anything but make objections. Now
listen here. I was reading a magazine last night before I went to
sleep. Before I turned the light out, I placed that magazine on a
little case that was standing on the floor near the window.  Have
you got that?"
They assured her that they had.
"Very well then. The conductor looked under the seat from  near
the  door, and then he came in and bolted the door between me and
the  next  compartment, but he never went near the window.  Well,
this  morning that button was lying right on top of the magazine.
What do you call that, I should like to know?"
"That, Madame, I call evidence," said Poirot.
The answer seemed to appease the lady.
"It  makes  me  madder  than a hornet to be  disbelieved,"  she
explained.
"You  have  given  us most interesting and valuable  evidence,"
said Poirot soothingly. "Now may I ask you a few questions?"
"Why, certainly."
"How  was it, since you were nervous of this man Ratchett, that
you hadn't already bolted the door between the compartments?"
"I had," returned Mrs. Hubbard promptly.
"Oh, you had?"
"Well,  as  a  matter  of fact I asked that Swedish  creature-a
pleasant soul-if it was bolted, and she said it was."
"How was it you couldn't see for yourself?"
"Because I was in bed and my spongebag was hanging on the door-
handle."
"What time was it when you asked her to do this for you?"
"Now let me think. It must have- been round about half-past ten
or  a  quarter to eleven. She'd come along to see  if  I  had  an
aspirin.  I told her where to find it and she got it  out  of  my
grip."
"You yourself were in bed?"
"Yes."
Suddenly  she  laughed. "Poor soul-she was so upset!  You  see,
she'd opened the door of the next compartment by mistake."
"Mr. Ratchett's?"
"Yes.  You know how difficult it is as you come along the train
and  all  the doors are shut. She opened his by mistake. She  was
very distressed about it. He'd laughed, it seemed, and I guess he
said  something  not quite nice. Poor thing,  she  certainly  was
upset.  'Oh! I make mistake,' she said. 'I ashamed make  mistake.
Not nice man,' she said. 'He say, "You too old." ' "
Dr.  Constantine sniggered, and Mrs. Hubbard immediately  froze
him with a glance.
"He  wasn't a nice kind of man," she said, "to say a thing like
that  to  a  lady. It's not right to laugh at such  things."  Dr.
Constantine hastily apologised.
"Did  you hear any noise from Mr. Ratchett's compartment  after
that?" asked Poirot.
"Well-not exactly."
"What do you mean by that, Madame?"
"Well-" She paused. "He snored."
"Ah!-he snored, did he?"
"Terribly. The night before, it kept me awake."
"You didn't hear him snore after you had had the scare about  a
man being in your compartment?"
"Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead."
"Ah, Yes, truly," said Poirot. He appeared confused.
"Do  you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnap ping, Mrs.
Hubbard?" he asked.
"Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch that did it escaped scot-
free! My, I'd have liked to get my hands on him."
"He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night."
"You  don't  mean-?' Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her  chair  in
excitement.
"But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man."
"Well!  Well,  to  think  of that! I must  write  and  tell  my
daughter. Now, didn't I tell you last night that that man had  an
evil  face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says:  'When
Mamma's got a hunch you can bet your bottom dollar it's O.K.' "
"Were  you  acquainted with any of the Armstrong  family,  Mrs.
Hubbard?"
"No.  They  moved in a very exclusive circle. But  I've  always
heard  that Mrs. Armstrong was a perfectly lovely woman and  that
her husband worshipped her."
"Well,  Mrs.  Hubbard, you have helped us very  much-very  much
indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?"
"Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard."
"Will you write your address down here?"
Mrs.  Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak. "I  just  can't
get  over  it. Cassetti-on this train. I had a hunch  about  that
man, didn't I, Mr. Poirot?"
"Yes,  indeed,  Madame. By the way, have  you  a  scarlet  silk
dressing-gown?"
"Mercy,  what a funny question! Why, no. I've got two dressing-
gowns with me-a pink flannel one that's kind of cosy for on board
ship,  and one my daughter gave me as a present-a kind  of  local
affair  in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to  know
about my dressing-gowns for?"
"Well,  you  see, Madame, someone in a scarlet  kimono  entered
either  your or Mr. Ratchett's compartment last night. It is,  as
you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut  to
know which compartment is which."
"Well,  no  one  in  a  scarlet  dressing-gown  came  into   my
compartment."
"Then she must have gone into Mr. Ratchett's."
Mrs.  Hubbard  pursed her lips together and said grimly:  "That
wouldn't surprise me any."
Poirot  leaned  forward. "So you heard  a  woman's  voice  next
door?"
"I don't know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don't really.
But-well-as a matter of fact, I did."
"But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door,
you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring."
"Well, that was true enough. He did snore part of the time.  As
for the other-" Mrs. Hubbard got rather embarrassed. "It isn't  a
very nice thing to speak about."
"What time was it when you heard a woman's voice?"
"I  can't  tell you. I just woke up for a minute  and  heard  a
woman  talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I  just
thought,  'Well,  that's  the  kind  of  man  he  is!   I'm   not
surprised'-and then I went to sleep again. And I'm sure I  should
never  have  mentioned  anything of the  kind  to  three  strange
gentlemen if you hadn't dragged it out of me."
"Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment,  or
after?"
"Why, that's like what you said just now! He wouldn't have  had
a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?"
"Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame."
"I  guess even you get kinda muddled now and then. I just can't
get  over its being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter  will
say-"
Poirot  managed adroitly to help the good lady to  replace  the
contents  of her handbag, and he then shepherded her towards  the
door.
At the last moment, he said:
"You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame."
Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held  out
to her.
"That's not mine, Mr. Poirot. I've got mine right here."
"Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it-"
"Well, now, that's funny, but it's certainly not mine. Mine are
marked  C.M.H.,  and they're sensible things-not expensive  Paris
fallals.  What  good  is a handkerchief like  that  to  anybody's
nose?"
None of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question
and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.
5
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SWEDISH LADY
M. Bouc was handling the button that Mrs. Hubbard had left behind
her.
"This  button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that  after
all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?" he asked. He paused,
then  continued, as Poirot did not reply. "What have you to  say,
my friend?"
"That   button,   it  suggests  possibilities,"   said   Poirot
thoughtfully. "Let us interview next the Swedish lady  before  we
discuss the evidence that we have heard."
He  sorted through the pile of passports in front of him.  "Ah!
here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine."
M.  Bouc  gave  directions  to the  restaurant  attendant,  and
presently  the lady with the yellowish grey bun of hair  and  the
long,  mild,  sheep-like face was ushered in. She  peered  short-
sightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm.
It  transpired  that she understood and spoke  French,  so  the
conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked  her
the questions to which he already knew the answers-her name, age,
and address. He then asked her her occupation.
She  was,  she  told  him, matron in a missionary  school  near
Stamboul. She was a trained nurse.
"You   know,  of  course,  of  what  took  place  last   night,
Mademoiselle?"
"Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me
that the murderer was actually in her compartment."
"I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the
murdered man alive?"
"I  do  not  know.  It  may be so. I opened  the  door  of  his
compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward
mistake."
"You actually saw him?"
"Yes.  He  was  reading  a  book.  I  apologised  quickly   and
withdrew."
"Did he say anything to you?"
A slight flush showed on the worthy lady's cheek.
"He  laughed  and  said a few words. I-I did  not  quite  catch
them."
"And  what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?" asked  Poirot,
passing from the subject tactfully.
"I  went in to the American lady, Mrs. Hubbard. I asked her for
some aspirin and she gave it to me."
"Did  she  ask you whether the communicating door  between  her
compartment and that of Mr. Ratchett was bolted?"
"Yes."
"And was it?"
"Yes."
"And after that?"
"After  that  I went back to my compartment, took the  aspirin,
and lay down."
"What time was all this?"
"When  I  got  into bed it was five minutes to eleven.  I  know
because I looked at my watch before I wound it up."
"Did you go to sleep quickly?"
"Not  very  quickly. My head got better, but I lay  awake  some
time."
"Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?"
"I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station just as I
was getting drowsy."
"That would be Vincovci. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is
this one?" He indicated it on the plan.
"That is so, yes."
"You had the upper or the lower berth?"
"The lower berth, No. 10."
"And you had a companion?'
"Yes,  a  young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She  had
travelled from Baghdad."
"After the train left Vincovci, did she leave the compartment?"
"No, I am sure she did not."
"Why are you sure if you were asleep?"
"I  sleep  very lightly. I am used to waking at a sound.  I  am
sure that if she had come down from the berth above I should have
awakened."
"Did you yourself leave the compartment?"
"Not until this morning."
"Have you a scarlet silk kimono, Mademoiselle?"
"No,  indeed. I have a good comfortable dressing-gown of Jaeger
material."
"And  the  lady  with you, Miss Debenham? What  colour  is  her
dressing-gown?'
"A pale mauve aba such as you buy in the East."
Poirot  nodded. Then he asked in a friendly tone: "Why are  you
taking this journey? A holiday?"
"Yes,  I  am going home for a holiday. But first I am going  to
Lausanne to stay with a sister for a week or so."
"Perhaps  you will be so amiable as to write me down  the  name
and address of your sister?'
"With pleasure."
She  took  the paper and pencil he gave her and wrote down  the
name and address as requested.
"Have you ever been in America, Mademoiselle?"
"No. I very nearly went once. I was to go with an invalid lady,
but  the  plan was cancelled at the last moment. I much regretted
this. They are very good, the Americans. They give much money  to
found schools and hospitals. And they are very practical."
"Do you remember hearing of the Armstrong kidnapping case?"
"No, what was that?"
Poirot explained.
Greta  Ohlsson  was indignant. Her yellow bun of hair  quivered
with her emotion.
"That  there  are in the world such evil men!  It  tries  one's
faith. The poor mother-my heart aches for her."
The  amiable Swede departed, her kindly face flushed, her  eyes
suffused with tears.
Poirot was writing busily on a sheet of paper.
"What is it you write there, my friend?" asked M. Bouc.
"Mon cher, it is my habit to be neat and orderly. I make here a
little chronological table of events."
He finished writing and passed the paper to M. Bouc.
9.15      Train leaves Belgrade.
about 9.40     Valet leaves Ratchett with sleeping draught beside
him.
about 10.00    MacQueen leaves Ratchett.
about 10.40    Greta Ohlsson sees Ratchett (last seen alive).
N.B. He was awake reading a book.
0.10      Train leaves Vincovci (late).
0.30      Train runs into a snowdrift.
0.37      Ratchett's bell rings. Conductor answers it. Ratchett
says: "Ce n'est rien. Je me suis tromp."
about 1.17     Mrs. Hubbard thinks man is in her carriage. Rings
for conductor.
M. Bouc nodded approval.
"That is very clear," he said.
"There is nothing there that strikes you as at all odd?"
"No,  it  seems all quite clear and aboveboard. It seems  quite
plain  that the crime was committed at 1.15. The evidence of  the
watch  shows us that, and Mrs. Hubbard's story fits  in.  For  my
mind, I will make a guess at the identity of the murderer. I say,
my friend, that it is the big Italian. He comes from America-from
Chicago-and  remember an Italian's weapon is the  knife,  and  he
stabs not once but several times."
"That is true."
"Without  a  doubt,  that  is  the  solution  of  the  mystery.
Doubtless  he and this Ratchett were in this kidnapping  business
together.  Cassetti is an Italian name. In some way Ratchett  did
on  him  what they call the double-cross. The Italian tracks  him
down,  sends  him  warning letters first,  and  finally  revenges
himself upon him in a brutal way. It is all quite simple."
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
"It is hardly so simple as that, I fear," he murmured.
"Me,  I  am convinced it is the truth," said M. Bouc,  becoming
more and more enamoured of his theory.
"And  what  about the valet with the toothache who swears  that
the Italian never left the compartment?"
"That is the difficulty."
Poirot twinkled.
"Yes,  it  is  annoying, that. Unlucky  for  your  theory,  and
extremely  lucky for our Italian friend that M. Ratchett's  valet
should have had the toothache."
"It   will   be  explained,"  said  M.  Bouc  with  magnificent
certainty.
Poirot shook his head again.
"No, it is hardly so simple as that," he murmured again.
6
THE EVIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS
"Let us hear what Pierre Michel has to say about this button," he
said.
The  Wagon  Lit  conductor  was recalled.  He  looked  at  them
inquiringly.
M. Bouc cleared his throat.
"Michel,"  he said, "here is a button from your tunic.  It  was
found  in the American lady's compartment. What have you  to  say
for yourself about it?"
The  conductor's hand went automatically to his tunic. "I  have
lost no button, Monsieur," he said. "There must be some mistake."
"That is very odd."
"I cannot account for it, Monsieur." The man seemed astonished,
but not in any way guilty or confused.
M. Bouc said meaningly: "Owing to the circumstances in which it
was  found, it seems fairly certain that this button was  dropped
by  the man who was in Mrs. Hubbard's compartment last night when
she rang the bell."
"But,  Monsieur,  there was no one there. The  lady  must  have
imagined it."
"She  did  not imagine it, Michel. The assassin of M.  Ratchett
passed that way-and dropped that button."
As  the  significance of M. Bouc's words became plain  to  him,
Pierre Michel flew into a violent state of agitation.
"It  is not true, Monsieur; it is not true!" he cried. "You are
accusing  me  of  the crime. Me, I am innocent. I  am  absolutely
innocent! Why should I want to kill a Monsieur whom I have  never
seen before?"
"Where were you when Mrs. Hubbard's bell rang?"
"I  told  you,  Monsieur,  in the  next  coach  talking  to  my
colleague."
"We will send for him."
"Do so, Monsieur, I implore you, do so."
The  conductor  of the next coach was summoned. He  immediately
confirmed  Pierre Michel's statement. He added that the conductor
from  the Bucharest coach had also been there. The three of  them
had  been  discussing the situation caused by the snow. They  had
been  talking  some ten minutes when Michel fancied  he  heard  a
bell. As he opened the doors connecting the two coaches, they had
all  heard it plainly-a bell ringing repeatedly. Michel  had  run
post-haste to answer it.
"So   you  see,  Monsieur,  I  am  not  guilty,"  cried  Michel
anxiously.
"And  this  button from a Wagon Lit tunic, how do  you  explain
it?"
"I  cannot, Monsieur. It is a mystery to me. All my buttons are
intact."
Both  of  the other conductors also declared that they had  not
lost  a button; also that they had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard's
compartment at any time.
"Calm yourself, Michel," said M. Bouc, "and cast your mind back
to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard's bell. Did you
meet anyone at all in the corridor?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Did  you  see anyone going away from you down the corridor  in
the other direction?"
"Again, no, Monsieur."
"Odd," said M. Bouc.
"Not  so  very," said Poirot. "It is a question of  time.  Mrs.
Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or
two  she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that
the  man  slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts  ringing
the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the
third  or  fourth  peal that he hears. I should say  myself  that
there was ample time-"
"For what? For what, mon cher! Remember, there are thick drifts
of snow all round the train."
"There  are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,"  said
Poirot slowly. "He could retreat into either of the toilets or-he
could disappear into one of the compartments."
"But they were all occupied."
"Yes."
"You mean that he could retreat into his own compartment?"
Poirot nodded.
"It  fits-it fits;' murmured M. Bouc. "During that ten minutes'
absence  of  the  conductor,  the murderer  comes  from  his  own
compartment,  goes into Ratchett's, kills him, locks  and  chains
the   door  on  the  inside,  goes  out  through  Mrs.  Hubbard's
compartment,  and  is back safely in his own compartment  by  the
time the conductor arrives."
Poirot murmured: "It is not quite so simple as that, my friend.
Our friend the doctor here will tell you so."
With  a  gesture  M. Bouc signified that the  three  conductors
might depart.
"We  have  still to see eight passengers," said  Poirot.  "Five
first-class  passengers-Princess Dragomiroff, Count and  Countess
Andrenyi,  Colonel Arbuthnot, and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class
passengers-Miss  Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli,  and  the  lady's-
maid, Frulein Schmidt."
"Whom will you see first-the Italian?"
"How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top  of
the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare
us  a  few  moments  of  her time. Convey that  message  to  her,
Michel."
"Oui,  Monsieur," said the conductor, who was just leaving  the
car.
"Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not
wish  to  put herself to the trouble of coming here,"  called  M.
Bouc.
But  Princess  Dragomiroff declined to take  this  course.  She
appeared  in the dining-car, inclined her head slightly  and  sat
down opposite Poirot.
Her  small  toad-like face looked even yellower  than  the  day
before.  She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she  had
eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and
an intellectual force that could be felt at once.
Her  voice  was  deep,  very distinct, with  a  slight  grating
quality in it.
She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc.
"You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder
has taken place. Naturally you must interview all the passengers.
I shall be glad to give you all the assistance in my power."
"You are most amiable, Madame," said Poirot.
"Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?"
"Your  full  Christian names and address, Madame.  Perhaps  you
would prefer to write them yourself?"
Poirot  proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess
waved them aside.
"You  can  write  it," she said. "There is  nothing  difficult.
Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Klber, Paris."
"You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?"
"Yes.  I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid  is
with me."
"Would  you  be so good as to give me a brief account  of  your
movements last night from dinner onwards?"
"Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I
was in the dining-car. I retired to bed immediately after dinner.
I  read  until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light.  I
was unable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I
suffer.  At  about  a  quarter to one I rang  for  my  maid.  She
massaged me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot  say
exactly,  when  she  left  me. It may  have  been  half  an  hour
afterward, it may have been later."
"The train had stopped then?"
"The train had stopped."
"You heard nothing-nothing unusual during the time, Madame?"
"I heard nothing unusual."
"What is your maids name?"
"Hildegarde Schmidt."
"She has been with you long?"
"Fifteen years."
"You consider her trustworthy?"
"Absolutely.  Her  people  come  from  an  estate  of  my  late
husband's in Germany."
"You have been in America, I presume, Madame?"
The  abrupt  change  of subject made the  old  lady  raise  her
eyebrows. "Many times."
"Were  you at any time acquainted with a family of the name  of
Armstrong-a family in which a tragedy occurred?"
With some emotion in her voice the old lady said: "You speak of
friends of mine, Monsieur."
"You knew Colonel Armstrong well, then?"
"I knew him slightly, but his wife, Sonia Armstrong, was my god-
daughter.  I  was  on terms of friendship with  her  mother,  the
actress, Linda Arden. Linda Arden was a great genius, one of  the
greatest  tragic  actresses in the world.  As  Lady  Macbeth,  as
Magda,  there was no one to touch her. I was not only an  admirer
of her art, I was a personal friend."
"She is dead?"
"No,  no,  she is alive, but she lives in complete  retirement.
Her health is very delicate, and she has to lie on a sofa most of
the time."
"There was, I think, a second daughter?"
"Yes, much younger than Mrs. Armstrong."
"And she is alive?"
"Certainly."
"Where is she?"
The old woman bent an acute glance at him.
"I  must ask you the reason for these questions. What have they
to do with the matter in hand-the murder on this train?"
"They  are  connected  in this way, Madame:  the  man  who  was
murdered was the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of
Mrs. Armstrong's child."
"Ah!"
The  straight  brows came together. Princess  Dragomiroff  drew
herself a little more erect.
"In  my  view,  then,  this  murder is  an  entirely  admirable
happening! You will pardon my slightly biased point of view."
"It  is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question
you did not answer. Where is the younger daughter of Linda Arden,
the sister of Mrs. Armstrong?"
"I  honestly cannot tell you, Monsieur. I have lost touch  with
the  younger generation. I believe she married an Englishman some
years  ago  and  went  to England, but at  the  moment  I  cannot
recollect the name."
She paused a minute and then said:
"Is there anything further you want to ask me, gentlemen?"
"Only  one  thing,  Madame, a somewhat personal  question.  The
colour of your dressing-gown."
She  raised her eyebrows slightly. "I must suppose you  have  a
reason for such a question. My dressing-gown is of black satin."
"There  is nothing more, Madame. I am much obliged to  you  for
answering my questions so promptly."
She  made a slight gesture with her heavily beringed hand. Then
as she rose, and the others rose with her, she stopped.
"You  will excuse me, Monsieur," she said, "but may I ask  your
name? Your face is somehow familiar to me."
"My name, Madame, is Hercule Poirot-at your service."
She  was  silent  a minute, then: "Hercule Poirot,"  she  said.
"Yes. I remember now. This is Destiny."
She walked away, very erect, a little stiff in her movements.
"Voil  une grande dame," said M. Bouc. "What do you  think  of
her, my friend?"
But Hercule Poirot merely shook his head.
"I am wondering," he said, "what she meant by Destiny."
7
THE EVIDENCE OF COUNT AND COUNTESS ANDRENYI
Count  and  Countess  Andrenyi were  next  summoned.  The  Count,
however, entered the dining-car alone.
There was no doubt that he was a fine-looking man seen face  to
face.  He  was at least six feet in height, with broad  shoulders
and  slender hips. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds
and  might have been taken for an Englishman had it not been  for
the  length  of his moustache and something in the  line  of  the
cheekbone.
"Well, Messieurs," he said, "what can I do for you?"
"You  understand, Monsieur," said Poirot, "that in view of what
has  occurred I am obliged to put certain questions  to  all  the
passengers."
"Perfectly,  perfectly,"  said  the  Count  easily.  "I   quite
understand your position. Not, I fear, that my wife and I can  do
much to assist you. We were asleep and heard nothing at all."
"Are you aware of the identity of the deceased, Monsieur?"
"I  understood it was the big American-a man with  a  decidedly
unpleasant  face.  He  sat  at that  table  at  meal  times."  He
indicated with a nod of his head the table at which Ratchett  and
MacQueen had sat.
"Yes, yes, Monsieur, you are perfectly correct. I meant-did you
know the name of the man?"
"No." The Count looked thoroughly puzzled by Poirot's queries.
"If  you want to know his name," he said, "surely it is on  his
passport?"
"The name on his passport is Ratchett," said Poirot. "But that,
Monsieur, is not his real name. He is the man Cassetti,  who  was
responsible for a celebrated kidnapping outrage in America."
He watched the Count closely as he spoke, but the latter seemed
quite unaffected by this piece of news. He merely opened his eyes
a little.
"Ah!"  he  said.  "That certainly should throw light  upon  the
matter. An extraordinary country, America."
"You have been there, perhaps, Monsieur le Comte?"
"I was in Washington for a year."
"You knew, perhaps, the Armstrong family?"
"Armstrong-Armstrong-it is difficult  to  recall.  One  met  so
many."  He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. "But to come  back  to
the  matter in hand, gentlemen," he said. "What more can I do  to
assist you?"
"You retired to rest-when, Monsieur le Comte?"
Hercule  Poirot's  eyes stole to his plan. Count  and  Countess
Andrenyi occupied compartment Nos. 12 and 13 adjoining.
"We had one compartment made up for the night whilst we were in
the dining-car. On returning we sat in the other for a while-"
"Which number would that be?"
"No. 13. We played piquet together. At about eleven o'clock  my
wife  retired for the night. The conductor made up my compartment
and I also went to bed. I slept soundly until morning."
"Did you notice the stopping of the train?"
"I was not aware of it till this morning."
"And your wife?"
The Count smiled. "My wife always takes a sleeping draught when
travelling by train. She took her usual dose of trional."
He paused. "I am sorry I am not able to assist you in any way."
Poirot passed him a sheet of paper and a pen.
"Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. It is a formality, but will  you
just let me have your name and address?"
The Count wrote slowly and carefully.
"It  is just as well that I should write this for you," he said
pleasantly.  "The  spelling  of my country  estate  is  a  little
difficult for those unacquainted with the language."
He passed the paper across to Poirot and rose.
"It  will  be quite unnecessary for my wife to come  here,"  he
said. "She can tell you nothing more than I have."
A little gleam came into Poirot's eye.
"Doubtless, doubtless," he said. "But all the same  I  think  I
should  like  to  have  just  one  little  word  with  Madame  la
Comtesse."
"I  assure you it is quite unnecessary." The Count's voice rang
out authoritatively.
Poirot blinked gently at him.
"It  will  be a mere formality," he said. "But, you understand,
it is necessary for my report."
"As you please."
The  Count gave way grudgingly. He made a short foreign bow and
left the dining-car.
Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count's
names  and  titles.  He  passed on to  the  further  information.
"Accompanied by, wife; Christian name, Elena Maria; maiden  name,
Goldenberg; age, twenty." A spot of grease had been dropped on it
at some time by a careless official.
"A  diplomatic passport," said M. Bouc. "We must be careful, my
friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing  to  do
with the murder."
"Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality."
His  voice dropped as the Countess Andrenyi entered the dining-
car. She looked timid and extremely charming.
"You wish to see me, Messieurs?"
"A  mere  formality, Madam la Comtesse." Poirot rose gallantly,
bowed  her into the seat opposite him. "It is only to ask you  if
you  saw  or heard anything last night that may throw light  upon
this matter."
"Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep."
"You  did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on  in  the
compartment next to yours? The American lady who occupies it  had
quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor."
"I  heard  nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken  a  sleeping
draught."
"Ah!  I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further." Then,
as    she   rose   swiftly-"Just   one   little   minute.   These
particulars-your maiden name, age and so on-they are correct?"
"Quite correct, Monsieur."
"Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then."
She  signed  quickly, in a graceful slanting hand-writing-Elena
Andrenyi.
"Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?"
"No,  Monsieur."  She smiled, flushed a little.  "We  were  not
married then; we have been married only a year."
"Ah,  yes,  thank  you, Madame. By the way, does  your  husband
smoke?"
She stared at him as she stood poised for departure.
"Yes."
"A pipe?"
"No. Cigarettes and cigars."
"Ah! Thank you."
She lingered, her eyes watching him curiously. Lovely eyes they
were,  dark  and almond-shaped with very long black  lashes  that
swept  the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very scarlet
in  the  foreign fashion, were parted just a little.  She  looked
exotic and beautiful.
"Why did you ask me that?"
"Madame,"  Poirot waved an airy hand, "detectives have  to  ask
all  sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will  tell  me
the colour of your dressing-gown?"
She  stared  at  him.  Then she laughed. "it  is  corn-coloured
chiffon. Is that really important?"
"Very important, Madame."
She asked curiously: "Are you really a detective, then?"
"At your service, Madame."
"I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed
through Jugo-Slavia-not until one got to Italy."
"I   am   not  a  Jugo-Slavian  detective,  Madame.  I  am   an
international detective."
"You belong to the League of Nations?"
"I  belong to the world, Madame," said Poirot dramatically.  He
went  on: "I work mainly in London. You speak English?" he  added
in that language.
"I  speak a leetle, yes." Her accent was charming. Poirot bowed
once more.
"We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so
very terrible."
She smiled, inclined her head and departed.
"Elle est jolie femme," said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed.
"Well, that did not advance us much."
"No,"  said  Poirot.  "Two people who  saw  nothing  and  heard
nothing."
"Shall we now see the Italian?"
Poirot  did  not reply for a moment. He was studying  a  grease
spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.
8
THE EVIDENCE OF COLONEL ARBUTHNOT
Poirot  roused himself with a slight start. His eyes  twinkled  a
little as they met the eager ones of M. Bouc.
"Ah!  my dear old friend," he said, "you see I have become what
they call the snob! The first class, I feel it should be attended
to  before the second class. Next, I think, we will interview the
good-looking Colonel Arbuthnot."
Finding  the  Colonel's  French to be  of  a  severely  limited
description, Poirot conducted his interrogatory in English.
Arbuthnot's name, age, home address and exact military standing
were all ascertained. Poirot proceeded:
"It  is  that  you come home from India on what is  called  the
leave-what we can call en permission?"
Colonel  Arbuthnot, uninterested in what a pack  of  foreigners
called anything, replied with true British brevity, "Yes."
"But you do not come home on the P. & O. boat?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I chose to come by the overland route for reasons of my own."
("And  that,"  his manner seemed to say, "is one for  you,  you
interfering little jackanapes.")
"You came straight through from India?"
The  Colonel replied drily: "I stopped for one night to see  Ur
of  the  Chaldees, and for three days in Baghdad with the A.O.C.,
who happens to be an old friend of mine."
"You stopped three days in Baghdad. I understand that the young
English lady, Miss Debenham, also comes from Baghdad. Perhaps you
met her there?"
"No, I did not. I first met Miss Debenham when she and I shared
the railway convoy car from Kirkuk to Nissibin."
Poirot  leaned forward. He became persuasive and a little  more
foreign than he need have been.
"Monsieur,  I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss  Debenham
are  the  only  two English people on the train. It is  necessary
that I should ask you each your opinion of the other."
"Highly irregular," said Colonel Arbuthnot coldly.
"Not so. You see, this crime, it was most probably committed by
a woman. The man was stabbed no fewer than twelve times. Even the
chef de train said at once, 'It is a woman.' Well, then, what  is
my  first task? To give all the women travelling on the Istanbul-
Calais coach what Americans call the 'once-over.' But to judge of
an  Englishwoman  is  difficult.  They  are  very  reserved,  the
English.  So  I  appeal  to you, Monsieur,  in  the  interest  of
justice. What sort of person is this Miss Debenham? What  do  you
know about her?"
"Miss  Debenham,"  said the Colonel with  some  warmth,  "is  a
lady."
"Ah!"   said  Poirot  with  every  appearance  of  being   much
gratified.  "So  you  do  not think that  she  is  likely  to  be
implicated in this crime?"
"The  idea  is absurd," said Arbuthnot. "The man was a  perfect
stranger-she had never seen him before."
"Did she tell you so?"
"She  did.  She commented at once upon his somewhat  unpleasant
appearance. If a woman is concerned, as you seem to think (to  my
mind without any evidence but on a mere assumption), I can assure
you that Miss Debenham could not possibly be implicated."
"You feel warmly in the matter," said Poirot with a smile.
Colonel  Arbuthnot gave him a cold stare. "I really don't  know
what you mean," he said.
The stare seemed to abash Poirot. He dropped his eyes and began
fiddling with the papers in front of him.
"All  this  is  by the way," he said. "Let us be practical  and
come  to facts. This crime, we have reason to believe, took place
at  a  quarter  past one last night. It is part of the  necessary
routine to ask everyone on the train what he or she was doing  at
that time."
"Quite  so. At a quarter past one, to the best of my belief,  I
was  talking to the young American fellow-secretary to  the  dead
man."
"Ah! were you in his compartment, or was he in yours?"
"I was in his."
"That is the young man of the name of MacQueen?"
"Yes."
"He was a friend or acquaintance of yours?"
"No,  I  never saw him before this journey. We fell into casual
conversation yesterday and both became interested. I don't  as  a
rule like Americans-haven't any use for 'em-"
Poirot    smiled,   remembering   MacQueen's   strictures    on
"Britishers."
"-but  I liked this young fellow. He'd got hold of some tomfool
idiotic  ideas about the situation in India. That's the worst  of
Americans-they're  so sentimental and idealistic.  Well,  he  was
interested  in  what I had to tell him. I've  had  nearly  thirty
years' experience of the country. And I was interested in what he
had  to tell me about the working of Prohibition in America. Then
we  got  down to world politics in general. I was quite surprised
to look at my watch and find it was a quarter to two."
"That is the time you broke up this conversation?"
"Yes."
"What did you do then?"
"Walked along to my own compartment and turned in."
"Your bed was made up ready?"
"Yes."
"That is the compartment-let me see-No. 15-the one next but one
to the end away from the dining-car?"
"Yes."
"Where was the conductor when you went to your compartment?"
"Sitting  at  the end at a little table. As a  matter  of  fact
MacQueen called him just as I went in to my own compartment."
"Why did he call him?"
"To  make  up  his bed, I suppose. The compartment hadn't  been
made up for the night."
"Now,  Colonel Arbuthnot, I want you to think carefully. During
the  time you were talking to Mr. MacQueen, did anyone pass along
the corridor outside the door?"
"A   good  many  people,  I  should  think.  I  wasn't   paying
attention."
"Ah! but I am referring to-let us say, the last hour and a half
of your conversation. You got out at Vincovci, didn't you?"
"Yes, but only for about a minute. There was a blizzard on. The
cold was something frightful. Made one quite thankful to get back
to  the  fug, though as a rule I think the way these  trains  are
overheated is something scandalous."
M.  Bouc sighed. "It is very difficult to please everybody," he
said.  "The  English they open everything-then others  they  come
along and shut everything. It is very difficult."
Neither Poirot nor Colonel Arbuthnot paid any attention to him.
"Now,   Monsieur,   cast   your   mind   back,"   said   Poirot
encouragingly.  "It was cold outside. You have  returned  to  the
train.  You sit down again, you smoke-perhaps a cigarette-perhaps
a pipe-"
He paused for the fraction of a second.
"A pipe for me. MacQueen smoked cigarettes."
"The  train starts again. You smoke your pipe. You discuss  the
state  of  Europe-of the world. It is late now. Most people  have
retired for the night. Does anyone pass the door? Think."
Arbuthnot frowned in the effort of remembrance.
"Difficult  to  say,"  he said. "You see I  wasn't  paying  any
attention."
"But  you have the soldier's observation for detail. You notice
without noticing, so to speak."
The Colonel thought again, but shook his head.
"I  couldn't  say. I don't remember anyone passing  except  the
conductor. Wait a minute-and there was a woman, I think."
"You saw her? Was she old-young?"
"Didn't see her. Wasn't looking that way. just a rustle  and  a
sort of smell of scent."
"Scent? A good scent?"
"Well,  rather fruity, if you know what I mean.  I  mean  you'd
smell it a hundred yards away. But mind you," the Colonel went on
hastily, "this may have been earlier in the evening. You see,  as
you  said  just now, it was just one of those things  you  notice
without  noticing, so to speak. Some time that evening I said  to
myself-'Woman-scent-got it on pretty thick.' But when  it  was  I
can't  be  sure,  except that-why, yes, it must have  been  after
Vincovci."
"Why?"
"Because I remember-sniffing, you know-just when I was  talking
about the utter washout Stalin's Five Year Plan was turning  out.
I  know the idea woman brought the idea of the position of  women
in  Russia  into my mind. And I know we hadn't got on  to  Russia
until pretty near the end of our talk."
"You can't pin it down more definitely than that?"
"N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half-hour."
"It was after the train had stopped?"
The other nodded. "Yes, I'm almost sure it was."
"Well,  we will pass from that. Have you ever been in  America,
Colonel Arbuthnot?"
"Never. Don't want to go."
"Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?"
"Armstrong-Armstrong-I've known two or three Armstrongs.  There
was  Tommy  Armstrong in the 60th-you don't mean him?  And  Selby
Armstrong-he was killed on the Somme."
"I  mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and
whose only child was kidnapped and killed."
"Ah,  yes,  I  remember reading about that-shocking  affair.  I
don't  think  I actually ever came across the fellow,  though  of
course  I  knew  of  him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow.  Everybody
liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C."
"The man who was killed last night was the man responsible  for
the murder of Colonel Armstrong's child."
Arbuthnot's  face  grew rather grim. "Then in  my  opinion  the
swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to  see
him properly hanged-or electrocuted, I suppose, over there."
"In  fact,  Colonel  Arbuthnot, you prefer  law  and  order  to
private vengeance?"
"Well, you can't go about having blood feuds and stabbing  each
other  like Corsicans or the Mafia," said the Colonel. "Say  what
you like, trial by jury is a sound system."
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two.
"Yes,"  he  said.  I  am sure that would be  your  view.  Well,
Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think there is anything more  I  have
to  ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last  night
that  in  any  way  snuck you-or shall we say  strikes  you  now,
looking back-as suspicious?"
Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two.
"No," he said. "Nothing at all. Unless-" he hesitated.
"But yes, continue, I pray of you."
"Well, it's nothing really," said the Colonel slowly. "But  you
said anything."
"Yes, yes. Go on."
"Oh!  it's  nothing. A mere detail. But as I  got  back  to  my
compartment  I  noticed that the door of the one beyond  mine-the
end one, you know-"
"Yes, No. 16."
"Well,  the  door of it was not quite closed.  And  the  fellow
inside  peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he  pulled  the
door to quickly. Of course I know there's nothing in that-but  it
just  struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it's quite usual to open  a
door and stick your head out if you want to see anything. But  it
was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention."
"Ye-es," said Poirot doubtfully.
"I   told  you  there  was  nothing  to  it,"  said  Arbuthnot,
apologetically.  "But  you know what it  is-early  hours  of  the
morning-everything very still. The thing had a sinister look-like
a detective story. All nonsense really."
He rose. "Well, if you don't want me any more-"
"Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else."
The  soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste
for being questioned by "foreigners" had evaporated.
"About Miss Debenham," he said rather awkwardly. "You can  take
it from me that she's all right. She's a pukka sahib."
Flushing a little, he withdrew.
"What,"  asked  Dr. Constantine with interest,  "does  a  pukka
sahib mean?"
"It  means,"  said  Poirot, "that Miss  Debenham's  father  and
brothers  were  at  the same kind of school as Colonel  Arbuthnot
was."
"Oh!  said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. "Then it has  nothing
to do with the crime at all."
"Exactly,", said, Poirot.
He  fell  into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the  table.
Then he looked up.
"Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe," he said. "In the compartment
of  Mr. Ratchett I found a pipe-cleaner. Mr. Ratchett smoked only
cigars."
"You think-?"
"He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he
knew  of Colonel Armstrong-perhaps actually did know him,  though
he won't admit it."
"So you think it possible-?"
Poirot shook his head violently.
"That  is  just  it-it is impossible-quite  impossible-that  an
honourable,  slightly stupid, upright Englishman should  stab  an
enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how
impossible it is?"
"That is the psychology," said M. Bouc.
"And  one  must  respect  the  psychology.  This  crime  has  a
signature,  and  it  is  certainly not the signature  of  Colonel
Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview."
This  time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he  thought
of him.
9
THE EVIDENCE OF MR. HARDMAN
The  last  of  the first-class passengers to be interviewed,  Mr.
Hardman, was the big flamboyant American who had shared  a  table
with the Italian and the valet.
He  wore a somewhat loud check suit, a pink shirt, and a flashy
tie-pin, and was rolling something round his tongue as he entered
the  dining-car. He had a big, fleshy, coarse-featured face, with
a good-humoured expression.
"Morning, gentlemen," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"You have heard of this murder, Mr.-er-Hardman?"
"Sure." He shifted the chewing gum deftly.
"We  are  of necessity interviewing all the passengers  on  the
train."
"That's  all right by me. Guess that's the only way  to  tackle
the job."
Poirot consulted the passport lying in front of him.
"You  are Cyrus Bethman Hardman, United States subject,  forty-
one years of age, travelling salesman for typewriting ribbons?"
"O.K. That's me."
you are travelling from Stamboul to Paris?"
"That's so."
"Reason?"
"Business."
"Do you always travel first-class, Mr. Hardman?"
"Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses. " He winked.
"Now, Mr. Hardman, we come to the events of last night."
The American nodded.
"What can you tell us about the matter?"
"Exactly nothing at all."
"Ah,  that  is a pity. Perhaps, Mr. Hardman, you will  tell  us
exactly what you did last night from dinner onwards?"
For  the  first time the American did not seem ready  with  his
reply.  At last he said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but just who  are
you? Put me wise."
"This  is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits.
This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body."
"And you yourself?"
"I   am  Hercule  Poirot.  I  am  engaged  by  the  company  to
investigate this matter."
"I've heard of you," said Mr. Hardman. He reflected a minute or
two longer. "Guess I'd better come clean."
"It  will  certainly be advisable for you to tell  us  all  you
know," said Poirot drily.
"You'd  have said a mouthful if there was anything I did  know.
But I don't. I know nothing at all-just as I said. But I ought to
know something. That's what makes me sore. I ought to."
"Please explain, Mr. Hardman."
Mr.  Hardman sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into  a
pocket.  At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo
a  change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real
person. The resonant nasal tones of his voice became modified.
"That passport's a bit of bluff," he said. "That's who I really
am."
Poirot  scrutinised the card flipped across  to  him.  M.  Bouc
peered over his shoulder.
Poirot knew the name as that of one of the best-known and  most
reputable private detective agencies in New York.
"Now, Mr. Hardman," he said, "let us hear the meaning of this."
"Sure.  Things  came about this way. I'd come  over  to  Europe
trailing a couple of crooks-nothing to do with this business. The
chase  ended  in  Stamboul.  I  wired  the  Chief  and  got   his
instructions  to return, and I would have been making  my  tracks
back to little old New York when I got this."
He pushed across a letter.
THE TOKATLLAN HOTEL
Dear Sir:
You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil
Detective  Agency. Kindly report at my suite  at  four  o'clock
this afternoon.
S. E. RATCHETT
"Eh bien?"
"I reported at the time stated, and Mr. Ratchett put me wise to
the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he'd got."
"He was alarmed?"
"Pretended not to be, but he was rattled, all right. He put  up
a  proposition to me. I was to travel by the same train as he did
to  Parrus  and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen,  I  did
travel  by the same train, and in spite of me, somebody  did  get
him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn't look any too good
for me."
"Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?"
"Sure.  He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I  should
travel in the compartment alongside his. Well, that blew up right
at the start. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and  I
had  a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that
compartment  up  his sleeve. But that's neither here  nor  there.
When  I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that  No.
16  was  a  pretty good strategic position. There  was  only  the
dining-car  in front of the Stamboul sleeping-car, and  the  door
onto  the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only
way  a  thug  could  come was through the rear-end  door  to  the
platform,  or along the train from the rear, and in  either  case
he'd have to pass right by my compartment."
"You  had  no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the  possible
assailant?"
"Well,  I knew what he looked like. Mr. Ratchett described  him
to me."
"What?"
All three men leaned forward eagerly.
Hardman went on.
"A  small  man-dark-with a womanish kind of voice. That's  what
the old man said. Said, too, that he didn't think it would be the
first night out, More likely the second or third."
"He knew something," said M. Bouc.
"He  certainly knew more than he told his secretary," commented
Poirot  thoughtfully. "Did he tell you anything about this  enemy
of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?"
"No, he was kinda reticent about that part of it. just said the
fellow-was out for his blood and meant to get it."
"A  small  man-dark-with  a womanish  voice,"  repeated  Poirot
thoughtfully. Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman,  he  asked:
"You knew who he really was, of course?"
"Which, Mister?"
"Ratchett. You recognised him?"
"I don't get you."
"Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer."
Mr. Hardman gave vent to a prolonged whistle.
"That  certainly is some surprise!" he said. "Yes, sir!  No,  I
didn't recognise him. I was away out West when that case came on.
I  suppose  I  saw photos of him in the papers,  but  I  wouldn't
recognise my own mother when a newspaper photographer got through
with  her.  Well, I don't doubt that a few people had it  in  for
Cassetti all right."
Do  you  know of anyone connected with the Armstrong  case  who
answers to that description: small-dark-womanish voice?"
Hardman  reflected a minute or two. "It's hard to  say.  Pretty
nearly everyone connected with that case is dead."
"There  was  the  girl who threw herself  out  of  the  window,
remember."
"Sure.  That's a good point, that. She was a foreigner of  some
kind.  Maybe  she  had  some Wop relations.  But  you've  got  to
remember  that there were other cases besides the Armstrong  one.
Cassetti  had been running this kidnapping stunt for  some  time.
You can't concentrate on that only."
Ah,  but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected
with the Armstrong case."
Mr.  Hardman  cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not  respond.
The American shook his head.
"I can't call to mind anybody answering that description in the
Armstrong  case," he said slowly. "But of course I wasn't  in  it
and didn't know much about it."
"Well, continue your narrative, Mr. Hardman."
"There's very little to tell. I got my sleep in the daytime and
stayed  awake on the watch at night. Nothing suspicious  happened
the  first  night.  Last night was the same,  as  far  as  I  was
concerned.  I had my door a little ajar and watched. No  stranger
passed."
"You are sure of that, Mr. Hardman?"
"I'm plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside,  and
nobody came along the train from the rear carriages. I'll take my
oath on that."
"Could you see the conductor from your position?"
"Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door."
"Did  he  leave  that seat at all after the  train  stopped  at
Vincovci?"
"That  was the last station? Why, yes, he answered a couple  of
bells-that would be just after the train came to a halt for good.
Then,  after that, he went past me into the rear coach-was  there
about a quarter of an hour. There was a bell ringing like mad and
he came back running. I stepped out into the corridor to see what
it  was all about-felt a mite nervous, you understand-but it  was
only  the American dame. She was raising hell about something  or
other, I grinned. Then he went on to another compartment and came
back and got a bottle of mineral water for someone. After that he
settled  down in his seat till he went up to the far end to  make
somebody's  bed  up. I don't think he stirred  after  that  until
about five o'clock this morning."
"Did he doze off at all?"
"That I can't say. He may have."
Poirot  nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers
on the table. He picked up the official card once more.
"Be so good as just to initial this," he said.
The other complied.
"There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your
identity, Mr. Hardman?"
"On  this  train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might  be  young
MacQueen.  I  know him well enough-I've seen him in his  father's
office in New York. But that's not to say he'll remember me  from
a  crowd of other operatives. No, Mr. Poirot, you'll have to wait
and  cable New York when the snow lets up. But it's O.K. I'm  not
telling  the tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to have  met
you, Mr. Poirot."
Poirot proffered his cigarette case. "But perhaps you prefer  a
pipe?"
"Not me." He helped himself, then strode briskly off.
The three men looked at each other.
"You think he is genuine?" asked Dr. Constantine.
"Yes,  yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that  would
be very easy to disprove."
"He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence," said M.
Bouc.
"Yes, indeed."
"A  small  man-dark-with a high-pitched voice,"  said  M.  Bouc
thoughtfully.
"A  description  which applies to no one on  the  train,"  said
Poirot.
10
THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN
"And  now,"  said  Poirot with a twinkle in  his  eye,  "we  will
delight the heart of M. Bouc and see the Italian."
Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining-car with a swift,  cat-
like tread. His face beamed. It was a typical Italian face, sunny-
looking and swarthy.
He spoke French well and fluently with only a slight accent.
"Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"You are, I see, a naturalised American subject?"
The  American  grinned. "Yes, Monsieur. It  is  better  for  my
business."
"You are an agent for Ford motor cars?"
"Yes, you see-"
A  voluble exposition followed. At the end of it anything  that
the  three men did not know about Foscarelli's business  methods,
his  journeys,  his income, and his opinion of the United  States
and  most European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was
not a man who had to have information dragged from him. It gushed
out.
His  good-natured, childish face beamed with  satisfaction  as,
with  a  last eloquent gesture, he paused and wiped his  forehead
with a handkerchief.
"So  you see," he said. "I do big business. I am up to date.  I
understand salesmanship!"
"You  have  been in the United States, then, for the  last  ten
years on and off."
Yes, Monsieur. Ah! well do I remember the day I first took  the
boat-to go to America, so far away! My mother, my little sister-"
Poirot cut short the flood of reminiscence.
"During  your sojourn in the United States, did you  ever  come
across the deceased?"
"Never.  But I know the type. Oh! yes." He snapped his  fingers
expressively.  "It  is very respectable, very  well-dressed,  but
underneath it is all wrong. Out of my experience I should say  he
was the big crook. I give you my opinion for what it is worth."
"Your opinion is quite right," said Poirot drily. "Ratchett was
Cassetti, the kidnapper."
"What  did I tell you? I have learned to be very acute-to  read
the  face. It is necessary. Only in America do they teach you the
proper way to sell. I-"
"You remember the Armstrong case?"
"I  do not quite remember. The name, yes? It was a little girl,
a baby, was it not?"
"Yes, a very tragic affair."
The Italian seemed the first person to demur to this view.
"Ah!  well, these things they happen," he said philosophically,
"in a great civilisation such as America-"
Poirot cut him short. "Did you ever come across any members  of
the Armstrong family?"
"No, I do not think so. It is difficult to say. I will give you
some figures. Last year alone, I sold-"
"Monsieur, pray confine yourself to the point."
The  Italian's  hands  flung themselves out  in  a  gesture  of
apology. "A thousand pardons."
"Tell  me, if you please, your exact movements last night  from
dinner onwards."
"With  pleasure.  I  stay here as long as I  can.  It  is  more
amusing.  I talk to the American gentleman at my table. He  sells
typewriter  ribbons.  Then I go back to  my  compartment.  It  is
empty.  The  miserable John Bull who shares it with  me  is  away
attending to his master. At last he comes back-very long face  as
usual.  He  will not talk-says yes and no. A miserable race,  the
English-not  sympathetic.  He sits in  the  corner,  very  stiff,
reading a book, Then the conductor comes and makes our beds."
"Nos. 4 and 5," murmured Poirot.
"Exactly-the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth. I get up
there. I smoke and read. The little Englishman has, I think,  the
toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells  very
strong. He lies in bed and groans. Presently I sleep. Whenever  I
wake I hear him groaning."
"Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?"
"I  do  not think so. That, I should hear. The light  from  the
corridor-one  wakes up automatically thinking it is  the  customs
examination at some frontier."
"Did  he  ever  speak  of his master? Ever express  any  animus
against him?"
"I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish."
"You smoke, you say-a pipe, cigarettes, cigar?"
"Cigarettes only."
Poirot proffered one, which he accepted.
"Have you ever been to Chicago?" inquired M. Bouc.
"Oh!  yes-a  fine  city-but I know best  New  York,  Cleveland,
Detroit. You have been to the States? No? You should go. It-"
Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him.
"If  you  will  sign  this,  and put  your  permanent  address,
please."
The  Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose, his smile  as
engaging as ever.
"That  is all? You do not require me further? Good day to  you,
Messieurs.  I  wish  we could get out of  the  snow.  I  have  an
appointment in Milan." He shook his head sadly. "I shall lose the
business." He departed.
Poirot looked at his friend.
"He has been a long time in America," said M. Bouc, "and he  is
an Italian, and Italians use the knife! And they are great liars!
I do not like Italians."
"a  se  voit," said Poirot with a smile "Well, it may be  that
you are right, but I will point out to you, my friend, that there
is absolutely no evidence against the man."
"And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?"
"Assuredly," said Poirot. "Especially in the heat of a quarrel.
But  this-this  is a different kind of crime. I have  the  little
idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned  and
staged.  It  is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. it  is  not-how
shall  I  express  it?-a Latin crime. It is a  crime  that  shows
traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain-I think an Anglo-
Saxon brain-"
He picked up the last two passports.
"Let us now," he said, "see Miss Mary Debenham."
11
THE EVIDENCE OF MISS DEBENHAM
When  Mary Debenham entered the dining-car she confirmed Poirot's
previous estimate of her. She was very neatly dressed in a little
black suit with a French grey shirt, and the smooth waves of  her
dark  head  were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as  calm  and
unruffled as her hair.
She  sat  down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked  at  them
inquiringly.
"Your  name  is  Mary Hermione Debenham and you are  twenty-six
years of age?" began Poirot.
"Yes."
"English?"
"Yes."
"Will  you  be  so  kind, Mademoiselle, as to write  down  your
permanent address on this piece of paper?"
She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.
"And  now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair
last night?"
"I  am  afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went  to  bed  and
slept."
"Does it distress you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has
been committed on this train?"
The  question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes  widened  a
little.
"I don't quite understand you?"
"It   was  a  perfectly  simple  question  that  I  asked  you,
Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed that
a crime should have been committed on this train?"
"I  have  not really thought about it from that point of  view.
No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed."
"A crime-it is all in the day's work to you, eh?"
"It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen," said Mary
Debenham quietly.
"You  are  very Anglo-Saxon, Mademoiselle. Vous n'prouvez  pas
d'motion."
She  smiled  a little. "I am afraid I cannot have hysterics  to
prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day."
"They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare."
"Oh! certainly."
"You were not acquainted with the dead man?"
"I saw him for the first time when lunching here yesterday."
"And how did he strike you?"
"I hardly noticed him."
"He did not impress you as an evil personality?"
She  shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Really, I cannot  say  I
thought about it."
Poirot looked at her keenly.
"You  are,  I  think, a little bit contemptuous of  the  way  I
prosecute  my  inquiries," he said with a twinkle. "Not  so,  you
think,  would  an English inquiry be conducted. There  everything
would  be cut and dried-it would be all kept to the facts-a well-
ordered   business.   But  I,  Mademoiselle,   have   my   little
originalities. I look first at my witness, I sum up  his  or  her
character,  and I frame my questions accordingly. just  a  little
minute ago I am asking questions of a gentleman who wants to tell
me  all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I keep strictly  to
the point. I want him to answer yes or no. This or that. And then
you  come. I see at once that you will be orderly and methodical.
You  will  confine yourself to the matter in hand.  Your  answers
will  be brief and to the point. And because, Mademoiselle, human
nature is perverse, I ask of you quite different questions. I ask
what  you  feel,  what you think. It does not  please  you,  this
method?"
"If you will forgive my saying so, it seems somewhat of a waste
of time. Whether or not I liked Mr. Ratchett's face does not seem
likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him."
"Do you know who the man Ratchett really was, Mademoiselle?"
She nodded. "Mrs. Hubbard has been telling everyone."
"And what do you think of the Armstrong affair?"
"It was quite abominable," said the girl crisply.
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
"You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?"
"Yes."
"To London?"
"Yes."
"What have you been doing in Baghdad?"
"I have been acting as governess to two children."
"Are you returning to your post after your holiday?"
"I am not sure."
"Why is that?"
"Baghdad  is  rather out of things. I think I should  prefer  a
post in London if I can hear of a suitable one."
"I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married."
Miss  Debenham  did not reply. She raised her eyes  and  looked
Poirot  full  in  the  face. The glance said  plainly:  "You  are
impertinent."
"What   is   your   opinion  of  the  lady  who   shares   your
compartment-Miss Ohlsson?"
"She seems a pleasant, simple creature."
"What colour is her dressing-gown?"
Mary Debenham stared. "A kind of brownish colour-natural wool."
"Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed
the  colour  of  your  dressing-gown on the way  from  Aleppo  to
Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe."
"Yes, that is right."
"Have  you  any  other dressing-gown, Mademoiselle?  A  scarlet
dressing-gown, for example?"
"No, that is not mine."
Poirot leant forward. He was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
"Whose, then?'
The  girl drew back a little, startled. "I don't know. What  do
you mean?"
"You do not say, 'No, I have no such thing.' You say, 'That  is
not  mine.'  Meaning  that such a thing does  belong  to  someone
else."
She nodded.
"Somebody else on this train?"
'Yes."
"Whose is it?"
"I  told  you  just now: I don't know. I woke up  this  morning
about  five  o'clock  with the feeling that the  train  had  been
standing still for a long time. I opened the door and looked  out
into  the  corridor, thinking we might be at  a  station.  I  saw
someone in a scarlet kimono some way down the corridor."
"And you don't know who it was? Was she fair, or dark, or grey-
haired?"
"I  can't say. She had on a shingle cap and I only saw the back
of her head."
"And in build?"
"Tallish and slim, I should judge, but it's difficult  to  say.
The kimono was embroidered with dragons."
"Yes,  yes, that is right-dragons." He was silent a minute.  He
murmured  to  himself. "I cannot understand. I cannot understand.
None of this makes sense."
Then,  looking  up,  he  said: "I need not  keep  you  further,
Mademoiselle."
"Oh!" She seemed rather taken aback but rose promptly.
In  the doorway, however, she hesitated a minute and then  came
back.
"The  Swedish  lady-Miss Ohlsson, is it?-seems rather  worried.
She  says  you told her she was the last person to see  this  man
alive.  She  thinks,  I believe, that you  suspect  her  on  that
account.  Can't  I tell her that she has made a mistake?  Really,
you  know, she is the kind of creature who wouldn't hurt a  fly."
She smiled a little as she spoke.
"What time was it that she went to fetch the aspirin from  Mrs.
Hubbard?"
"Just after half-past ten."
"She was away-how long?"
"About five minutes."
"Did she leave the compartment again during the night?"
"No."
Poirot  turned to the doctor. "Could Ratchett have been  killed
as early as that?"
The doctor shook his head.
"Then I think you can reassure your friend, Mademoiselle."
"Thank  you." She smiled suddenly at him, a smile that  invited
sympathy.  "She's  like a sheep, you know. She gets  anxious  and
bleats."
She turned and went out.
12
THE EVIDENCE OF THE GERMAN LADY'S-MAID
M. Bouc was looking at his friend curiously.
"I  do not quite understand you, mon vieux. You were trying  to
do-what?"
"I was searching for a flaw, my friend."
"A flaw?"
"Yes-in the armour of a young lady's self-possession. I  wished
to shake her sang-froid. Did I succeed? I do not know. But I know
this: she did not expect me to tackle the matter as I did."
"You  suspect her," said M. Bow slowly. "But why? She  seems  a
very charming young lady-the last person in the world to be mixed
up in a crime of this kind."
"I  agree,"  said  Constantine.  "She  is  cold.  She  has  not
emotions. She would not stab a man-she would sue him in  the  law
courts."
Poirot sighed.
"You must, both of you, get rid of your obsession that this  is
an  unpremeditated  and sudden crime. As for the  reasons  why  I
suspect Miss Debenham, there are two. One is because of something
that I overheard, and that you do not as yet know."
He  retailed to them the curious interchange of phrases he  had
overheard on the journey from Aleppo.
"That  is  curious,  certainly,"  said  M.  Bouc  when  he  had
finished.  "It needs explaining. If it means what you suspect  it
means,  then  they  are both of them in it together-she  and  the
stiff Englishman."
Poirot nodded.
"And that is just what is not borne out by the facts," he said.
"See  you,  if  they were both in this together, what  should  we
expect to find? That each of them would provide an alibi for  the
other.  Is  not  that  so?  But no-that  does  not  happen.  Miss
Debenham's  alibi  is provided by a Swedish woman  whom  she  has
never  seen before, and Colonel Arbuthnot's alibi is vouched  for
by  MacQueen, the dead mans secretary. No, that solution  of  the
puzzle is too easy."
"You said there was another reason for your suspicions of her,"
M. Bouc, reminded him.
Poirot smiled.
"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."
"It  was not  the same conductor who woke me, Monsieur. It  was
another one."
"Ah! another one! Had you seen him before?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Ah!-do you think you would recognise him if you saw him?"
"I think so, Monsieur."
Poirot  murmured something in M. Bouc's ear. The latter got  up
and went to the door to give an order.
Poirot  was  continuing  his questions  in  an  easy,  friendly
manner.
"Have you ever been to America, Frulein Schmidt?"
"Never, Monsieur. It must be a fine country."
"You  have  heard, perhaps, who this man who was killed  really
was-that he was responsible for the death of a little child?"
"Yes,  I  have  heard, Monsieur. It was abominable-wicked.  The
good  God  should not allow such things. We are not so wicked  as
that in Germany."
Tears had come into the woman's eyes. Her strong, motherly soul
was moved.
"It was an abominable crime," said Poirot gravely.
He  drew  a scrap of cambric from his pocket and handed  it  to
her.
"Is this your handkerchief, Frulein Schmidt?"
There  was  a  moment's silence as the woman examined  it.  She
looked up after a minute. The colour had mounted a little in  her
face.
"Ah! no, indeed. It is not mine, Monsieur."
"It  has the initial H, you see. That is why I thought  it  was
yours."
"Ah!  Monsieur,  it  is  a lady's handkerchief,  that.  A  very
expensive handkerchief. Embroidered by hand. It comes from Paris,
I should say."
"It is not yours and you do not know whose it is?"
"I? Oh! no, Monsieur."
Of  the  three  listening, only Poirot  caught  the  nuance  of
hesitation in the reply.
M.  Bouc  whispered in his ear. Poirot nodded and said  to  the
woman:
"The  three sleeping-car attendants are coming in. Will you  be
so  kind as to tell me which is the one you met last night as you
were going with the rug to the Princess?"
The  three  men entered. Pierre Michel, the big blond conductor
of  the Athens-Paris coach, and the stout burly conductor of  the
Bucharest one.
Hildegarde  Schmidt  looked at them and immediately  shook  her
head.
"No,  Monsieur," she said. "None of these is the man I saw last
night."
"But  these are the only conductors on the train. You  must  be
mistaken."
"I  am  quite sure, Monsieur. These are all tall, big men.  The
one  I  saw  was  small and dark. He had a little moustache.  His
voice  when he said 'Pardon' was weak, like a woman's. Indeed,  I
remember him very well, Monsieur."
13
SUMMARY OF THE PASSENGERS' EVIDENCE
"A small dark man with a womanish voice," said M. Bouc.
The three conductors and Hildegarde Schmidt had been dismissed.
M.   Bouc   made  a  despairing  gesture.  "But  I   understand
nothing-but nothing, of all of this! The enemy that this Ratchett
spoke  of,  he was then on the train after all? But where  is  he
now?  How can he have vanished into thin air? My head, it whirls.
Say  something, then, my friend, I implore you. Show me  how  the
impossible can be possible!"
"It is a good phrase that," said Poirot. "The impossible cannot
have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite
of appearances."
"Explain  to me, then, quickly, what actually happened  on  the
train last night."
"I  am not a magician, mon cher. I am, like you, a very puzzled
man. This affair advances in a very strange manner."
"It does not advance at all. It stays where it was."
Poirot  shook  his  head. "No, that is not true.  We  are  more
advanced.  We know certain things. We have heard the evidence  of
the passengers."
"And what has that told us? Nothing at all."
"I would not say that, my friend."
"I  exaggerate, perhaps. The American Hardman, and  the  German
maid-yes, they have added something to our knowledge. That is  to
say,  they have made the whole business more unintelligible  than
it was."
"No, no, no," said Poirot soothingly.
M.  Bouc turned upon him. "Speak, then, let us hear the  wisdom
of Hercule Poirot."
"Did  I not tell you that I was, like you, a very puzzled  man?
But  at least we can face our problem. We can arrange such  facts
as we have with order and method."
"Pray continue, Monsieur," said Dr. Constantine.
Poirot cleared his throat and straightened a piece of blotting-
paper.
"Let  us  review  the case as it stands at this moment.  First,
there  are  certain  indisputable facts. This  man,  Ratchett  or
Cassetti, was stabbed in twelve places and died last night.  That
is fact one."
"I  grant  it you-I grant it, mon vieux," said M. Bouc  with  a
gesture of irony.
Hercule Poirot was not at all put out. He continued calmly.
"I  will  pass  over  for  the moment certain  rather  peculiar
appearances  which  Dr. Constantine and I have already  discussed
together.  I  will  come  to them presently.  The  next  fact  of
importance, to my mind, is the time of the crime."
"That,  again,  is one of the few things we do know,"  said  M.
Bouc.  "The  crime  was  committed at a  quarter  past  one  this
morning. Everything goes to show that that was so."
"Not  everything. You exaggerate. There is, certainly,  a  fair
amount of evidence to support that view."
"I am glad you admit that at least."
Poirot  went  on  calmly, unperturbed by the interruption.  "We
have before us three possibilities.
"(1)-that  the crime was committed, as you say,  at  a  quarter
past one. This is supported by the evidence of the watch, by  the
evidence  of  Mrs.  Hubbard, and by the evidence  of  the  German
woman,  Hildegarde Schmidt. It agrees with the  evidence  of  Dr.
Constantine.
"(2)-that the crime was committed later, and that the  evidence
of the watch was deliberately faked in order to mislead.
"(3)-that  the  crime was committed earlier, and  the  evidence
faked for the same reason as above.
"Now  if  we accept possibility (1) as the most likely to  have
occurred,  and the one supported by most evidence, we  must  also
accept  certain facts arising from it. If the crime was committed
at  a  quarter past one, the murderer cannot have left the train,
and the questions arise: Where is he? And who is he?
"To begin with, let us examine the evidence carefully. We first
hear  of  the  existence of this man-the small dark  man  with  a
womanish  voice-from the man Hardman. He says that Ratchett  told
him  of  this person and employed him to watch out for  the  man.
There is no evidence to support this; we have only Hardman's word
for  it. Let us next examine the question: Is Hardman the  person
he pretends to be an operative of a New York detective agency?
"What to my mind is so interesting in this case is that we have
none  of  the  facilities  afforded  to  the  police.  We  cannot
investigate  the bona fides of any of these people.  We  have  to
rely solely on deduction. That, to me, makes the matter very much
more interesting. There is no routine work. It is all a matter of
the  intellect. I ask myself: Can we accept Hardman's account  of
himself?  I  make my decision and I answer 'Yes.'  I  am  of  the
opinion that we can accept Hardman's account of himself."
"You  rely  on  the  intuition? What the  Americans  call  'the
hunch'?" asked Dr. Constantine.
"Not  at all. I regard the probabilities. Hardman is travelling
with  a  false passport-that will at once make him an  object  of
suspicion. The first thing that the police will do when  they  do
arrive  upon  the  scene is to detain Hardman  and  cable  as  to
whether  his account of himself is true. In the case of  many  of
the  passengers, to establish their bona fides will be difficult;
in most cases it will probably not be attempted, especially since
there  seems nothing in the way of suspicion attaching  to  them.
But  in  Hardman's case it is simple. Either he is the person  he
represents himself to be, or he is not. Therefore I say that  all
will prove to be in order."
"You acquit him of suspicion?"
"Not at all. You misunderstand me. For all I know, any American
detective  might  have  his own private reasons  for  wishing  to
murder  Ratchett. No, what I am saying is that  I  think  we  can
accept  Hardman's own account of himself. This story, then,  that
he  tells of Ratchett's seeking him out and employing him is  not
unlikely,   and   is   most   probably-though   not   of   course
certainly-true. If we are going to accept it as true, we must see
if  there  is  any confirmation of it. We find it  in  rather  an
unlikely  place-in  the  evidence  of  Hildegarde  Schmidt.   Her
description  of  the  man she saw in Wagon  Lit  uniform  tallies
exactly.  Is there any further confirmation of these two stories?
There  is.  There is the button that Mrs. Hubbard  found  in  her
compartment.  And  there is also another corroborating  statement
which you may not have noticed."
"What is that?"
"The  fact  that  both  Colonel Arbuthnot and  Hector  MacQueen
mention  that the conductor passed their carriage. They  attached
no  importance  to  the fact, but, Messieurs, Pierre  Michel  has
declared  that  he  did  not leave his  seat  except  on  certain
specified occasions-none of which would take him down to the  far
end  of  the  coach past the compartment in which  Arbuthnot  and
MacQueen were sitting.
"Therefore  this story, the story of a small dark  man  with  a
womanish  voice  dressed  in  Wagon Lit  uniform,  rests  on  the
testimony, direct or indirect, of four witnesses."
"One   small  point,"  said  Dr.  Constantine.  "If  Hildegarde
Schmidt's  story is true, how is it that the real  conductor  did
not mention having seen her when he came to answer Mrs. Hubbard's
bell?"
"That  is  explained, I think. When he arrived to  answer  Mrs.
Hubbard,  the  maid was in with her mistress.  When  she  finally
returned  to her own compartment, the conductor was in with  Mrs.
Hubbard."
M.  Bouc  had  been  waiting  with difficulty  until  they  had
finished.
"Yes,  yes,  my  friend," he said impatiently to  Poirot.  "But
whilst I admire your caution, your method of advancing a step  at
a  time,  I  submit that you have not yet touched  the  point  at
issue.  We are all agreed that this person exists. The point  is,
where did he go?"
Poirot shook his head reprovingly.
"You are in error. You are inclined to put the cart before  the
horse. Before I ask myself, 'Where did this man vanish to?' I ask
myself, 'Did such a man really exist?' Because, you see,  if  the
man  were an invention-a fabrication-how much easier to make  him
disappear! So I try to establish first that there really is  such
a flesh-and-blood person."
"And having arrived at the fact that there is-eh bien, where is
he now?"
"There  are  only two answers to that, mon cher. Either  he  is
still  hidden  on  the  train in a place  of  such  extraordinary
ingenuity that we cannot even think of it; or else he is, as  one
might  say,  two  persons. That is, he is  both  himself-the  man
feared  by  M.  Ratchett-and a passenger on  the  train  so  well
disguised that M. Ratchett did not recognise him."
"It is an idea, that," said M. Bouc, his face lighting up. Then
it clouded over again. "But there is one objection-"
Poirot took the words out of his mouth.
"The  height  of the man. It is that you would  say?  With  the
exception  of  Mr. Ratchett's valet, all the passengers  are  big
men-the  Italian,  Colonel  Arbuthnot,  Hector  MacQueen,   Count
Andrenyi.  Well,  that  leaves us the  valet-not  a  very  likely
supposition.  But  there  is  another possibility.  Remember  the
'womanish' voice. That gives us a choice of alternatives. The man
may  be  disguised as a woman, or, alternatively, he may actually
be  a  woman.  A tall woman dressed in men's clothes  would  look
small."
"But surely Ratchett would have known-"
"Perhaps  he  did  know.  Perhaps,  already,  this  woman   had
attempted  his  life,  wearing  a mares  clothes  the  better  to
accomplish her purpose. Ratchett may have guessed that she  would
use  the same trick again, so he tells Hardman to look for a man.
But he mentions, however, a womanish voice."
"It is a possibility," said M. Bouc. "But-"
"Listen,  my  friend, I think that I should  now  tell  you  of
certain inconsistencies noticed by Dr. Constantine."
He  retailed at length the conclusions that he and  the  doctor
had arrived at together from the nature of the dead man's wounds.
M.  Bouc  groaned and held his head again. "I know," said  Poirot
sympathetically. "I know exactly how you feel.  The  head  spins,
does it not?"
"The whole thing is a fantasy!" cried M. Bouc.
"Exactly.  It is absurd-improbable-it cannot be.  So  I  myself
have  said.  And yet, my friend, there it is! One  cannot  escape
from the facts."
"It is madness!"
"Is  it  not?  It  is so mad, my friend, that  sometimes  I  am
haunted by the sensation that really it must be very simple.  ...
But that is only one of my 'little ideas'!"
"Two murderers," groaned M. Bouc. "And on the Orient Express-"
The thought almost made him weep.
"And  now let us make the fantasy more fantastic," said  Poirot
cheerfully.  "Last night on the train, there are  two  mysterious
strangers.  There  is the Wagon Lit attendant  answering  to  the
description  given  us  by M. Hardman,  and  seen  by  Hildegarde
Schmidt, Colonel Arbuthnot and M. MacQueen. There is also a woman
in  a  red kimono-a tall slim woman, seen by Pierre Michel,  Miss
Debenham,  M.  MacQueen and myself (and  smelt,  I  may  say,  by
Colonel  Arbuthnot!). Who was she? No one on the train admits  to
having a scarlet kimono. She, too, has vanished. Was she one  and
the  same with the spurious Wagon Lit attendant? Or was she  some
quite  distinct  personality? Where  are  they,  these  two?  And
incidentally,  where are the Wagon Lit uniform  and  the  scarlet
kimono?"
"Ah!  that  is something definite." M. Bouc sprang up  eagerly.
"We  must search all the passengers' luggage. Yes, that  will  be
something."
Poirot rose also. "I will make a prophecy," he said.
"You know where they are?"
"I have a little idea."
"Where, then?"
"You will find the scarlet kimono in the baggage of one of  the
men, and you will find the uniform of the Wagon Lit conductor  in
the baggage of Hildegarde Schmidt."
"Hildegarde Schmidt? You think-"
"Not  what  you  are  thinking. I will put  it  like  this.  If
Hildegarde  Schmidt is guilty, the uniform may be  found  in  her
baggage. But if she is innocent, it certainly will be."
"But  how-" began M. Bouc and stopped. "What is this noise that
approaches?" he cried. "It resembles a locomotive in motion."
The  noise  drew  nearer.  It consisted  of  shrill  cries  and
protests  in a woman's voice. The door at the end of the  dining-
car burst open. Mrs. Hubbard burst in.
"It's  too horrible!" she cried. It's just too horrible. In  my
sponge-bag. My sponge-bag! A great knife-all over blood?"
And suddenly toppling forward, she fainted heavily on M. Bouc's
shoulder.
14
THE EVIDENCE OF THE WEAPON
With  more  vigour than chivalry, A Bouc deposited  the  fainting
lady  with her head on the table. Dr. Constantine yelled for  one
of the restaurant attendants, who came at a run.
"Keep her head so," said the doctor. "If she revives give her a
little cognac. You understand?"
Then  he  hurried  off after the other two.  His  interest  lay
wholly  in the crime-swooning middle-aged ladies did not interest
him at all.
It is possible that Mrs. Hubbard revived rather more quickly by
these  methods than she might otherwise have done. A few  minutes
later  she  was sitting up, sipping cognac from a glass proffered
by the attendant, and talking once more.
"I  just  can't  tell you how terrible it was! I don't  suppose
anybody  on  this train can understand my feelings.  I've  always
been  very,  very  sensitive ever since I was a child.  The  mere
sight  of blood-ugh! Why, even now I get faint when I think about
it!"
The  attendant  proffered  the glass  again.  "Encore  un  peu,
Madame?"
"D'you  think I'd better? I'm a lifelong teetotaller.  I  never
touch  spirits or wine at any time. All my family are abstainers.
Still, perhaps as this is only medicinal-"
She sipped once more.
In  the  meantime Poirot and M. Bouc, closely followed  by  Dr.
Constantine, had hurried out of the restaurant car and along  the
corridor   of   the   Stamboul  coach  towards   Mrs.   Hubbard's
compartment.
Every  traveller on the train seemed to be congregated  outside
the door. The conductor, a harassed look on his face, was keeping
them back.
"Mais  il  n'y  a  rien    voir," he said,  and  repeated  the
sentiment in several other languages.
"Let me pass if you please," said M. Bouc.
Squeezing  his  rotundity  past the obstructing  passengers  he
entered the compartment, Poirot close behind him.
"I am glad you have come, Monsieur," said the conductor with  a
sigh  of relief. "Everyone has been trying to enter. The American
lady-such screams as she gave-ma foi, I thought she too had  been
murdered! I came at a run, and there she was screaming like a mad
woman;  and  she  cried  out that she must  fetch  you,  and  she
departed screeching at the top of her voice and telling everybody
whose carriage she passed what had occurred."
He  added,  with  a  gesture of the  hand:  "It  is  in  there,
Monsieur. I have not touched it."
Hanging on the handle of the door that gave access to the  next
compartment  was a large-checked rubber sponge-bag. Below  it  on
the floor, just where it had fallen from Mrs. Hubbard's hand, was
a  straight-bladed dagger-a cheap affair, sham Oriental  with  an
embossed  hilt and a tapering blade. The blade was  stained  with
patches of what looked like rust.
Poirot picked it up delicately.
"Yes,"  he murmured. "There is no mistake. Here is our  missing
weapon all right-eh, doctor?"
The doctor examined it.
"You  need not be so careful," said Poirot. "There will  be  no
fingerprints  on  it  save those of Mrs. Hubbard."  Constantine's
examination did not take long.
"It  is  the weapon all right," he said. "It would account  for
any of the wounds."
"I  implore you, my friend, do not say that!" The doctor looked
astonished.
"Already we are heavily overburdened by coincidence. Two people
decided to stab M. Ratchett last night. It is too much of a  good
thing that both of them should select the same weapon."
"As,  to  that, the coincidence is not perhaps so great  as  it
seems," said the doctor. "Thousands of these sham Eastern daggers
are made and shipped to the bazaars of Constantinople."
"You console me a little, but only a little," said Poirot.
He  looked  thoughtfully at the door in  front  of  him,  then,
lifting off the sponge-bag, he tried the handle. The door did not
budge.  About  a foot above the handle was the door bolt.  Poirot
drew it back and tried again, but still the door remained fast.
"We  locked  it  from the other side, you remember,"  said  the
doctor.
"That  is true," said Poirot absently. He seemed to be thinking
about  something  else.  His  brow  was  furrowed  as  though  in
perplexity.
"It agrees, does it not?" said M. Bouc. "The man passes through
this  carriage. As he shuts the communicating door behind him  he
feels the sponge-bag. A thought comes to him and he quickly slips
the  blood-stained knife inside. Then, all unwitting that he  has
awakened  Mrs. Hubbard, he slips out through the other door  into
the corridor."
"As  you  say,"  murmured Poirot. "That is  how  it  must  have
happened." But the puzzled look did not leave his face.
"But  what  is  it?" demanded M. Bouc. "There is something,  is
there not, that does not satisfy you?"
Poirot darted a quick took at him.
"The  same point does not strike you? No, evidently not.  Well,
it is a small matter."
The  conductor looked into the carriage. "The American lady  is
coming back."
Dr.  Constantine looked rather guilty. He had, he felt, treated
Mrs.  Hubbard  rather cavalierly. But she had no  reproaches  for
him. Her energies were concentrated on another matter.
"I'm  going  to say one thing right out," she said breathlessly
as  she  arrived in the doorway. "I'm not going on any longer  in
this  compartment! Why, I wouldn't sleep in it  to-night  if  you
paid me a million dollars."
"But, Madame-"
"I  know  what you are going to say, and I'm telling you  right
now  that I won't do any such thing! Why, I'd rather sit  up  all
night  in  the corridor." She began to cry. "Oh, if  my  daughter
could only know-if she could see me now, why-"
Poirot interrupted firmly.
"You  misunderstand,  Madame. Your demand is  most  reasonable.
Your baggage shall be changed at once to another compartment."
Mrs.  Hubbard lowered her handkerchief. "is that so? Oh! I feel
better  right away. But surely it's all full, unless one  of  the
gentlemen-"
M. Bouc spoke.
"Your  baggage,  Madame,  shall be  moved  out  of  this  coach
altogether. You shall have a compartment in the next coach, which
was put on at Belgrade."
"Why,  that's splendid. I'm not an extra nervous woman, but  to
sleep in that compartment next door to a dead man!" She shivered.
"It would drive me plumb crazy."
"Michel,"  called  M. Bouc. "Move this baggage  into  a  vacant
compartment in the Athens-Paris coach."
"Yes, Monsieur. The same one as this-the No. 3?"
"No,"  said Poirot before his friend could reply. "I  think  it
would be better for Madame to have a different number altogether.
The No. 12, for instance."
"Bien, Monsieur."
The   conductor   seized  the  luggage.  Mrs.  Hubbard   turned
gratefully to Poirot.
"That's  very  kind  and delicate of you. I  appreciate  it,  I
assure you."
"Do  not mention it, Madame. We will come with you and see  you
comfortably installed."
Mrs. Hubbard was escorted by the three men to her new home. She
looked round her happily. "This is fine."
"It  suits  you,  Madame?  It is, you  see,  exactly  like  the
compartment you have left."
"That's  so-only  it  faces the other  way.  But  that  doesn't
matter,  for these trains go first one way and then the other.  I
said  to my daughter, 'I want a carriage facing the engine.'  and
she  said, 'Why, Mamma, that'll be no good to you, for if you  go
to sleep one way, when you wake up, the train's going the other!'
And  it  was quite true what she said. Why, last evening we  went
into Belgrade one way and out the other."
"At any rate, Madame, you are quite happy and contented now?"
"Well,  no,  I  wouldn't  say that. Here  we  are  stuck  in  a
snowdrift and nobody doing anything about it, and my boat sailing
the day after to-morrow."
"Madame," said M. Bouc, "we are all in the same case-every  one
of us."
"Well,  that's true," admitted Mrs. Hubbard. "But  nobody  else
has  had a murderer walking right through her compartment in  the
middle of the night.
"What  still puzzles me, Madame," said Poirot, "is how the  man
got into your compartment if the communicating door was bolted as
you say. You are sure that it was bolted?"
"Why, the Swedish lady tried it before my eyes."
"Let  us just reconstruct that little scene. You were lying  in
your bunk-so-and you could not see for yourself, you say?"
"No,  because of the sponge-bag. Oh! my, I shall have to get  a
new  sponge-bag. It makes me feel sick at my stomach to  look  at
this one."
Poirot  picked up the sponge-bag and hung it on the  handle  of
the communicating door into the next carriage.
"Prcisment. I see," he said. "The bolt is just underneath the
handle-the sponge-bag masks it. You could not see from where  you
were lying whether the bolt was turned or not."
"Why, that's just what I've been telling you!"
"And the Swedish lady, Miss Ohlsson, stood so, between you  and
the door. She tried it and told you it was bolted."
"That's so."
"All the same, Madame, she may have made an error. You see what
I  mean." Poirot seemed anxious to explain. "The bolt is  just  a
projection of metal-so. When it is turned to the right, the  door
is  locked.  When  it  is left straight, the  door  is  unlocked.
Possibly she merely tried the door, and as it was locked  on  the
other side she may have assumed that it was locked on your side."
"Well, I guess that would be rather stupid of her."
"Madame,  the most kind, the most amiable, are not  always  the
cleverest."
"That's so, of course."
"By the way, Madame, did you travel out to Smyrna this way?"
"No. I sailed right to Stamboul, and a friend of my daughter's,
Mr.  Johnson (a perfectly lovely man, I'd like to have  you  know
him), met me and showed me all round Stamboul. But it was a  very
disappointing  city-all tumbling down; and as for those  mosques,
and putting on those great shuffling things over your shoes-where
was I?"
"You were saying that Mr. Johnson met you."
"That's  so,  and he saw me on board a French Messageries  boat
for  Smyrna, and my daughter's husband was waiting right  on  the
quay.  What  he'll say when he hears about all this! My  daughter
said  this would be just the safest, easiest way imaginable. 'You
just  sit  in  your carriage,' she said, 'and you land  right  in
Parrus,  and there the American Express will meet you.' And,  oh,
dear,  what  am I to do about cancelling my steamship passage?  I
ought  to  let them know. I can't possibly make it now.  This  is
just too terrible-"
Mrs. Hubbard showed signs of tears once more.
Poirot,   who   had   been  fidgeting  slightly,   seized   his
opportunity.
"You  have had a shock, Madame. The restaurant attendant  shall
be instructed to bring you along some tea and some biscuits."
"I  don't  know  that  I'm so set on tea,"  said  Mrs.  Hubbard
tearfully. "That's more an English habit."
"Coffee, then, Madame. You need some stimulant-"
"That  cognac's made my head feel mighty funny. I think I would
like some coffee."
"Excellent. You must revive your forces."
"My, what a funny expression!"
"But first, Madame, a little matter of routine. You permit that
I make a search of your baggage!"
"What for?"
"We  are  about  to  commence a search of all  the  passengers'
luggage. I do not want to remind you of an unpleasant experience,
but your sponge-bag-remember."
"Mercy!  Perhaps you'd better! I just couldn't bear to get  any
more surprises of that kind."
The  examination was quickly over. Mrs. Hubbard was  travelling
with  the minimum of luggage-a hat-box, a cheap suitcase,  and  a
well-burdened  travelling bag. The contents  of  all  three  were
simple  and straightforward, and the examination would  not  have
taken  more than a couple of minutes had not Mrs. Hubbard delayed
matters  by  insisting on due attention being paid to photographs
of  "my  daughter" and of two rather ugly children-"my daughter's
children. Aren't they cunning?"
15
THE EVIDENCE OF THE PASSENGERS' LUGGAGE
Having  delivered  himself of various polite  insincerities,  and
having told Mrs. Hubbard that he would order coffee to be brought
to  her, Poirot was able to take his leave accompanied by his two
friends.
"Well,  we  have made a start and drawn, a blank," observed  M.
Bouc. "Whom shall we attack next?"
"It  would  be  simplest, I think, just to  proceed  along  the
train,  carriage by carriage. That means that we start  with  No.
16-the amiable Mr. Hardman."
Mr. Hardman, who was smoking a cigar, welcomed them affably.
"Come  right in, gentlemen. That is, if it's humanly  possible.
It's just a mite cramped in here for a party."
M.  Bouc  explained  the object of their  visit,  and  the  big
detective nodded comprehendingly.
"That's  O.K. To tell the truth I've been wondering you  didn't
get  down to it sooner. Here are my keys, gentlemen, and  if  you
like to search my pockets too, why, you're welcome. Shall I reach
the grips down for you?"
"The conductor will do that. Michel!"
The  contents  of Mr. Hardman's two "grips" were soon  examined
and  passed.  They  contained, perhaps, an  undue  proportion  of
spirituous liquor. Mr. Hardman winked.
"It's not often they search your grips at the frontiers-not  if
you  fix the conductor. I handed out a wad of Turkish notes right
away, and there's been no trouble so far."
"And at Paris?"
Mr.  Hardman  winked again. "By the time I get  to  Paris,"  he
said,  "what's left over of this little lot will go into a bottle
labelled hairwash."
"You are not a believer in Prohibition, Monsieur Hardman," said
M. Bouc with a smile.
"Well," said Hardman, "I can't say Prohibition has ever worried
me any."
"Ah!"  said  M. Bouc. "The speakeasy." He pronounced  the  word
with  care, savouring it. "Your American terms are so quaint,  so
expressive," he said.
"Me, I would much like to go to America," said Poirot.
"You'd  learn a few go-ahead methods over there," said Hardman.
"Europe needs waking up. She's half asleep."
"It  is  true that America is the country of progress,"  agreed
Poirot.  "There is much that I admire about Americans. Only-I  am
perhaps  old-fashioned-but me, I find  the  American  women  less
charming  than  my own countrywomen. The French  or  the  Belgian
girl, coquettish, charming-I think there is no one to touch her."
Hardman turned away to peer out at the snow for a minute.
"Perhaps you're right, M. Poirot," he said. "But I guess  every
nation  likes its own girls best." He blinked as though the  snow
hurt his eyes.
"Kind  of  dazzling, isn't it?" he remarked.  "Say,  gentlemen,
this  business is getting on my nerves. Murder and the  snow  and
all. And nothing doing. Just hanging about and killing time.  I'd
like to get busy after someone or something."
"The true Western spirit of hustle," said Poirot with a smile.
The  conductor replaced the bags and they moved on to the  next
compartment. Colonel Arbuthnot was sitting in a corner smoking  a
pipe and reading a magazine.
Poirot  explained their errand. The Colonel made no  demur.  He
had two heavy leather suitcases.
"The rest of my kit has gone by long sea," he explained.
Like  most  Army  men  the  Colonel  was  a  neat  packer.  The
examination of his baggage took only a few minutes. Poirot  noted
a packet of pipe-cleaners.
"You  always use the same kind?" he asked. "Usually. If  I  can
get 'em."
"Ah!"  Poirot nodded. These pipe-cleaners corresponded  exactly
with  the  one  he  had  found on the floor  of  the  dead  man's
compartment.
Dr.  Constantine  remarked as much when they were  out  in  the
corridor again.
"Tout  de mme," murmured Poirot, "I can hardly believe it.  It
is  not dans son caractre, and when you have said that, you have
said everything."
The  door  of  the  next compartment was closed.  It  was  that
occupied  by Princess Dragomiroff. They knocked on the  door  and
the Princess's deep voice called "Entrez!"
M. Bouc was spokesman. He was very deferential and polite as he
explained their errand.
The  Princess  listened to him in silence, her small  toad-like
face quite impassive.
"If  it is necessary, Messieurs," she said quietly when he  had
finished, "that is all there is to it. My maid has the keys.  She
will attend to it with you."
"Does your maid always carry your keys, Madame?" asked Poirot.
"Certainly, Monsieur."
"And  if, during the night at one of the frontiers, the customs
officials should require a piece of luggage to be opened?"
The  old lady shrugged her shoulders. "It is very unlikely. But
in such a case, the conductor would fetch her."
"You trust her, then, implicitly, Madame?"
"I  have told you so already," said the Princess quietly. "I do
not employ people whom I do not trust."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Trust is indeed something  in
these days. It is perhaps better to have a homely woman whom  one
can   trust  than  a  more  chic  maid-for  example,  some  smart
Parisienne."
He  saw  the dark intelligent eyes come slowly round and fasten
themselves  upon  his face. "What exactly are  you  implying,  M.
Poirot?"
"Nothing, Madame. I? Nothing."
"But  yes.  You think, do you not, that I should have  a  smart
Frenchwoman to attend to my toilet?"
"It  would be perhaps more usual, Madame." She shook her  head.
"Schmidt  is devoted to me." Her voice dwelt lingeringly  on  the
words. "Devotion-c'est impayable."
The  German woman had arrived with the keys. The Princess spoke
to  her in her own language, telling her to open the valises  and
help  the gentlemen in their search. She herself remained in  the
corridor  looking out at the snow, and Poirot remained with  her,
leaving M. Bouc to the task of searching the luggage.
She regarded him with a grim smile.
"Well,  Monsieur,  do  you not wish  to  see  what  my  valises
contain?"
He shook his head. "Madame, it is a formality, that is all."
"Are you so sure?"
"In your case, yes."
"And  yet I knew and loved Sonia Armstrong. What do you  think,
then?  That I would not soil my hands with killing such  canaille
as that man Cassetti? Well, perhaps you are right."
She was silent a minute or two. Then she said:
"With  such a man as that, do you know what I should have liked
to do? I should have liked to call to my servants: 'Flog this man
to  death and fling him out on the rubbish heap!' That is the way
things were done when I was young, Monsieur."
Still he did not speak, just listened attentively.
She  looked at him with a sudden impetuosity. "You do  not  say
anything, M. Poirot. What is it that you are thinking, I wonder?"
He  looked at her with a very direct glance. "I think,  Madame,
that your strength is in your will-not in your arm."
She  glanced down at her thin, black-clad arms ending in  those
claw-like yellow hands with the rings on the fingers.
"It is true," she said. "I have no strength in these-none. I do
not know whether I am sorry or glad."
Then  she  turned abruptly back towards her carriage where  the
maid was busily packing up the cases.
The Princess cut short M. Bouc's apologies.
"There is no need for you to apologise, Monsieur," she said. "A
murder  has been committed. Certain actions have to be performed.
That is all there is to it."
"Vous tes bien aimable, Madame."
She inclined her head slightly as they departed.
The  doors of the next two carriages were shut. M. Bouc  paused
and scratched his head.
"Diable!"  he said. "This may be awkward. These are  diplomatic
passports. Their luggage is exempt."
"From customs examination, yes. But a murder is different."
"I know. All the same-we do not want to have complications."
"Do  not  distress yourself, my friend. The Count and  Countess
will  be  reasonable.  See how amiable Princess  Dragomiroff  was
about it."
"She  is  truly  grande dame. These two are also  of  the  same
position,  but  the  Count impressed me  as  a  man  of  somewhat
truculent  disposition. He was not pleased when you  insisted  on
questioning  his  wife. And this will annoy  him  still  further.
Suppose-eh?-we omit them. After all, they can have nothing to  do
with  the  matter.  Why  should I stir up  needless  trouble  for
myself?"
"I do not agree with you," said Poirot. "I feel sure that Count
Andrenyi  will  be  reasonable. At  any  rate  let  us  make  the
attempt."
And  before M. Bouc could reply, he rapped sharply on the  door
of No. 13.
A voice from within cried "Entrez!"
The  Count  was sitting in the corner near the door  reading  a
newspaper. The Countess was curled up in the opposite corner near
the window. There was a pillow behind her head and she seemed  to
have been asleep.
"Pardon,  Monsieur le Comte," began Poirot. "pray forgive  this
intrusion.  It is that we are making a search of all the  baggage
on  the train. In most cases a mere formality. But it has  to  be
done.  M.  Bouc suggests that, as you have a diplomatic passport,
you might reasonably claim to be exempt from such a search."
The Count considered for a moment.
"Thank  you," he said. "But I do not think that I care to  have
an  exception made in my case. I should prefer that  our  baggage
should be examined like that of the other passengers."
He turned to his wife. "You do not object, I hope, Elena?"
"Not at all," said the Countess without hesitation.
A rapid and somewhat perfunctory search followed. Poirot seemed
to  be  trying  to mask an embarrassment by making various  small
pointless remarks, such as:
"Here  is  a  label all wet on your suitcase,  Madame,"  as  he
lifted  down  a  blue  morocco case with initials  on  it  and  a
coronet.
The  Countess  did not reply to this observation.  She  seemed,
indeed, rather bored by the whole proceeding, remaining curled up
in  her corner and staring dreamily out through the window whilst
the men searched her luggage in the compartment next door.
Poirot finished his search by opening the little cupboard above
the washbasin and taking a rapid glance at its contents-a sponge,
face cream, powder and a small bottle labelled trional.
Then  with  polite  remarks on either side,  the  search  party
withdrew.
Mrs.  Hubbard's compartment, that of the dead man, and Poirot's
own came next.
They  now  came to the second-class carriages. The  first  one,
Nos. 10 and 11, was occupied by Mary Debenham, who was reading  a
book,  and  Greta Ohlsson, who was fast asleep but  woke  with  a
start at their entrance.
Poirot  repeated his formula. The Swedish lady seemed agitated,
Mary  Debenham  calmly indifferent. He addressed himself  to  the
Swedish lady.
"If  you  permit,  Mademoiselle, we will examine  your  baggage
first,  and then perhaps you would be so good as to see  how  the
American  lady is getting on. We have moved her into one  of  the
carriages in the next coach, but she is still very much upset  as
the result of her discovery. I have ordered coffee to be sent  to
her, but I think she is of those to whom someone to talk to is  a
necessity of the first order."
The   good  lady  was  instantly  sympathetic.  She  would   go
immediately.  It must have been indeed a terrible  shock  to  the
nerves,  and  already the poor lady was upset by the journey  and
leaving her daughter. Ah, yes, certainly she would go at once-her
case  was  not  locked-and  she would  take  with  her  some  sal
ammoniac.
She  bustled off. Her possessions were soon examined. They were
meagre  in  the  extreme. She had evidently not yet  noticed  the
missing wires from the hat-box.
Miss  Debenham had put her book down. She was watching  Poirot.
When  he asked her, she handed over her keys. Then, as he  lifted
down a case and opened it, she said:
"Why did you send her away, M. Poirot?"
"I, Mademoiselle! Why, to minister to the American lady."
"An excellent pretext-but a pretext all the same."
"I don't understand you, Mademoiselle."
"I  think you understand me very well." She smiled. "You wanted
to get me alone. Wasn't that it?"
"You are putting words into my mouth, Mademoiselle."
"And ideas into your head? No, I don't think so. The ideas  are
already there. That is right, isn't it?"
"Mademoiselle, we have a proverb-"
"Qui s'excuse s'accuse-is that what you were going to say?  You
must  give me the credit for a certain amount of observation  and
common sense. For some reason or other you have got it into  your
head that I know something about this sordid business-this murder
of a man I never saw before."
"You are imagining things, Mademoiselle."
"No,  I am not imagining things at all. But it seems to me that
a  lot  of  time  is wasted by not speaking the truth-by  beating
about the bush instead of coming straight out with things."
"And  you do not like the waste of time. No, you like  to  come
straight  to the point. You like the direct method.  Eh  bien,  I
will  give  it  to  you, the direct method. I will  ask  you  the
meaning  of  certain words that I overheard on the  journey  from
Syria.  I  had  got out of the train to do what the English  call
'stretch  the legs' at the station of Konya. Your voice  and  the
Colonel's,  Mademoiselle, they came to me out of the  night.  You
said  to  him, 'Not now. Not now. When it's all over.  When  it's
behind us.' What did you mean by those words, Mademoiselle?"
She asked very quietly, "Do you think I meant-murder?"
"It is I who am asking you, Mademoiselle."
She  sighed-was  lost  a  minute in thought.  Then,  as  though
rousing herself, she said:
"Those  words had a meaning, Monsieur, but not one that  I  can
tell you. I can only give you my solemn word of honour that I had
never set eyes on this man Ratchett in my life until I saw him on
this train."
"And-you refuse to explain those words?"
"Yes,  if you like to put it that way-I refuse. They had to  do
with-with a task I had undertaken."
"A task that is now ended?"
"What do you mean?"
"It is ended, is it not?"
"Why should you think so?"
"Listen,  Mademoiselle, I will recall to you another  incident.
There  was  a  delay to the train on the day  we  were  to  reach
Stamboul. You were very agitated, Mademoiselle. You, so calm,  so
self-controlled. You lost that calm."
"I did not want to miss my connection."
"So  you  said.  But, Mademoiselle, the Orient  Express  leaves
Stamboul  every  day  of the week. Even if  you  had  missed  the
connection it would only have been a matter of twenty-four hours'
delay."
Miss  Debenham  for the first time showed signs of  losing  her
temper.
"You  do not seem to realise that one may have friends awaiting
one's   arrival  in  London,  and  that  a  day's  delay   upsets
arrangements and causes a lot of annoyance."
"Ah,  it is like that? There are friends awaiting your arrival?
You do not want to cause them inconvenience?"
"Naturally."
"And yet-it is curious-"
"What is curious?"
"On  this  train-again we have a delay. And this  time  a  more
serious  delay,  since  there  is no  possibility  of  sending  a
telegram  to  your  friends or of getting them  on  the  long-the
long-"
"Long distance? The telephone, you mean."
"Ah, yes, the portmanteau call, as you say in England."
Mary  Debenham  smiled  a little in spite  of  herself.  "Trunk
call,"  she corrected. "Yes, as you say, it is extremely annoying
not to be able to get any word through, either by telephone or by
telegraph."
"And   yet,  Mademoiselle,  this  time  your  manner  is  quite
different. You no longer betray the impatience. You are calm  and
philosophical."
Mary  Debenham  flushed and bit her lip.  She  no  longer  felt
inclined to smile.
"You do not answer, Mademoiselle?"
"I am sorry. I did not know that there was anything to answer."
"Your change of attitude, Mademoiselle."
"Don't  you  think  that you are making  rather  a  fuss  about
nothing, M. Poirot?"
Poirot spread out his hands in an apologetic gesture.
"It  is  perhaps  a  fault with us detectives.  We  expect  the
behaviour to be always consistent. We do not allow for changes of
mood."
Mary Debenham made no reply.
"You know Colonel Arbuthnot well, Mademoiselle?"
He fancied that she was relieved by the change of subject.
"I met him for the first time on this journey."
"Have you any reason to suspect that he may have known this man
Ratchett?"
She shook her head decisively. "I am quite sure he didn't."
"Why are you sure?"
"By the way he spoke."
"And yet, Mademoiselle, we found a pipe-cleaner on the floor of
the dead man's compartment. And Colonel Arbuthnot is the only man
on the train who smokes a pipe."
He watched her narrowly, but she displayed neither surprise nor
emotion, merely said:
"Nonsense.  It's absurd. Colonel Arbuthnot is the last  man  in
the  world to be mixed up in a crime-especially a theatrical kind
of crime like this."
It  was  so  much  what Poirot himself thought  that  he  found
himself on the point of agreeing with her. He said instead:
"I  must  remind  you  that  you do not  know  him  very  well,
Mademoiselle."
She shrugged her shoulders. "I know the type well enough."
He said very gently:
"You  still refuse to tell me the meaning of those words: 'When
it's behind us'?"
She replied coldly, "I have nothing more to say."
"It does not matter," said Hercule Poirot. "I shall find out."
He bowed and left the compartment, closing the door after him.
"Was that wise, my friend?" asked M. Bouc. "You have put her on
her  guard-and through her, you have put the Colonel on his guard
also."
"Mon  ami, if you wish to catch a rabbit you put a ferret  into
the  hole, and if the rabbit is there-he runs. That is all I have
done."
They entered the compartment of Hildegarde Schmidt.
The  woman  was standing in readiness, her face respectful  but
unemotional.
Poirot  took a quick glance through the contents of  the  small
case  on the seat. Then he motioned to the attendant to get  down
the bigger suitcase from the rack.
"The keys?" he said.
"It is not locked, Monsieur."
Poirot undid the hasps and lifted the lid.
"Aha!"  he said, and turning to M. Bouc, "You remember  what  I
said? Look here a little moment!"
On  the top of the suitcase was a hastily rolled-up brown Wagon
Lit uniform.
The stolidity of the German woman underwent a sudden change.
"Ach!" she cried. "That is not mine. I did not put it there.  I
have  never  looked in that case since we left Stamboul.  Indeed,
indeed,  it is true!" She looked from one to another of  the  men
pleadingly.
Poirot took her gently by the arm and soothed her.
"No, no, all is well. We believe you. Do not be agitated. I  am
sure you did not hide the uniform there as I am sure that you are
a good cook. See. You are a good cook, are you not?"
Bewildered, the woman smiled in spite of herself, "Yes, indeed,
all my ladies have said so. I-"
She stopped, her mouth open, looking frightened again.
"No,  no," said Poirot. "I assure you all is well. See, I  will
tell  you  how this happened. This man, the man you saw in  Wagon
Lit uniform, comes out of the dead man's compartment. He collides
with you. That is bad luck for him. He has hoped that no one will
see  him. What to do next? He must get rid of his uniform. It  is
now not a safeguard, but a danger."
His  glance  went  to  M.  Bow and Dr.  Constantine,  who  were
listening attentively.
"There  is the snow, you see. The snow which confuses  all  his
plans. Where can he hide these clothes? All the compartments  are
full.  No,  he passes one whose door is open, showing  it  to  be
unoccupied. It must be the one belonging to the woman  with  whom
he  has just collided. He slips in, removes the uniform and  jams
it  hurriedly  into a suitcase on the rack. It may be  some  time
before it is discovered."
"And then?" said M. Bouc.
"That we must discuss," Poirot said with a warning glance.
He  held  up the tunic. A button, the third down, was  missing.
Poirot  slipped  his  hand  into  the  pocket  and  took  out   a
conductor's   pass-key,  used  to  unlock  the   doors   of   the
compartments.
"Here  is  the  explanation of how one man  was  able  to  pass
through  locked  doors," said M. Bouc. "Your  questions  to  Mrs.
Hubbard  were  unnecessary. Locked or not locked, the  man  could
easily get through the communicating door. After all, if a  Wagon
Lit uniform, why not a Wagon Lit key?"
"Why not indeed?" returned Poirot.
"We  might have known it, really. You remember that Michel said
that the door into the corridor of Mrs. Hubbard's compartment was
locked when he came in answer to her bell."
"That  is  so, Monsieur," said the conductor. "That  is  why  I
thought the lady must have been dreaming."
"But now it is easy," continued M. Bouc. "Doubtless he meant to
relock  the  communicating door, also, but perhaps he heard  some
movement from the bed and it startled him."
"We have now," said Poirot, "only to find the scarlet kimono."
"True. And these last two compartments are occupied by men."
"We will search all the same."
"Oh! assuredly. Besides, I remember what you said."
Hector  MacQueen acquiesced willingly in the search. "I'd  just
as  soon  you  did,"  he said with a rueful smile.  "I  feel  I'm
definitely  the  most suspicious character on the  train.  You've
only  got  to find a will in which the old man left  me  all  his
money, and that'll just about fix things."
M. Bouc bent a suspicious glance upon him.
"That's only my fun," added MacQueen hastily. "He'd never  have
left me a cent, really. I was just useful to him-languages and so
on. You're likely to be out of luck, you know, if you don't speak
anything  but good American. I'm no linguist myself, but  I  know
what  I  call Shopping and Hotel-snappy bits in French and German
and Italian."
His  voice was a little louder than usual. It was as though  he
were  slightly  uneasy over the search in spite of his  expressed
willingness.
Poirot  emerged. "Nothing," he said. "Not even  a  compromising
bequest!"
MacQueen  sighed. "Well, that's a load off my  mind,"  he  said
humorously.
They  moved on to the last compartment. The examination of  the
luggage of the big Italian and of the valet yielded no result.
The  three  men stood at the end of the coach looking  at  each
other.
"What next?" said M. Bouc.
"We  will go back to the dining-car," said Poirot. "We know now
all that we can know. We have the evidence of the passengers, the
evidence of their baggage, the evidence of our eyes...  We  can
expect  no  further  help. It must be our part  now  to  use  our
brains."
He felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. It was empty.
"I  will  join  you in a moment," he said. "I  shall  need  the
cigarettes. This is a very difficult, a very curious, affair. Who
wore  that scarlet kimono? Where is it now? I wish I knew.  There
is  something  in this case-some factor-that escapes  me!  It  is
difficult because it has been made difficult. But we will discuss
it. Pardon me a moment."
He went hurriedly along the corridor to his own compartment. He
had,  he  knew,  a further supply of cigarettes  in  one  of  his
valises.
He got it down and snapped back the lock.
Then he sat back on his heels and stared.
Neatly  folded on the top of the case was a thin  scarlet  silk
kimono embroidered with dragons.
"So,"  he murmured. "It is like that. A defiance. Very well,  I
take it up."

PART III
HERCULE POIROT SITS BACK AND THINKS
1
WHICH OF THEM?
M.  Bouc.  and Dr. Constantine were talking together when  Poirot
entered the dining-car. M. Bouc was looking depressed.
"Le  voil," said the latter when he saw Poirot. Then he added,
as  his  friend sat down, "If you solve this case,  mon  cher,  I
shall indeed believe in miracles!"
"It worries you, this case?"
"Naturally it worries me. I cannot make head or tail of it."
"I  agree," said the doctor. He looked at Poirot with interest.
"To  be frank," he said, "I cannot see what you are going  to  do
next."
"No!" said Poirot thoughtfully.
He  took  out  his  cigarette case and  lit  one  of  his  tiny
cigarettes. His eyes were dreamy.
"That,  to me, is the interest of this case," he said. "We  are
cut off from all the normal routes of procedure. Are these people
whose  evidence we have taken speaking the truth,  or  lying?  We
have  no means of finding out-except such means as we can  devise
ourselves. It is an exercise, this, of the brain."
"That is all very fine," said M. Bouc. "But what have you to go
upon?"
"I  told  you just now. We have the evidence of the  passengers
and the evidence of our own eyes."
"Pretty  evidence-that  of  the passengers!  It  told  us  just
nothing at all."
Poirot shook his head.
"I do not agree, my friend. The evidence of the passengers gave
us several points of interest."
"Indeed," said M. Bouc sceptically. "I did not observe it."
"That is because you did not listen."
"Well, tell me, what did I miss?"
"I  will  just take one instance-the first evidence  we  heard,
that  of  the  young MacQueen. He uttered, to my mind,  one  very
significant phrase."
"About the letters?"
"No, not about the letters. As far as I can remember, his words
were:  'We travelled about. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world.
He  was  hampered  by knowing no languages. I  acted  more  as  a
courier than a secretary.' "
He looked from the doctor's face to that of M. Bouc.
"What? You still do not see? That is inexcusable-for you had  a
second chance again just now when he said, 'You're likely  to  be
out of luck if you don't speak anything but good American.' "
"You mean-?" M. Bouc still looked puzzled.
"Ah,  it  is  that  you want it given to you in  words  of  one
syllable.  Well,  here it is! M. Ratchett spoke no  French.  Yet,
when the conductor came in answer to his bell last night, it  was
a  voice  speaking in French that told him that it was a  mistake
and  that  he  was  not  wanted. It was,  moreover,  a  perfectly
idiomatic phrase that was used, not one that a man knowing only a
few  words  of French would have selected. 'Ce n'est rien  Je  me
suis tromp.' "
"It is true," cried Constantine excitedly. "We should have seen
that!  I  remember  your  laying stress on  the  words  when  you
repeated  them  to us. Now I understand your reluctance  to  rely
upon  the  evidence of the dented watch. Already, at twenty-three
minutes to one, Ratchett was dead-"
"And   it   was  his  murderer  speaking!"  finished  M.   Bouc
impressively.
Poirot raised a deprecating hand.
"Let us not go too fast. And do not let us assume more than  we
actually  know.  It  is  safe,  I think,  to  say  that  at  that
time-twenty-three  minutes  to  one-some  other  person  was   in
Ratchett's compartment, and that that person either was French or
could speak the French language fluently."
"You are very cautious, mon vieux-"
"One  should advance only a step at a time. We have  no  actual
evidence that Ratchett was dead at that time."
"There is the cry that awakened you."
"Yes, that is true."
"In  one way," said M. Bouc thoughtfully, "this discovery  does
not  affect things very much. You heard someone moving about next
door. That someone was not Ratchett, but the other man. Doubtless
he  is washing blood from his hands, clearing up after the crime,
burning  the  incriminating letter. Then he  waits  till  all  is
still, and, when he thinks it is safe and the coast is clear,  he
locks  and  chains  Ratchett's door on the  inside,  unlocks  the
communicating  door through into Mrs. Hubbard's  compartment  and
slips  out  that way. In fact, it is exactly as we thought,  with
the  difference  that  Ratchett was killed  about  half  an  hour
earlier  and the watch put on to a quarter past one to create  an
alibi."
"Not such a famous alibi," said Poirot. "The hands of the watch
pointed  to  1.15-the exact time when the intruder actually  left
the scene of the crime."
"True,"  said M. Bouc, a little confused. "What then  does  the
watch convey to you?"
"If the hands were altered-I say if-then the time at which they
were set must have a significance. The natural reaction would  be
to  suspect  anyone  who  had  a  reliable  alibi  for  the  time
indicated-in this case, 1.15."
"Yes, yes," said the doctor. "That reasoning is good."
"We  must  also pay a little attention to the time the intruder
entered  the compartment. When had he an opportunity of doing so?
Unless  we  are  to assume the complicity of the real  conductor,
there  was  only one time when he could have done  so-during  the
time the train stopped at Vincovci. After the train left Vincovci
the  conductor was sitting facing the corridor, and  whereas  any
one  of the passengers would pay little attention to a Wagon  Lit
attendant,  the  one person who would notice an impostor  is  the
real conductor. But during the halt at Vincovci the conductor  is
out on the platform. The coast is clear."
"And   by  our  former  reasoning,  it  must  be  one  of   the
passengers," said M. Bouc. "We come back to where we were.  Which
of them?"
Poirot smiled.
"I  have made a list," he said. "If you like to see it, it will
perhaps refresh your memory."
The  doctor  and M. Bouc pored over the list together.  It  was
written  out neatly in a methodical manner in the order in  which
the passengers had been interviewed.
HECTOR MACQUEEN, American subject, Berth No. 6, Second Class.
Motive-Possibly arising out of association with dead man?
Alibi-From midnight to 2 A.M. (Midnight to 1.30 vouched for  by
Col. Arbuthnot, and 1. 15 to 2 vouched for by conductor.)
Evidence against him-None.
Suspicious circumstances-None.
CONDUCTOR PIERRE MICHEL, French subject.
Motive-None.
Alibi-From  midnight to 2 A.M. (Seen by H. P.  in  corridor  at
same  time  as  voice  spoke from Ratchett's  compartment  at
12.37.  From  1  A.M.  to  1.16  vouched  for  by  other  two
conductors.)
Evidence against him-None.
Suspicious circumstances-The Wagon Lit uniform found is a point
in  his  favor since it seems to have been intended to  throw
suspicion on him.
EDWARD MASTERMAN, English subject, Berth No. 4, Second Class.
Motive-Possibly arising out of connection with deceased,  whose
valet he was.
Alibi-From   midnight  to  2  A.M.  (Vouched  for  by   Antonio
Foscarelli.)
Evidence  against him of suspicious circumstances-None,  except
that  he is the only man of the right height or size to  have
worn the Wagon Lit uniform. On the other hand, it is unlikely
that he speaks French well.
MRS. HUBBARD, American subject, Berth No. 3, First Class.
Motive-None.
Alibi-From midnight to 2 A.M.-None.
Evidence  against her or suspicious circumstances-Story of  man
in  her  compartment  is substantiated  by  the  evidence  of
Hardman and that of the woman Schmidt.
GRETA OHLSSON, Swedish subject, Berth No. 10, Second Class.
Motive-None.
Alibi-From midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by Mary Debenham.)
Note: Was last to see Ratchett alive.
PRINCESS  DRAGOMIROFF, Naturalised French subject, Berth No.  14,
First Class.
Motive-Was  intimately  acquainted with Armstrong  family,  and
godmother to Sonia Armstrong.
Alibi-from  midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for  by  conductor  and
maid.)
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances-None.
COUNT ANDRENYI, Hungarian subject, Diplomatic passport, Berth No.
13, First Class.
Motive-None.
Alibi-Midnight  to  2 A.M. (Vouched for by conductor-this  does
not cover period from 1 to 1.15.)
COUNTESS ANDRENYI, As above, Berth 12.
Motive-None.
Alibi-Midnight to 2 A.M Took trional and slept. (Vouched for by
husband. Trional bottle in her cupboard.)
COLONEL ARBUTHNOT, British subject, Berth No. 15, First Class.
Motive-None.
Alibi-Midnight to 2 A.M. Talked with MacQueen till  1.30.  Went
to  own  compartment and did not leave it. (Substantiated  by
MacQueen and conductor.)
Evidence against him or suspicious circumstances-Pipe-cleaner.
CYRUS HARDMAN, American subject, Berth No. 16.
Motive-None known.
Alibi-Midnight   to   2   A.M.  Did  not   leave   compartment.
(Substantiated by conductor except for period 1 to 1.15.)
Evidence against him or suspicious circumstances-None.
ANTONIO  FOSCARELLI, American subject (Italian by  birth),  Berth
No. 5, Second Class.
Motive-None known.
Alibi-Midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by Edward Masterman.)
Evidence  against him or suspicious circumstances-None,  except
that  weapon used might be said to suit his temperament (Vide
M. Bouc.)
MARY DEBENHAM, British subject, Berth No. 11, Second Class.
Motive-None
Alibi-Midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by Greta Ohlsson.)
Evidence  against  him or suspicious circumstances-conversation
overheard by H. P., and her refusal to explain it.
HILDEGARDE SCHMIDT, German subject, Berth No. 8, Second Class.
Motive-None.
Alibi-Midnight  to  2  A.M. (Vouched for by conductor  and  her
mistress.)  Went  to bed. Was aroused by conductor  at  12.38
approx. and went to mistress.
NOTE:-The  evidence  of  the passengers  is  supported  by  the
statement  of  the  conductor that no one  entered  or  left  Mr.
Ratchett's  compartment  from midnight  to  1  o'clock  (when  he
himself went into the next coach) and from 1.15 to 2 o'clock.
"That document, you understand," said Poirot, "is a mere prcis
of the evidence we heard, arranged in that way for convenience."
With   a   grimace,  M.  Bouc  handed  it  back.  "It  is   not
illuminating," he said.
"Perhaps  you  may find this more to your taste," said  Poirot,
with a slight smile as he handed him a second sheet of paper.
2
TEN QUESTIONS
On the paper was written:
THINGS NEEDING EXPLANATION
1.   The handkerchief marked with the initial H. Whose is it?
2.   The pipe-cleaner. Was it dropped by Colonel Arbuthnot? Or by
someone else?
3.   Who wore the scarlet kimono?
4.   Who was the man or woman masquerading in Wagon Lit uniform?
5.   Why do the hands of the watch point to 1.15?
6.   Was the murder committed at that time?
7.   Was it earlier?
8.   Was it later?
9.   Can we be sure that Ratchett was stabbed by more than one
person?
10.  What other explanation of his wounds can there be?
"Well, let us see what we can do," said M. Bouc, brightening  a
little at this challenge to his wits. The handkerchief, to  begin
with. Let us by all means be orderly and methodical."
"Assuredly,"  said  Poirot, nodding his  head  in  a  satisfied
fashion.
M. Bouc continued somewhat didactically.
The initial H is connected with three people-Mrs. Hubbard, Miss
Debenham,  whose second name is Hermione, and the maid Hildegarde
Schmidt."
"Ah! And of those three?"
"It  is  difficult to say. But I think I should vote  for  Miss
Debenham. For all one knows she may be called by her second  name
and not her first. Also there is already some suspicion attaching
to  her. That conversation you overheard, mon cher, was certainly
a little curious, and so is her refusal to explain it."
"As  for  me,  I plump for the American," said Dr. Constantine.
"It is a very expensive handkerchief, that; and Americans, as all
the world knows, do not care what they pay."
"So you both eliminate the maid?" asked Poirot.
"Yes.  As she herself said, it is the handkerchief of a  member
of the upper classes."
And the second question-the pipe-cleaner. Did Colonel Arbuthnot
drop it, or somebody else?"
"That is more difficult. The English, they do not stab. You are
right there. I incline to the view that someone else dropped  the
pipe-cleaner-and   did   so   to  incriminate   the   long-legged
Englishman."
"As  you said, M. Poirot," put in the doctor, "two clues is too
much  carelessness. I agree with M. Bouc. The handkerchief was  a
genuine oversight-hence none of the women will admit that  it  is
hers.  The  pipe-cleaner  is a faked clue.  In  support  of  that
theory,  you notice that Colonel Arbuthnot shows no embarrassment
and  admits  freely  to smoking a pipe and  using  that  type  of
cleaner."
"You reason well," said Poirot.
"Question No. 3-Who wore the scarlet kimono!" went on M.  Bouc.
"As  to that, I will confess I have not the slightest idea.  Have
you any views on the subject, Dr. Constantine?"
"None."
"Then we confess ourselves beaten there. The next question has,
at  any  rate,  possibilities. Who  was  the  man  or  the  woman
masquerading  in  Wagon  Lit uniform? Well,  one  can  list  with
certainty  a  number  of  people that it  could  not  have  been.
Hardman, Colonel Arbuthnot, Foscarelli, Count Andrenyi and Hector
MacQueen  are all too tall. Mrs. Hubbard, Hildegarde Schmidt  and
Greta  Ohlsson  are  too  broad.  That  leaves  the  valet,  Miss
Debenham, Princess Dragomiroff and Countess Andrenyi-and none  of
them  sounds  likely!  Greta Ohlsson in  one  case,  and  Antonio
Foscarelli  in the other, both swear that Miss Debenham  and  the
valet  never  left their compartments. Hildegarde Schmidt  swears
that  the  Princess was in hers, and Count Andrenyi has  told  us
that  his  wife  took  a  sleeping draught.  Therefore  it  seems
impossible that it can be anybody-which is absurd!"
"As our old friend Euclid says," murmured Poirot.
"It  must be one of those four," said Dr. Constantine.  "Unless
it  is someone from outside who has found a hiding-place-and that
we agreed was impossible."
M. Bouc had passed on to the next question on the list.
"No.  5-Why do the hands of the broken watch point to  1.15?  I
can  see  two  explanations of that. Either it was  done  by  the
murderer to establish an alibi, and afterwards, when he meant  to
leave  the compartment, he was prevented by hearing people moving
about; or else-wait-I have an idea coming-"
The  other  two waited respectfully while M. Bouc struggled  in
mental agony.
"I  have  it,"  he  said at last. "It was  not  the  Wagon  Lit
murderer who tampered with the watch! It was the person  we  have
called the Second Murderer-the left-handed person-in other  words
the woman in the scarlet kimono. She arrives later and moves back
the hands of the watch in order to make an alibi for herself."
"Bravo said Dr. Constantine. "It is well imagined, that."
"In  fact,"  said  Poirot, "she stabbed him in  the  dark,  not
realizing that he was dead already, but somehow deduced  that  he
had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands
blindly, and gave it the requisite dent."
M.  Bouc  looked  at him coldly. "Have you anything  better  to
suggest,  yourself?"  he  asked.  "At  the  moment-no,"  admitted
Poirot.  "All  the same," he went on, "I do not  think  you  have
either  of you appreciated the most interesting point about  that
watch."
"Does question No. 6 deal with it?" asked the doctor. "To  that
question-Was  the murder committed at that time,  1.15?-I  answer
No."
"I  agree,"  said  M.  Bouc. "'Was it  earlier?'  is  the  next
question. I say-Yes! You, too, doctor?"
The  doctor nodded. "Yes, but the question 'Was it later?'  can
also be answered in the affirmative. I agree with your theory, M.
Bouc, and so, I think, does M. Poirot, although he does not  wish
to  commit himself. The First Murderer came earlier than  1.  15,
but  the  Second  Murderer came after 1.15. And  as  regards  the
question  of  left-handedness, ought we  not  to  take  steps  to
ascertain which of the passengers is left-handed?"
"I have not completely neglected that point," said Poirot. "You
may  have  noticed  that  I made each passenger  write  either  a
signature  or  an address. That is not conclusive,  because  some
people do certain actions with the right hand and others with the
left.  Some write right-handed, but play golf left-handed. Still,
it  is something. Every person questioned took the pen in his  or
her  right  hand-with the exception of Princess Dragomiroff,  who
refused to write."
"Princess Dragomiroff-impossible," said M. Bouc.
"I  doubt  if  she would have had the strength to inflict  that
left-handed   blow,"  said  Dr.  Constantine   dubiously.   'That
particular wound had been inflicted with considerable force."
"More force than a woman could use?"
"No,  I  would  not say that. But I think more  force  than  an
elderly  woman could display, and Princess Dragomiroff's physique
is particularly frail."
"It  might  be a question of the influence of mind over  body,"
said  Poirot.  "Princess Dragomiroff has  great  personality  and
immense will-power. But let us pass from that for the moment."
"To  questions Nos. 9 and 10? Can we be sure that Ratchett  was
stabbed  by  more than one person, and what other explanation  of
the wounds can there be? In my opinion, medically speaking, there
can  be no other explanation of those wounds. To suggest that one
man  struck first feebly and then with violence, first  with  the
right  hand  and  then with the left, and after  an  interval  of
perhaps  half an hour inflicted fresh wounds on a dead body-well,
it does not make sense."
"No," said Poirot. "It does not make sense. And you think  that
two murderers do make sense?"
"As  you  yourself have said, what other explanation can  there
be?"
Poirot  stared  straight ahead of him.  "That  is  what  I  ask
myself," he said. "That is what I never cease to ask myself."
He leaned back in his seat.
"From  now  on,  it  is  all here." He tapped  himself  on  the
forehead.  "We  have thrashed it all out. The facts  are  all  in
front of us-neatly arranged with order and method. The passengers
have  sat  here, one by one, giving their evidence. We  know  all
that can be known-from outside ...
He gave M. Bouc an affectionate smile.
"It has been a little joke between us, has it not-this business
of  sitting back and thinking out the truth? Well, I am about  to
put  my theory into practice-here before your eyes. You two  must
do the same. Let us all three close our eyes and think...
"One  or  more  of those passengers killed Ratchett.  Which  of
them?"
3
CERTAIN SUGGESTIVE POINTS
It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke.
M.  Bouc  and  Dr. Constantine had started by  trying  to  obey
Poirot's instructions. They had endeavoured to see through a maze
of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution.
M. Bouc's thoughts had run something as follows:
"Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already
thought.  ... Poirot obviously thinks that this English  girl  is
mixed  up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is  most
unlikely.  ...  The English are extremely cold.  Probably  it  is
because  they have no figures... But that is not the point.  It
seems  that the Italian could not have done it-a pity. I  suppose
the  English valet is not lying when he said the other never left
the  compartment? But why should he! It is not easy to bribe  the
English;  they  are so unapproachable. The whole  thing  is  most
unfortunate. I wonder when we shall get out of this.  There  must
be  some  rescue  work in progress. They are  so  slow  in  these
countries ... it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything.
And  the  police of these countries, they will be most trying  to
deal  with-puffed up with importance, touchy, on  their  dignity.
They  will make a grand affair of all this. It is not often  that
such  a chance comes their way. It will be in all the newspapers.
..."
And  from  there on, M. Bouc's thoughts went along a  well-worn
course which they had already traversed some hundred times.
Dr. Constantine's thoughts ran thus:
"He  is  queer, this little man. A genius? Or a crank? Will  he
solve this mystery? Impossible-I can see no way out of it. It  is
all  too confusing... Everyone is lying, perhaps... But  even
then,  that does not help one. If they are all lying, it is  just
as  confusing as if they were speaking the truth. Odd about those
wounds.  I  cannot  understand it...  It  would  be  easier  to
understand if he had been shot-after all, the term 'gunman'  must
mean  that  they shoot with a gun. A curious country, America.  I
should like to go there. It is so progressive. When I get home  I
must get hold of Demetrius Zagone-he has been to America, he  has
all  the  modern ideas... I wonder what Zia is  doing  at  this
moment. If my wife ever finds out-"
His thoughts went on to entirely private matters...
Hercule Poirot sat very still.
One might have thought he was asleep.
And  then,  suddenly,  after a quarter of  an  hour's  complete
immobility  his eyebrows began to move slowly up his forehead.  A
little sigh escaped him. He murmured beneath his breath.
"But  after  all,  why not? And if so-why, if  so,  that  would
explain everything."
His  eyes opened. They were green like a cat's. He said softly:
"Eh bien. I have thought. And you?"
Lost in their reflections, both men started violently.
"I  have  thought  also," said M. Bouc, just a shade  guiltily.
"But I have arrived at no conclusion. The elucidation of crime is
your mtier, not mine, my friend."
"I,  too,  have  reflected with great  earnestness,"  said  the
doctor,   unblushingly  recalling  his  thoughts   from   certain
pornographic details. "I have thought of many possible  theories,
but not one that really satisfies me."
Poirot nodded amiably. His nod seemed to say:
"Quite  right. That is the proper thing to say. You have  given
me the cue I expected."
He  sat  very  upright,  threw  out  his  chest,  caressed  his
moustache  and  spoke  in  the  manner  of  a  practised  speaker
addressing a public meeting.
"My  friends,  I have reviewed the facts in my mind,  and  have
also gone over to myself the evidence of the passengers-with this
result:  I  see,  nebulously as yet, a certain  explanation  that
would  cover  the  facts as we know them. It is  a  very  curious
explanation, and I cannot be sure as yet that it is the true one.
To find out definitely I shall have to make certain experiments.
"I  would like first to mention certain points which appear  to
me  suggestive. Let us start with a remark made to me by M.  Bouc
in this very place on the occasion of our first lunch together on
the  train.  He commented on the fact that we were surrounded  by
people of all classes, of all ages, of all nationalities. That is
a  fact somewhat rare at this time of year. The Athens-Paris  and
the  Bucharest-Paris  coaches, for instance,  are  almost  empty.
Remember  also, the passenger who failed to turn  up.  He  is,  I
think,  significant. Then there are some minor points that strike
me  as  suggestive-for instance, the position of  Mrs.  Hubbard's
sponge-bag,  the name of Mrs. Armstrong's mother,  the  detective
methods  of  M.  Hardman,  the suggestion  of  M.  MacQueen  that
Ratchett  himself destroyed the charred note we  found,  Princess
Dragomiroff's  Christian name, and a grease spot on  a  Hungarian
passport."
The two men stared at him.
"Do they suggest anything to you, those points?" asked Poirot.
"Not a thing," said M. Bouc frankly.
"And M. le docteur?"
"I do not understand in the least what you are talking of."
M.  Bouc,  meanwhile, seizing upon the one tangible  thing  his
friend  had mentioned, was sorting through the passports. With  a
grunt he picked up that of Count and Countess Andrenyi and opened
it.
"Is this what you mean? This dirty mark?"
"Yes.  It  is a fairly fresh grease spot. You notice  where  it
occurs?"
"At  the  beginning of the description of the Count's  wife-her
Christian  name, to be exact. But I confess that I still  do  not
see the point."
"I  am going to approach it from another angle. Let us go  back
to the handkerchief found at the scene of the crime. As we stated
not long ago, three people are associated with the letter H: Mrs.
Hubbard, Miss Debenham and the maid, Hildegarde Schmidt. Now  let
us regard that handkerchief from another point of view. It is, my
friends,  an extremely expensive handkerchief-an objet  de  luxe,
hand-made,  embroidered in Paris. Which of the passengers,  apart
from the initial, was likely to own such a handkerchief? Not Mrs.
Hubbard,   a  worthy  woman  with  no  pretensions  to   reckless
extravagance   in   dress.  Not  Miss  Debenham-that   class   of
Englishwoman  has a dainty linen handkerchief, not  an  expensive
wisp of cambric costing perhaps two hundred francs. And certainly
not  the  maid. But there are two women on the tram who would  be
likely  to own such a handkerchief. Let us see if we can  connect
them  in any way with the letter H. The two women I refer to  are
Princess Dragomiroff-"
"Whose Christian name is Natalia," put in M. Bouc ironically.
"Exactly.  And  her  Christian name, as I  said  just  now,  is
decidedly  suggestive. The other woman is Countess Andrenyi.  And
at once something strikes us-"
"You!"
"Me, then. Her Christian name on her passport is disfigured  by
a  blob  of  grease.  just an accident,  anyone  would  say.  But
consider  that  Christian name. Elena. Suppose that,  instead  of
Elena,  it  were Helena. That capital H could be  turned  into  a
capital  E  and  then  run over the small  e  next  to  it  quite
easily-and  then  a  spot  of grease  dropped  to  cover  up  the
alteration."
"Helena!" cried M. Bouc. "It is an idea, that."
"Certainly  it  is an idea! I look about for any  confirmation,
however  slight,  of my idea-and I find it. One  of  the  luggage
labels on the Countess's baggage is slightly damp. It is one that
happens  to  run over the first initial on top of the case.  That
label has been soaked off and put on again in a different place."
"You  begin  to convince me," said M. Bouc. "But  the  Countess
Andrenyi-surely-"
"Ah,  now, mon vieux, you must turn yourself round and approach
an  entirely  different angle of the case. How  was  this  murder
intended to appear to everybody? Do not forget that the snow  has
upset  all  the murderer's original plan. Let us imagine,  for  a
little minute, that there is no snow, that the train proceeded on
its normal course. What, then, would have happened?
"The  murder,  let us say, would still have been discovered  in
all  probability at the Italian frontier early this morning. Much
of the same evidence would have been given to the Italian police.
The  threatening letters would have been produced by M. MacQueen;
M.  Hardman  would have told his story; Mrs. Hubbard  would  have
been eager to tell how a man passed through her compartment;  the
button  would  have been found. I imagine that  two  things  only
would have been different. The man would have passed through Mrs.
Hubbard's  compartment just before one o'clock-and the Wagon  Lit
uniform would have been found cast off in one of the toilets."
"You mean?"
"I  mean  that the murder was planned to look like  an  outside
job.  It would have been presumed that the assassin had left  the
train at Brod where it is timed to arrive at 0.58. Somebody would
probably  have  passed  a  strange Wagon  Lit  conductor  in  the
corridor. The uniform would be left in a conspicuous place so  as
to  show clearly just how the trick had been played. No suspicion
would have attached to the passengers. That, my friends, was  how
the affair was intended to appear to the outside world.
"But the accident to the train changes everything. Doubtless we
have here the reason why the man remained in the compartment with
his victim so long. He was waiting for the train to go on. But at
last he realised that the train was not going on. Different plans
would  have  to be made. The murderer would now be  known  to  be
still on the train."
"Yes,  yes,"  said M. Bouc impatiently. "I see  all  that.  But
where does the handkerchief come in?"
"I  am returning to it by a somewhat circuitous route. To begin
with,  you must realise that the threatening letters were in  the
nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out  of  an
indifferently  written American crime novel. They are  not  real.
They  are, in fact, simply intended for the police. What we  have
to  ask ourselves is: 'Did they deceive Ratchett?' On the face of
it,  the answer seems to be No. His instructions to Hardman  seem
to  point to a definite 'private' enemy, of whose identity he was
well  aware. That is, if we accept Hardman's story as  true.  But
Ratchett  certainly  received one  letter  of  a  very  different
character-the one containing a reference to the Armstrong baby, a
fragment  of which we found in his compartment. In case  Ratchett
had  not  realised  it  sooner, this was to  make  sure  that  he
understood  the  reason  of the threats against  his  life.  That
letter,  as I have said all along, was not intended to be  found.
The  murderer's first care was to destroy it. This, then, was the
second hitch in his plans. The first was the snow, the second was
our reconstruction of that fragment.
"That  the  note was destroyed so carefully can mean  only  one
thing. There must be on the train someone so intimately connected
with  the  Armstrong family that the finding of that  note  would
immediately direct suspicion upon that person.
"Now  we come to the other two clues that we found. I pass over
the  pipe-cleaner. We have already said a good deal  about  that.
Let us pass on to the handkerchief. Taken at its simplest it is a
clue which directly incriminates someone whose initial is H,  and
it was dropped there unwittingly by that person."
"Exactly,"  said Dr. Constantine. "She finds out that  she  has
dropped  the handkerchief and immediately takes steps to  conceal
her Christian name."
"How fast you go! You arrive at a conclusion much sooner than I
would permit myself to do."
"Is there any other alternative?"
'Certainly  there  is.  Suppose, for instance,  that  you  have
committed  a crime and wish to cast the blame for it  on  someone
else.  Well,  there  is on the train a certain  person  connected
intimately with the Armstrong family-a woman. Suppose, then, that
you  leave there a handkerchief belonging to that woman. She will
be  questioned, her connection with the Armstrong family will  be
brought  out-et  voil:  motive-and an incriminating  article  of
evidence."
"But  in  such  a  case,"  objected  the  doctor,  "the  person
indicated,  being innocent, would not take steps to  conceal  her
identity."
"Ah,  really?  That  is what you think?  That  is,  truly,  the
opinion  of the police court. But I know human nature, my friend,
and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility  of
being  tried for murder, the most innocent person will  lose  his
head  and do the most absurd things. No, no, the grease spot  and
the  changed  label do not prove guilt-they only prove  that  the
Countess  Andrenyi  is  anxious for some reason  to  conceal  her
identity."
"What do you think her connection with the Armstrong family can
be? She has never been in America, she says."
"Exactly, and she speaks English with a foreign accent, and she
has  a  very  foreign  appearance which she exaggerates.  But  it
should not be difficult to guess who she is. I mentioned just now
the  name  of Mrs. Armstrong's mother. It was 'Linda Arden,'  and
she   was   a  very  celebrated  actress-among  other  things   a
Shakespearean actress. Think of As You Like It, with  the  Forest
of  Arden and Rosalind. It was there she got the inspiration  for
her  acting name. 'Linda Arden,' the name by which she was  known
all  over  the  world, was not her real name. It  may  have  been
Goldenberg;  it  is  quite likely that she had  Central  European
blood   in   her   veins-a  strain  of  Jewish,   perhaps.   Many
nationalities drift to America. I suggest to you, gentlemen, that
that  young sister of Mrs. Armstrong's, little more than a  child
at  the  time of the tragedy, was Helena Goldenberg, the  younger
daughter of Linda Arden, and that she married Count Andrenyi when
he was an attach in Washington."
"But  Princess  Dragomiroff  says  that  the  girl  married  an
Englishman."
"Whose name she cannot remember! I ask you, my friends, is that
really  likely? Princess Dragomiroff loved Linda Arden  as  great
ladies  do  love great artists. She was godmother to one  of  the
actress's daughters. Would she forget so quickly the married name
of  the  other  daughter? It is not likely. No, I  think  we  can
safely  say that Princess Dragomiroff was lying. She knew  Helena
was on the train, she had seen her. She realised at once, as soon
as  she  heard  who  Ratchett really was, that  Helena  would  be
suspected.  And  so, when we question her as to the  sister,  she
promptly  lies-is  vague,  cannot remember,  but  'thinks  Helena
married an Englishman'-a suggestion as far away from the truth as
possible."
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  dner  est servi.  Premier  dner-First
service."
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."
"In fact, all that your husband and you told me was a tissue of
lies."
"Monsieur!" cried the Count angrily.
"Do  not  be  angry, Rudolph. M. Poirot puts  the  fact  rather
brutally, but what he says is undeniable."
"I  am glad you admit the fact so freely, Madame. Will you  now
tell  me  your  reasons  for that, and  also  for  altering  your
Christian name on your passport?"
"That was my doing entirely," put in the Count.
Helena  said  quietly: "Surely, M. Poirot,  you  can  guess  my
reason-our  reason.  This  man who was  killed  is  the  man  who
murdered  my  baby  niece, who killed my  sister,  who  broke  my
brother-in-law's heart. Three of the people I loved best and  who
made up my home-my world!"
Her  voice  rang out passionately. She was a true  daughter  of
that  mother the emotional force of whose acting had  moved  huge
audiences to tears.
She went on more quietly.
"Of  all the people on the train I alone had probably the  best
motive for killing him."
"And you did not kill him, Madame?"
"I  swear to you, M. Poirot-and my husband knows-and will swear
also-that  much  as I may have been tempted to  do  so,  I  never
lifted a hand against that man."
"I,  too,  gentlemen." said the Count. "I give you my  word  of
honour  that  last  night Helena never left her compartment.  She
took  a  sleeping draught exactly as I said. She is  utterly  and
entirely innocent."
Poirot looked from one to the other of them.
"On my word of honour," repeated the Count.
Poirot shook his head slightly.
"And  yet  you took it upon yourself to alter the name  in  the
passport?"
"Monsieur  Poirot," the Count said earnestly and  passionately,
"consider my position. Do you think I could stand the thought  of
my wife dragged through a sordid police case? She was innocent, I
knew  it,  but  what she said was true-because of her  connection
with  the  Armstrong  family  she  would  have  been  immediately
suspected.  She  would  have  been questioned-attested,  perhaps.
Since some evil chance had taken us on the same train as this man
Ratchett, there was, I felt sure, but one thing for it. I  admit,
Monsieur, that I lied to you-all, that is, save in one thing.  My
wife never left her compartment last night."
He spoke with an earnestness that it was hard to gainsay.
"I  do  not  say that I disbelieve you, Monsieur," said  Poirot
slowly.  "Your  family is, I know, a proud and  ancient  one.  It
would be bitter indeed for you to have your wife dragged into  an
unpleasant police case. With that I can sympathise. But how  then
do  you explain the presence of your wife's handkerchief actually
in the dead man's compartment?"
"That handkerchief is not mine, Monsieur," said the Countess.
"In spite of the initial H?"
"In spite of the initial. I have handkerchiefs not unlike that,
but  not  one that is exactly of that pattern. I know, of course,
that  I cannot hope to make you believe me, but I assure you that
it is so. That handkerchief is not mine."
"It  may  have  been  placed  there  by  someone  in  order  to
incriminate you?"
She  smiled a little. "You are enticing me to admit that, after
all, it is mine? But indeed, M. Poirot, it isn't." She spoke with
great earnestness.
"Then why, if the handkerchief was not yours, did you alter the
name in the passport?"
The Count answered this.
"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."
Helena  pondered deeply. Then she said: "No-I am sure-there  is
no one."
"You yourself-you were a young girl at the time-did you have no
one to superintend your studies or to look after you?"
"Oh!  yes,  I  had  a  dragon-a sort of  governess  to  me  and
secretary to Sonia combined. She was English-or rather Scotch;  a
big red-haired woman."
"What was her name?"
"Miss Freebody."
"Young or old?"
"She  seemed frightfully old to me. I suppose she couldn't have
been  more than forty. Susanne, of course, used to look after  my
clothes and maid me."
"And there were no other inmates of the house?"
"Only servants."
"And  you  are  certain, quite certain, Madame, that  you  have
recognised no one on the train?"
She replied earnestly: "No one, Monsieur. No one at all."
5
THE CHRISTIAN NAME OF PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF
When the Count and Countess had departed, Poirot looked across at
the other two.
"You see," he said "we make progress."
"Excellent work," said M. Bouc cordially. "On my part, I should
never  have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Andrenyi.  I
will  admit I thought them quite hors de combat. I suppose  there
is  no  doubt  that she committed the crime? It  is  rather  sad.
Still,  they  will  not  guillotine her.  There  are  extenuating
circumstances. A few years' imprisonment-that will be all."
"In fact you are quite certain of her guilt."
"My  dear friend-surely there is no doubt of it? I thought your
reassuring manner was only to smooth things over till we are  dug
out of the snow and the police take charge."
"You  do not believe the Count's positive assertion-on his word
of honor-that his wife is innocent?"
"Mon cher-naturally-what else could he say? He adores his wife.
He  wants  to save her! He tells his lie very well-quite  in  the
grand seigneur manner. But what else than a lie could it be?"
"Well,  you know, I had the preposterous idea that it might  be
the truth."
"No,  no. The handkerchief, remember. The handkerchief clinches
the matter."
"Oh,  I am not so sure about the handkerchief. You remember,  I
always  told  you  that there were two possibilities  as  to  the
ownership of the handkerchief."
"All the same-"
M. Bouc broke off. The door at the end had opened, and Princess
Dragomiroff entered the dining-car. She came straight to them and
all three men rose to their feet.
She spoke to Poirot, ignoring the others.
"I  believe, Monsieur," she said, "that you have a handkerchief
of mine."
Poirot shot a glance of triumph at the other two.
"Is this it, Madame?"
He produced the little square of fine cambric.
"That is it. It has my initial in the corner."
"But, Madame la Princesse, that is the letter H," said M. Bouc.
"Your Christian name-pardon me-is Natalia."
She gave him a cold stare.
"That   is  correct,  Monsieur.  My  handkerchiefs  are  always
initialled in the Russian characters. H is N in Russian."
M.  Bouc  was  somewhat taken aback. There was something  about
this  indomitable  old  lady which made him  feel  flustered  and
uncomfortable.
"You  did not tell us that this handkerchief was yours  at  the
inquiry this morning."
"You did not ask me," said the Princess drily.
"Pray be seated, Madame," said Poirot.
She sighed. "I may as well, I suppose." She sat down.
"You need not make a long business of this, Messieurs."
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."
"No.  By the way, did you notice that Count Andrenyi keeps  his
handkerchief in his right-hand breast pocket?"
M.  Bouc  shook his head. His mind reverted to the  astonishing
revelations of the last half-hour. He murmured:
"Lies-and again lies. It amazes me, the number of lies  we  had
told to us this morning."
"There are more still to discover," said Poirot cheerfully.
"You think so?"
"I shall be very much disappointed if it is not so."
"Such  duplicity is terrible," said M. Bouc. "But it  seems  to
please you," he added reproachfully.
"It  has this advantage," said Poirot. "If you confront  anyone
who  has lied with the truth, he will usually admit it-often  out
of sheer surprise. It is only necessary to guess right to produce
your effect.
"That  is  the  only way to conduct this case.  I  select  each
passenger  in  turn,  consider his or her evidence,  and  say  to
myself,  'If so and so is lying, on what point is he  lying,  and
what  is  the  reason  for the lie?' And  I  answer,  'If  he  is
lying-if, you mark-it could only be for such a reason and on such
a  point.' We have done that once very successfully with Countess
Andrenyi. We shall now proceed to try the same method on  several
other persons."
"And  supposing,  my  friend, that your  guess  happens  to  be
wrong?"
"Then  one  person, at any rate, will be completely freed  from
suspicion."
"Ah!-a process of elimination."
"Exactly."
"And whom do we tackle next?"
"We are going to tackle that pukka sahib, Colonel Arbuthnot."
6
A SECOND INTERVIEW WITH COLONEL ARBUTHNOT
Colonel  Arbuthnot was clearly annoyed at being summoned  to  the
dining-car  for  a  second  interview.  His  face  wore  a   most
forbidding expression as he sat down and said:
"Well?"
"All  my  apologies  for troubling you  a  second  time,"  said
Poirot.  "But there is still some information that  I  think  you
might be able to give us."
"Indeed? I hardly think so."
"To begin with, you see this pipe-cleaner?"
"Yes."
"Is it one of yours?"
"Don't know. I don't put a private mark on them, you know."
"Are  you  aware, Colonel Arbuthnot, that you are the only  man
amongst the passengers in the Stamboul-Calais carriage who smokes
a pipe?"
"In that case it probably is one of mine."
"Do you know where it was found?"
"Not the least idea."
"It was found by the body of the murdered man."
Colonel Arbuthnot raised his eyebrows.
"Can  you tell us, Colonel Arbuthnot, how it is likely to  have
got there?"
"If you mean, did I drop it there myself, no, I didn't."
"Did you go into Mr. Ratchett's compartment at any time?"
"I never even spoke to the man."
"You never spoke to him and you did not murder him?"
The colonel's eyebrows went up again sardonically.
"If  I had, I should hardly be likely to acquaint you with  the
fact. As a matter of fact I didn't murder the fellow."
"Ah, well," murmured Poirot. "It is of no consequence."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said that it was of no consequence."
"Oh!" Arbuthnot looked taken aback. He eyed Poirot uneasily.
"Because,  you  see,"  continued the  little  man,  "the  pipe-
cleaner,  it  is of no importance. I can myself think  of  eleven
other excellent explanations of its presence."
Arbuthnot stared at him.
"What  I  really  wished  to see you about  was  quite  another
matter,"  went  on  Poirot. "Miss Debenham  may  have  told  you,
perhaps, that I overheard some words spoken to you at the station
of Konya?"
Arbuthnot did not reply.
"She  said, 'Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us!'
Do you know to what those words referred?"
"I  am  sorry,  M.  Poirot, but I must refuse  to  answer  that
question."
"Pourquoi?"
The Colonel said stiffly, "I suggest that you ask Miss Debenham
herself for the meaning of those words."
"I have done so."
"And she refused to tell you?"
"Yes."
"Then I should think it would have been perfectly plain-even to
you-that my lips are sealed."
"You will not give away a lady's secret?"
"You can put it that way, if you like."
"Miss  Debenham told me that they referred to a private  matter
of her own."
"Then why not accept her word for it?"
"Because,  Colonel Arbuthnot, Miss Debenham is what  one  might
call a highly suspicious character."
"Nonsense," said the Colonel with warmth.
"It is not nonsense."
"You have nothing whatever against her."
"Not  the  fact that Miss Debenham was companion governess;  in
the  Armstrong household at the time of the kidnapping of  little
Daisy Armstrong?"
There was a minute's dead silence.
Poirot nodded his head gently.
"You  see,"  he  said. "We know more than you  think.  If  Miss
Debenham is innocent, why did she conceal that fact? Why did  she
tell me that she had never been in America?"
The  Colonel cleared his throat. "Aren't you possibly making  a
mistake?"
"I am making no mistake. Why did Miss Debenham lie to me?"
Colonel  Arbuthnot shrugged his shoulders. "You had better  ask
her. I still think that you are wrong."
Poirot  raised  his  voice and called. One  of  the  restaurant
attendants came from the far end of the car.
"Go  and  ask  the English lady in No. 11 if she will  be  good
enough to come here."
"Bien, Monsieur."
The  man  departed.  The  four  men  sat  in  silence.  Colonel
Arbuthnot's  face looked as though it were carved  out  of  wood,
rigid and impassive.
The man returned.
"The lady is just coming, Monsieur."
"Thank you."
A minute or two later Mary Debenham entered the dining-car.
7
THE IDENTITY OF MARY DEBENHAM
She  wore no hat. Her head was thrown back as though in defiance.
"The  sweep  of  her hair back from her face, the  curve  of  her
nostril  suggested  the figure-head of a ship plunging  gallantly
into a rough sea. In that moment she was beautiful.
Her eyes went to Arbuthnot for a minute-just a minute. She said
to Poirot, "You wished to see me?"
"I  wished  to ask you, Mademoiselle, why you lied to  us  this
morning?"
"Lied to you? I don't know what you mean."
"You  concealed  the  fact that at the time  of  the  Armstrong
tragedy  you were actually living in the house. You told me  that
you had never been in America."
He saw her flinch for a moment and then recover herself.
"Yes," she said. "That is true."
"No, Mademoiselle, it was false."
"You  misunderstood me. I mean that it is true that I  lied  to
you."
"Ah, you admit it?"
Her  lips curved into a smile. "Certainly, since you have found
me out."
"You are at least frank, Mademoiselle."
"There does not seem anything else for me to be."
"Well,  of course, that is true. And now, Mademoiselle,  may  I
ask you the reason for these evasions?"
"I should have thought the reason leapt to the eye, M. Poirot."
"It does not leap to mine, Mademoiselle."
She  said in a quiet even voice with a trace of hardness in it,
"I have my living to get."
"You mean-?"
She  raised her eyes and looked him full in the face. "How much
do  you  know,  M.  Poirot, of the fight to get and  keep  decent
employment?  Do  you think that a girl who had been  detained  in
connection  with a murder case, whose name and perhaps photograph
were  reproduced in the English papers-do you think that any nice
ordinary  middle-class woman would want to engage  that  girl  as
governess to her daughters?"
"I do not see why not-if no blame attached to you."
"Oh,  blame-it  is not blame-it is the publicity!  So  far,  M.
Poirot,  I have succeeded in life. I have had well-paid, pleasant
posts.  I was not going to risk the position I had attained  when
no good end could have been served."
"I  will  venture to suggest, Mademoiselle, that I  would  have
been the best judge of that, not you."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"For  instance,  you  could have helped me  in  the  matter  of
identification."
"What do you mean?"
"Is  it  possible, Mademoiselle, that you did not recognise  in
the  Countess  Andrenyi, Mrs. Armstrong's young sister  whom  you
taught in New York?"
"Countess  Andrenyi?  No." She shook her  head.  "It  may  seem
extraordinary  to you-but I did not recognise her.  She  was  not
grown  up,  you see, when I knew her. That was over  three  years
ago.  It  is  true that the Countess reminded me of  someone;  it
puzzled  me. But she looks so foreign-I never connected her  with
the  little  American schoolgirl. I only glanced at her  casually
when  coming  into the restaurant car, and I noticed her  clothes
more  than  her  face."  She  smiled  faintly.  "Women  do!   And
then-well-I had my own preoccupations."
"You will not tell me your secret, Mademoiselle?"
Poirot's voice was very gentle and persuasive.
She said in a low voice, "I can't-I can't."
And  suddenly,  without warning, she broke down,  dropping  her
face  down  upon her outstretched arms and crying as  though  her
heart would break.
The Colonel sprang up and stood awkwardly beside her.
"I-look here-"
He stopped and turning round scowled fiercely at Poirot.
"I'll  break  every bone in your damned body, you dirty  little
whipper-snapper," he said.
"Monsieur," protested M. Bouc.
Arbuthnot had turned back to the girl. "Mary-for God's sake-"
She sprang up. "It's nothing. I'm all right. You don't need  me
any  more, do you, M. Poirot? If you do, you must come  and  find
me.  Oh,  what an idiot-what an idiot I'm making of myself!"  She
hurried out of the car.
Arbuthnot, before following her, turned once more on Poirot.
"Miss  Debenham's got nothing to do with this business-nothing,
do  you  hear?  And if she's worried and interfered with,  you'll
have me to deal with." He strode out.
"I  like  to see an angry Englishman," said Poirot.  "They  are
very amusing. The more emotional they feel, the less command they
have of language."
But  M.  Bouc was not interested in the emotional reactions  of
Englishmen. He was overcome by admiration of his friend.
"Mon  cher,  vous tes patant!" he cried. "Another  miraculous
guess."
"It  is  incredible  how you think of these things,"  said  Dr.
Constantine admiringly.
"Oh,  I claim no credit this time. It was not a guess. Countess
Andrenyi practically told me."
"Comment? Surely not?"
"You remember, I asked her about her governess or companion?  I
had  already decided in my mind that if Mary Debenham were  mixed
up  in the matter, she must have figured in the household in some
such capacity."
"Yes,  but  the Countess Andrenyi described a totally different
person."
"Exactly.  A tall middle-aged woman with red hair-in fact,  the
exact  opposite in every respect of Miss Debenham, so much so  as
to  be  quite  remarkable. But then she  had  to  invent  a  name
quickly,  and  there it was that the unconscious  association  of
ideas gave her away. She said, Miss Freebody, you remember."
"Yes?"
"Eh  bien,  you may not know it, but there is a shop in  London
that was called until recently Debenham & Freebody. With the name
Debenham  running in her head, the Countess clutches  at  another
name  quickly, and the first that comes is Freebody. Naturally  I
understood immediately."
"That is yet another lie. Why did she do it?'
"Possibly more loyalty. It makes things a little difficult."
"Ma  foi!"  said M. Bouc with violence. "But does everybody  on
this train tell lies?"
"That," said Poirot, "is what we are about to find out."
8
FURTHER SURPRISING REVELATIONS
"Nothing would surprise me now," said M. Bouc.
"Nothing! Even if everybody in the train proved to have been in
the Armstrong household, I should not express surprise."
"That is a very profound remark," said Poirot. "Would you  like
to  see  what your favorite suspect, the Italian, has to say  for
himself?"
"You  are  going  to  make another of these famous  guesses  of
yours?"
"Precisely."
"It is really a most extraordinary case," said Constantine.
"No, it is most natural."
M.  Bouc  flung up his arms in comic despair. "If this is  what
you call natural, mon ami-" Words failed him.
Poirot  had by this time requested the dining-car attendant  to
fetch Antonio Foscarelli.
The  big Italian had a wary look in his eye as he came  in.  He
shot nervous glances from side to side like a trapped animal.
"What  do  you  want!" he said. "I have nothing  more  to  tell
you-nothing,  do you hear? Per Dio-" He struck his  hand  on  the
table.
"Yes,  you have something more to tell us," said Poirot firmly.
"The truth!"
"The  truth?"  He  shot an uneasy glance  at  Poirot.  All  the
assurance and geniality had gone out of his manner.
"Mais oui. It may be that I know it already. But it will  be  a
point in your favour if it comes from you spontaneously."
"You  talk like the American police. 'Come clean'-that is  what
they say-'come clean.' "
"Ah! so you have had experience of the New York police?"
"No, no, never. They could not prove a thing against me-but  it
was not for want of trying."
Poirot  said quietly: "That was in the Armstrong case,  was  it
not? You were the chauffeur?"
His  eyes met those of the Italian. The bluster went out of the
big man. He was like a pricked balloon.
"Since you know-why ask me?"
"Why did you lie this morning?"
"Business  reasons.  Besides, I  do  not  trust  the  Jugo-Slav
police.  They  hate the Italians. They would not  have  given  me
justice."
"Perhaps it is exactly justice that they would have given you!"
"No,  no, I had nothing to do with this business last night.  I
never  left my carriage. The long-faced Englishman, he  can  tell
you  so.  It  was  not I who killed this pig-this  Ratchett.  You
cannot prove anything against me."
Poirot was writing something on a sheet of paper. He looked  up
and said quietly: "Very good. You can go."
Foscarelli lingered uneasily. "You realise that it was  not  I?
That I could have had nothing to do with it!"
"I said that you could go."
"It  is a conspiracy. You are going to frame me? All for a  pig
of a man who should have gone to the chair! It was an infamy that
he did not. If it had been me-if I had been arrested-"
"But  it was not you. You had nothing to do with the kidnapping
of the child."
"What is that you are saying? Why, that little one-she was  the
delight of the house. Tonio, she called me. And she would sit  in
the  car  and  pretend  to  hold the  wheel.  All  the  household
worshipped her! Even the police came to understand that. Ah,  the
beautiful little one!"
His  voice had softened. The tears came into his eyes. Then  he
wheeled  round abruptly on his heel and strode out of the dining-
car.
"Pietro," called Poirot.
The dining-car attendant came at a run.
"The No. 10-the Swedish lady."
"Bien, Monsieur."
"Another?"  cried M. Bouc. "Ah, no-it is not possible.  I  tell
you it is not possible."
"Mon cher-we have to know. Even if in the end everybody on  the
train  proves to have had a motive for killing Ratchett, we  have
to know. Once we know, we can settle once for all where the guilt
lies."
"My head is spinning," groaned M. Bouc.
Greta  Ohlsson was ushered in sympathetically by the attendant.
She was weeping bitterly.
She  collapsed on the seat facing Poirot and wept steadily into
a large handkerchief.
"Now  do  not distress yourself, Mademoiselle. Do not  distress
yourself," Poirot patted her on the shoulder. "Just a few  little
words of truth, that is all. You were the nurse who was in charge
of little Daisy Armstrong?"
"It  is true-it is true," wept the wretched woman. "Ah, she was
an  angel-a  little sweet trustful angel. She  knew  nothing  but
kindness  and  love-and  she  was  taken  away  by  that   wicked
man-cruelly treated-and her poor mother-and the other little  one
who  never lived at all. You cannot understand-you cannot know-if
you  had  been there as I was-if you had seen the whole  terrible
tragedy!  I  ought to have told you the truth about  myself  this
morning. But I was afraid-afraid. I did so rejoice that that evil
man  was  dead-that he could not any more kill or torture  little
children. Ah! I cannot speak-I have no words..."
She wept with more vehemence than ever.
Poirot   continued   to  pat  her  gently  on   the   shoulder.
"There-there-I  comprehend-I comprehend everything-everything,  I
tell you. I will ask you no more questions. It is enough that you
have  admitted what I know to be the truth. I understand, I  tell
you."
By  now  inarticulate with sobs, Greta Ohlsson rose and  groped
her  way towards the door. As she reached it she collided with  a
man coming in.
It was the valet-Masterman.
He  came  straight up to Poirot and spoke in his  usual  quiet,
unemotional voice'.
"I hope I'm not intruding, sir. I thought it best to come along
at  once,  sir, and tell you the truth. I was Colonel Armstrong's
batman  in  the War, sir, and afterwards I was his valet  in  New
York. I'm afraid I concealed that fact this morning. It was  very
wrong  of me, sir, and I thought I'd better come and make a clean
breast  of it. But I hope, sir, that you're not suspecting  Tonio
in  any way. Old Tonio, sir, wouldn't hurt a fly. And I can swear
positively  that he never left the carriage all last  night.  So,
you see, sir, he couldn't have done it. Tonio may be a foreigner,
sir,  but  he's  a  very gentle creature. Not  like  those  nasty
murdering Italians one reads about."
He stopped.
Poirot looked steadily at him. "Is that all you have to say?"
"That is all, sir."
He paused; then, as Poirot did not speak, he made an apologetic
little  bow  and after a momentary hesitation left the dining-car
in the same quiet unobtrusive fashion as he had come.
"This,"  said Dr. Constantine, "is more wildly improbable  than
any roman policier I have ever read."
"I  agree,"  said  M. Bouc. "Of the twelve passengers  in  that
coach,  nine have been proved to have had a connection  with  the
Armstrong case. What next, I ask you? Or should I say, who next?"
"I  can  almost  give  you the answer to your  question,"  said
Poirot. "Here comes our American sleuth, Mr. Hardman."
"Is he, too, coming to confess?"
Before Poirot could reply the American had reached their table.
He  cocked an alert eye at them and sitting down he drawled  out:
"Just exactly what's up on this train? It seems bughouse to me."
Poirot twinkled at him.
"Are  you  quite sure, Mr. Hardman, that you yourself were  not
the gardener at the Armstrong home?"
"They didn't have a garden," replied Mr. Hardman literally.
"Or the butler?"
"Haven't  got the fancy manners for a place like  that.  No,  I
never  had  any  connection  with  the  Armstrong  house-but  I'm
beginning  to  believe I'm about the only one on this  train  who
hadn't! Can you beat it? That's what I say-can you beat it?"
"It is certainly a little surprising," said Poirot mildly.
"C'est rigolo," burst from M. Bouc.
"Have  you any ideas of your own about the crime, Mr. Hardman?"
inquired Poirot.
"No,  sir. It's got me beat. I don't know how to figure it out.
They  can't  all  be in it-but which one is the guilty  party  is
beyond  me. How did you get wise to all this? That's what I  want
to know."
"I just guessed."
"Then,  believe  me, you're a pretty slick guesser.  Yes,  I'll
tell the world you're a slick guesser."
Mr. Hardman leaned back and looked at Poirot admiringly.
"You'll  excuse me," he said, "but no one would believe  it  to
look at you. I take off my hat to you. I do indeed."
"You are too kind, M. Hardman."
"Not at all. I've got to hand it to you."
"All  the  same," said Poirot, "the problem is  not  yet  quite
solved.  Can  we say with authority that we know  who  killed  M.
Ratchett?"
"Count  me out," said Mr. Hardman. "I'm not saying anything  at
all.  I'm  just full of natural admiration. What about the  other
two  you  haven't had a guess at yet? The old American dame,  and
the  lady's-maid? I suppose we can take it that they're the  only
innocent parties on the train?"
"Unless,"  said  Poirot, smiling, "we can  fit  them  into  our
little  collection as-shall we say-housekeeper and  cook  in  the
Armstrong household?"
"Well,  nothing in the world would surprise me now,"  said  Mr.
Hardman  with  quiet  resignation.  "Bughouse-that's  what   this
business is-bughouse!"
"Ah!  mon  cher, that would be indeed stretching coincidence  a
little too far," said M. Bouc. "They cannot all be in it."
Poirot looked at him. "You do not understand," he said. "You do
not understand at all. Tell me, do you know who killed Ratchett?"
"Do you?" countered M. Bouc.
Poirot nodded. "Oh, yes," he said. "I have known for some time.
It  is  so  clear that I wonder you have not seen  it  also."  He
looked at Hardman and asked: "And you?"
The detective shook his head. He stared at Poirot curiously. "I
don't  know," he said. "I don't know at all. Which  of  them  was
it?"
Poirot was silent a minute. Then he said:
"If  you  will be so good, M. Hardman, assemble everyone  here.
There are two possible solutions of this case. I want to lay them
both before you all."
9
POIROT PROPOUNDS TWO SOLUTIONS
The  passengers came crowding into the restaurant  car  and  took
their seats round the tables. They all bore more or less the same
expression,  one  of  expectancy mingled with  apprehension.  The
Swedish  lady was still weeping, and Mrs. Hubbard was  comforting
her.
"Now   you  must  just  take  a  hold  on  yourself,  my  dear.
Everything's  going to be perfectly all right. You  mustn't  lose
your  grip on yourself. If one of us is a nasty murderer, we know
quite well it isn't you. Why, anyone would be crazy even to think
of  such  a  thing. You sit here, and I'll stay right by  you-and
don't you worry any." Her voice died away as Poirot stood up.
The  Wagon  Lit  conductor was hovering in  the  doorway.  "You
permit that I stay, Monsieur?"
"Certainly, Michel."
Poirot cleared his throat.
"Messieurs et mesdames, I will speak in English since  I  think
all  of  you  know  a little of that language.  We  are  here  to
investigate  the death of Samuel Edward Ratchett-alias  Cassetti.
There  are two possible solutions of the crime. I shall put  them
both  before  you, and I shall ask M. Bouc, and  Dr.  Constantine
here to judge which solution is the right one.
"Now you all know the facts of the case. Mr. Ratchett was found
stabbed this morning. He was last known to be alive at 12.37 last
night  when he spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor through the door.
A watch in his pyjama pocket was found to be badly dented, and it
had  stopped at a quarter past one. Dr. Constantine, who examined
the  body  when  found,  puts the time of death  as  having  been
between  midnight and two in the morning. At half an  hour  after
midnight, as you all know, the train ran into a snowdrift.  After
that time it was impossible for anyone to leave the train.
"The  evidence of Mr. Hardman, who is a member of  a  New  York
detective  agency-"  (Several  heads  turned,  to  look  at   Mr.
Hardman.)-"shows  that no one could have passed  his  compartment
(No.  16  at the extreme end) without being seen by him.  We  are
therefore  forced to the conclusion that the murderer  is  to  be
found  among the occupants of one particular coach-the  Stamboul-
Calais coach.
"That, I will say, was our theory."
"Comment?" ejaculated M. Bouc, startled.
"But  I  will put before you an alternative theory. It is  very
simple. Mr. Ratchett had a certain enemy whom he feared. He  gave
Mr.  Hardman  a description of this enemy and told him  that  the
attempt,  if  made at all, would most probably  be  made  on  the
second night out from Stamboul.
"Now  I  put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr. Ratchett
knew  a  good deal more than he told. The enemy, as Mr.  Ratchett
expected, joined the train at Belgrade or else at Vincovci by the
door  left  open by Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. MacQueen,  who  had
just  descended to the platform. He was provided with a  suit  of
Wagon Lit uniform, which he wore over his ordinary clothes, and a
pass-key  which  enabled  him to gain access  to  Mr.  Ratchett's
compartment in spite of the door's being locked. Mr. Ratchett was
under  the influence of a sleeping draught. This man stabbed  him
with  great  ferocity  and  left  the  compartment  through   the
communicating door leading to Mrs. Hubbard's compartment-"
"That's so," said Mrs. Hubbard, nodding her head.
"He  thrust the dagger he had used into Mrs. Hubbard's  sponge-
bag  in  passing.  Without knowing it, he lost a  button  of  his
uniform.  Then  he slipped out of the compartment and  along  the
corridor.  He  hastily thrust the uniform into a suitcase  in  an
empty  compartment, and a few minutes later, dressed in  ordinary
clothes, he left the train just before it started off, using  the
same means for egress-the door near the dining-car."
Everybody gasped.
"What about that watch?" demanded Mr. Hardman.
"There  you  have  the  explanation of  the  whole  thing.  Mr.
Ratchett  had omitted to put his watch back an hour as he  should
have  done  at  Tzaribrod.  His watch  still  registered  Eastern
European time, which is one hour ahead of Central European  time.
It was a quarter past twelve when Mr. Ratchett was stabbed-not  a
quarter past one."
"But  it is absurd, that explanation!" cried M. Bouc. "What  of
the voice that spoke from the compartment at twenty-three minutes
to  one? It was either the voice of Ratchett-or else that of  his
murderer."
"Not  necessarily. It might have been-well-a third person.  One
who  had gone in to speak to Ratchett and found him dead. He rang
the  bell to summon the conductor; then, as you express  it,  the
wind rose in him-he was afraid of being accused of the crime, and
he spoke pretending to be Ratchett."
"C'est possible," admitted M. Bouc grudgingly.
Poirot looked at Mrs. Hubbard. "Yes, Madame, you were going  to
say-"
"Well, I don't quite know what I was going to say. Do you think
I forgot to put my watch back too?"
"No,  Madame.  I  think  you  heard the  man  pass  through-but
unconsciously. Later you had a nightmare of a man being  in  your
compartment and woke up with a start and rang for the conductor."
"Well, I suppose that's possible," admitted Mrs. Hubbard.
Princess  Dragomiroff was looking at Poirot with a very  direct
glance. "How do you explain the evidence of my maid, Monsieur?"
"Very  simply, Madame. Your maid recognised the handkerchief  I
showed  her as yours. She somewhat clumsily tried to shield  you.
She  did  encounter the man, but earlier-while the train  was  at
Vincovci station. She pretended to have seen him at a later hour,
with a confused idea of giving you a water-tight alibi."
The  Princess bowed her head. "You have thought of  everything,
Monsieur. I-I admire you."
There was a silence.
Then  everyone jumped as Dr. Constantine suddenly hit the table
a blow with his fist.
"But  no,"  he  said.  "No,  no,  and  again  no!  That  is  an
explanation that will not hold water. It is deficient in a  dozen
minor points. The crime was not committed so-M. Poirot must  know
that perfectly well."
Poirot turned a curious glance on him. "I see," he said,  "that
I  shall  have to give you my second solution. But do not abandon
this one too abruptly. You may agree with it later."
He turned back again to face the others.
"There is another possible solution of the crime. This is how I
arrived at it.
"When  I had heard all the evidence, I leaned back and shut  my
eyes, and began to think. Certain points presented themselves  to
me  as  worthy of attention. I enumerated these points to my  two
colleagues. Some I have already elucidated-such as a grease  spot
on a passport, and so on. I will run over the points that remain.
The first and most important is a remark made to me by M. Bouc in
the  restaurant  car  at  lunch on the first  day  after  leaving
Stamboul-to the effect that the company assembled was interesting
because  it was so varied-representing as it did all classes  and
nationalities.
"I agreed with him, but when this particular point came into my
mind, I tried to imagine whether such an assembly was ever likely
to be collected under any other conditions. And the answer I made
to  myself  was-only  in America. In America  there  might  be  a
household  composed of just such varied nationalities-an  Italian
chauffeur, an English governess, a Swedish nurse, a German lady's-
maid, and so on. That led me to my scheme of 'guessing'-that  is,
casting  each  person for a certain part in the  Armstrong  drama
much  as a producer casts a play. Well, that gave me an extremely
interesting and satisfactory result.
"I  had  also  examined in my own mind each  separate  person's
evidence,  with some curious results. Take first the evidence  of
Mr.   MacQueen.  My  first  interview  with  him   was   entirely
satisfactory. But in my second he made rather a curious remark. I
had  described  to  him  the finding of  a  note  mentioning  the
Armstrong case. He said, 'But surely-' and then paused  and  went
on, 'I mean-that was rather careless of the old man.'
"Now I could feel that that was not what he had started out  to
say. Supposing what he had meant to say was 'But surely that  was
burnt!'  In  which case, MacQueen knew of the  note  and  of  its
destruction-in  other words, he was either  the  murderer  or  an
accomplice of the murderer. Very good.
"Then  the valet. He said his master was in the habit of taking
a  sleeping draught when travelling by train. That might be true,
but would Ratchett have taken one last night? The automatic under
his  pillow gave the lie to that statement. Ratchett intended  to
be on the alert last night. Whatever narcotic was administered to
him  must  have  been  given  without  his  knowledge.  By  whom?
Obviously by MacQueen or the valet.
"Now  we  come  to the evidence of Mr. Hardman. I believed  all
that  he told me about his own identity, but when it came to  the
actual  methods he had employed to guard Mr. Ratchett, his  story
was  neither  more  nor less than absurd. The only  way  to  have
protected Ratchett effectively was to pass the night actually  in
his  compartment or in some spot where he could watch  the  door.
The  one thing that his evidence did show plainly was that no one
in  any  other  part  of the train could possibly  have  murdered
Ratchett.  It  drew  a  clear  circle round  the  Stamboul-Calais
carriage.  That  seemed to me a rather curious  and  inexplicable
fact, and I put it aside to think over.
"You  probably  all  know by now of the few words  I  overheard
between  Miss  Debenham  and Colonel Arbuthnot.  The  interesting
thing  to my mind was the fact that Colonel Arbuthnot called  her
Mary  and  was  clearly on terms of intimacy with  her.  But  the
Colonel  was supposed to have met her only a few days previously.
And I know Englishmen of the Colonel's type-even if he had fallen
in  love  with  the  young lady at first  sight,  he  would  have
advanced slowly and with decorum, not rushing things. Therefore I
concluded  that  Colonel  Arbuthnot and  Miss  Debenham  were  in
reality well acquainted and were for some reason pretending to be
strangers.   Another  small  point  was  Miss   Debenham's   easy
familiarity  with the term 'long distance' for a telephone  call.
Yet  Miss  Debenham had told me that she had never  been  in  the
States.
"To  pass  to  another witness. Mrs. Hubbard had told  us  that
lying in bed she had been unable to see whether the communicating
door was bolted or not, and so had asked Miss Ohlsson to see  for
her.  Now-though her statement would have been perfectly true  if
she  had  been  occupying compartment No. 2, 4, 12  or  any  even
number,  in  which the bolt is directly under the handle  of  the
door-in the uneven numbers such as compartment No. 3 the bolt  is
well  above the handle and could not therefore be masked  by  the
sponge-bag in the least. I was forced to the conclusion that Mrs.
Hubbard was inventing an incident that had never occurred.
"And here let me say just a word or two about times. To my mind
the really interesting point about the dented watch, is the place
where  it  was  found-in Ratchett's pyjama pocket,  a  singularly
uncomfortable and unlikely place to keep one's watch,  especially
as  there is a watch 'hook' provided just by the head of the bed.
I  felt  sure,  therefore, that the watch had  been  deliberately
placed in the pocket-faked. The crime, then, was not committed at
a quarter past one.
"Was  it  then  committed earlier? To be exact, at twenty-three
minutes  to  one? My friend M. Bouc advanced as  an  argument  in
favour  of  it  the loud cry which awoke me from  sleep.  But  if
Ratchett  had been heavily drugged, he could not have cried  out.
If  he had been capable of crying out, he would have been capable
of making some kind of struggle to defend himself, and there were
no signs of any such struggle.
"I  remembered that MacQueen had called attention, not once but
twice (and the second time in a very blatant manner), to the fact
that  Ratchett  could speak no French. I came to  the  conclusion
that  the  whole business at twenty-three minutes to  one  was  a
comedy played for my benefit! Anyone might see through the  watch
business-it is a common enough device in detective stories.  They
assumed that I should see through it and that, pluming myself  on
my  own  cleverness, I would go on to assume that since  Ratchett
spoke no French, the voice I heard at twenty-three minutes to one
could not have been his, and that Ratchett must have been already
dead.  But  I  am convinced that at twenty-three minutes  to  one
Ratchett was still lying in his drugged sleep.
"But the device has succeeded! I have opened my door and looked
out.  I  have actually heard the French phrase used. If I  am  so
unbelievably  dense  as not to realise the significance  of  that
phrase,  it  must  be  brought  to my  attention.  If  necessary,
MacQueen can come right out in the open. He can say, 'Excuse  me,
M.  Poirot,  that  can't  have been  Mr.  Ratchett  speaking.  He
couldn't speak French.'
"Now, what was the real time of the crime? And who killed him?
"In  my opinion-and this is only an opinion-Ratchett was killed
at  some  time very close upon two o'clock, the latest  hour  the
doctor gives us as possible.
"As to who killed him-"
He  paused,  looking at his audience. He could not complain  of
any  lack  of  attention. Every eye was fixed upon  him.  In  the
stillness you could have heard a pin drop.
He went on slowly:
"I  was particularly struck by the extraordinary difficulty  of
proving  a case against any one person on the train, and  by  the
rather curious coincidence that in each case the testimony giving
an alibi came from what I might describe as an 'unlikely' person.
Thus, Mr. MacQueen and Colonel Arbuthnot provided alibis for each
other-two  persons  between whom it seemed  most  unlikely  there
should  have  been  any prior acquaintanceship.  The  same  thing
happened  with the English valet and the Italian,  and  with  the
Swedish  lady  and the English girl. I said to  myself:  This  is
extraordinary-they cannot all be in it!
"And then, Messieurs, I saw light. They were all in it. For  so
many people connected with the Armstrong case to be travelling by
the  same train through coincidence was not only unlikely: it was
impossible.  It  must be not chance, but design. I  remembered  a
remark  of  Colonel Arbuthnot's about trial by jury.  A  jury  is
composed  of  twelve people-there were twelve passengers-Ratchett
was  stabbed twelve times. And the thing that had worried me  all
along-the  extraordinary crowd travelling in the  Stamboul-Calais
coach at a slack time of year-this was explained.
"Ratchett had escaped justice in America. There was no question
as  to  his  guilt. I visualised a self-appointed jury of  twelve
people  who  had condemned him to death and who by the exigencies
of  the  case  had themselves been forced to be his executioners.
And  immediately, on that assumption, the whole  case  fell  into
beautiful shining order.
"I  saw it as a perfect mosaic, each person playing his or  her
allotted part. It was so arranged that, if suspicion should  fall
on  any  one  person, the evidence of one or more of  the  others
would  clear the accused person and confuse the issue.  Hardman's
evidence  was necessary in case some outsider should be suspected
of  the crime and be unable to prove an alibi. The passengers  in
the  Stamboul carriage were in no danger. Every minute detail  of
their  evidence was worked out beforehand. The whole thing was  a
very cleverly planned jigsaw puzzle, so arranged that every fresh
piece  of knowledge that came to light made the solution  of  the
whole  more  difficult. As my friend M. Bouc remarked,  the  case
seemed  fantastically impossible! That was exactly the impression
intended to be conveyed.
"Did  this solution explain everything? Yes, it did. The nature
of   the  wounds-each  inflicted  by  a  different  person.   The
artificial threatening letters-artificial since they were unreal,
written  only to be produced as evidence. (Doubtless  there  were
real  letters,  warning  Ratchett of  his  fate,  which  MacQueen
destroyed,  substituting for them these others.)  Then  Hardman's
story  of  being  called in by Ratchett-a lie,  of  course,  from
beginning to end. The description of the mythical 'small dark man
with a womanish voice'-a convenient description since it had  the
merit of not incriminating any of the actual Wagon Lit conductors
and would apply equally well to a man or a woman.
"The  idea of stabbing is at first sight a curious one, but  on
reflection  nothing else would fit the circumstances so  well.  A
dagger  was  a  weapon that could be used by  everyone-strong  or
weak-and  it made no noise. I fancy, though I may be wrong,  that
each  person  in  turn  entered Ratchett's  darkened  compartment
through  that  of Mrs. Hubbard-and struck! They themselves  would
never know which blow actually killed him.
"The  final  letter which Ratchett had probably  found  on  his
pillow  was  carefully  burnt.  With  no  clue  pointing  to  the
Armstrong case there would be absolutely no reason for suspecting
any  of the passengers on the train. It would be put down  as  an
outside  job,  and the 'small dark man with the  womanish  voice'
would  actually  have been seen by one or more of the  passengers
leaving the train, at Brod!
"I  do  not  know  exactly what happened when the  conspirators
discovered that this part of their plan was impossible  owing  to
the  accident  to  the  train. There  was,  I  imagine,  a  hasty
consultation, and then they decided to go through with it. It was
true  that now one and all of the passengers were bound  to  come
under  suspicion, but that possibility had already been  foreseen
and  provided for. The only additional thing to be  done  was  to
confuse  the  issue  even  further. Two  so-called  'clues'  were
dropped  in the dead man's compartment-one incriminating  Colonel
Arbuthnot (who had the strongest alibi and whose connection  with
the  Armstrong family was probably the hardest to prove); and the
second clue, the handkerchief, incriminating Princess Dragomiroff
who,  by  virtue  of her social position, her particularly  frail
physique  and the alibi given her by her maid and the  conductor,
was practically in an unassailable position.
"Further  to confuse the issue, a red herring was drawn  across
the  trail-the mythical woman in the red kimono. Again  I  am  to
bear witness to this woman's existence. There is a heavy bang  at
my  door.  I  get  up  and look out-and see  the  scarlet  kimono
disappearing in the distance. A judicious selection of people-the
conductor, Miss Debenham and MacQueen-will also have seen her. It
was,  I  think,  someone with a sense of humour who  thoughtfully
placed the scarlet kimono on the top of my suitcase whilst I  was
interviewing  people in the dining-car. Where  the  garment  came
from  in  the  first place, I do not know. I suspect  it  is  the
property of Countess Andrenyi, since her luggage contained only a
chiffon negligee so elaborate as to be rather a tea-gown  than  a
dressing-gown.
"When MacQueen first learned that the letter which had been  so
carefully  burnt had in part escaped destruction,  and  that  the
word  Armstrong was exactly the word remaining, he must  at  once
have  communicated his news, to the others. It was at this minute
that  the  position of Countess Andrenyi became  acute,  and  her
husband  immediately  took steps to alter the  passport.  It  was
their second piece of bad luck!
"They  one  and all agreed to deny utterly any connection  with
the  Armstrong  family.  They knew I had no  immediate  means  of
finding out the truth, and they did not believe that I should  go
into  the  matter unless my suspicions were aroused  against  one
particular person.
"Now there was one further point to consider. Allowing that  my
theory  of the crime was the correct one, and I believed that  it
must  be  the correct one, then obviously the Wagon Lit conductor
himself  must  be  privy to the plot. But if  so,  that  gave  us
thirteen persons, not twelve. Instead of the usual formula 'Of so
many people one is guilty,' I was faced with the problem that  of
thirteen  persons one and one only was innocent. Which  was  that
person?
"I came to a very odd conclusion. I came to the conclusion that
the  person who had taken no part in the crime was the person who
would be considered the most likely to do so. I refer to Countess
Andrenyi. I was impressed by the earnestness of her husband  when
he  swore  to me solemnly on his honour that his wife never  left
her  compartment that night. I decided that Count Andrenyi  took,
so to speak, his wife's place.
"If  so,  then Pierre Michel was definitely one of the  twelve.
But how could one explain his complicity? He was a decent man who
had been many years in the employ of the company-not the kind  of
man  who could be bribed to assist in a crime. Then Pierre Michel
must  be  involved  in the Armstrong case. But that  seemed  very
improbable. Then I remembered that the dead nursery-maid had been
French.  Supposing  that that unfortunate girl  had  been  Pierre
Michel's  daughter. That would explain everything-it  would  also
explain the place chosen for the staging of the crime. Were there
any  others  whose  part  in the drama  was  not  clear?  Colonel
Arbuthnot  I  put  down as a friend of the Armstrongs.  They  had
probably  been  through the War together.  The  maid,  Hildegarde
Schmidt-I could guess her place in the Armstrong household. I am,
perhaps,  over  greedy, but I sense a good cook instinctively.  I
laid  a  trap for her-she fell into it. I said I knew she  was  a
good  cook. She answered: 'Yes, indeed, all my ladies  have  said
so.'  But  if  you are employed as a lady's-maid  your  employers
seldom  have a chance of learning whether or not you are  a  good
cook.
"Then  there  was  Hardman. He seemed quite definitely  not  to
belong  to the Armstrong household. I could only imagine that  he
had  been  in love with the French girl. I spoke to  him  of  the
charm  of foreign women-and again I obtained the reaction  I  was
looking  for. Sudden tears came into his eyes, which he pretended
were dazzled by the snow.
"There  remains  Mrs. Hubbard. Now Mrs. Hubbard,  let  me  say,
played  the  most important part in the drama. By  occupying  the
compartment communicating with that of Ratchett she was more open
to  suspicion than anyone else. In the nature of things she could
not  have  an  alibi  to fall back upon. To  play  the  part  she
played-the  perfectly natural, slightly ridiculous American  fond
mother-an  artist  was needed. But there was an artist  connected
with  the Armstrong family: Mrs. Armstrong's mother-Linda  Arden,
the actress ..."
He stopped.
Then in a soft rich dreamy voice, quite unlike the one she  had
used throughout the journey, Mrs. Hubbard said:
"I always fancied myself in comedy parts."
She went on, still dreamily:
"That  slip about the sponge-bag was silly. It shows  that  you
should always rehearse property. We tried it on the way out-I was
in an even-number compartment then, I suppose. I never thought of
the bolts being in different places."
She  shifted  her  position a little  and  looked  straight  at
Poirot.
"You know all about it, M. Poirot. You're a very wonderful man.
But  even you can't quite imagine what it was like-that awful day
in  New  York. I was just crazy with grief; so were the servants.
And Colonel Arbuthnot was there too. He was John Armstrong's best
friend."
"He saved my life in the War," said Arbuthnot.
"We  decided then and there (perhaps we were mad-I don't  know)
that  the sentence of death that Cassetti had escaped had got  to
be  carried  out.  There  were twelve  of  us-or  rather  eleven;
Susanne's father was over in France, of course. First we  thought
we'd  draw lots as to who should do it, but in the end we decided
on  this  way.  It was the chauffeur, Antonio, who suggested  it.
Mary  worked out all the details later with Hector MacQueen. He'd
always adored Sonia-my daughter-and it was he who explained to us
exactly how Cassetti's money had managed to get him off.
"It took a long time to perfect our plan. We had first to track
Ratchett  down. Hardman managed that in the end. Then we  had  to
try  and get Masterman and Hector into his employment-or  at  any
rate  one  of  them.  Well,  we  managed  that.  Then  we  had  a
consultation  with Susanne's father. Colonel Arbuthnot  was  very
keen  on having twelve of us. He seemed to think it made it  more
in  order.  He didn't like the stabbing idea much, but he  agreed
that  it  did  solve  most of our difficulties.  Well,  Susanne's
father was willing. Susanne had been his only child. We knew from
Hector that Ratchett would be coming back from the East sooner or
later  by the Orient Express. With Pierre Michel actually working
on  that train, the chance was too good to be missed. Besides, it
would be a good way of not incriminating any outsiders.
"My  daughter's husband had to know, of course, and he insisted
on  coming  on  the  train with her. Hector wangled  it  so  that
Ratchett selected the right day for travelling, when Michel would
be  on  duty. We meant to engage every carriage in the  Stamboul-
Calais  coach,  but  unfortunately  there  was  one  carriage  we
couldn't get. It had been reserved long beforehand for a director
of the company. 'Mr. Harris,' of course, was a myth. But it would
have  been  awkward to have any stranger in Hector's compartment.
And then, at the last minute, you came..."
She stopped.
"Well," she said, "you know everything now, M. Poirot. What are
you  going to do about it? If it must all come out, can't you lay
the  blame  upon  me and me only? I would have stabbed  that  man
twelve  times  willingly. It wasn't only that he was  responsible
for  my  daughter's death and her child's and that of  the  other
child  who might have been alive and happy now. It was more  than
that:  there had been other children kidnapped before Daisy,  and
there might be others in the future. Society had condemned him-we
were  only  carrying  out the sentence. But it's  unnecessary  to
bring all these others into it. All these good faithful souls-and
poor  Michel-and Mary and Colonel Arbuthnot-they love each other.
..."
Her voice was wonderful, echoing through the crowded space-that
deep,  emotional, heart-stirring voice that had thrilled  many  a
New York audience.
Poirot looked at his friend.
"You are a director of the company, M. Bouc," he said. "What do
you say?"
M. Bouc cleared his throat.
"In  my opinion, M. Poirot," he said, "the first theory you put
forward was the correct one-decidedly so. I suggest that that  is
the  solution  we  offer  to the Jugo-Slavian  police  when  they
arrive. You agree, doctor?"
"Certainly  I  agree," said Dr. Constantine.  "As  regards  the
medical  evidence, I think-er-that I made one  or  two  fantastic
suggestions."
"Then," said Poirot, "having placed my solution before  you,  I
have the honour to retire from the case..."
THE END.
