Friday April 30, 2010

Thursday April 29, 2010

Chapter 1: The Sound of the Shell - A plane evacuating British boys has been shot down in the Pacific. The boys had been ejected safely from the plane and have landed on a remote island. With no adult supervision, they attempt to establish order and a plan for survival. They elect a chief (Ralph) and he selects Jack Merridew, a militant choir bully, to rule over the choir, who become hunters. We also meet Piggy in chapter 1. Piggy is fat, suffers from asthma, and has no social skills. He immediately becomes the target of the other boys who make fun of him.

Piggy finds a conch shell and shows Ralph how to blow it. The sound of the shell calls the boys together for assemblies and to discuss important matters. At each assembly, the boy holding the conch is the only one allowed to speak. At the assembly, Jack, Simon, and Ralph decide to explore the island. They confirm their suspicions that they are on an island. Towards the end of chapter 1, the three explorers find a trapped pig. The pig gets away.

Characters:

Ralph - The novel’s protagonist, the twelve-year-old English boy who is elected leader of the group of boys marooned on the island. Ralph attempts to coordinate the boys’ efforts to build a miniature civilization on the island until they can be rescued. Ralph represents human beings’ civilizing instinct, as opposed to the savage instinct that Jack embodies.
Read an in-depth analysis of Ralph.

Jack - The novel’s antagonist, one of the older boys stranded on the island. Jack becomes the leader of the hunters but longs for total power and becomes increasingly wild, barbaric, and cruel as the novel progresses. Jack, adept at manipulating the other boys, represents the instinct of savagery within human beings, as opposed to the civilizing instinct Ralph represents.
Read an in-depth analysis of Jack.

Simon - A shy, sensitive boy in the group. Simon, in some ways the only naturally “good” character on the island, behaves kindly toward the younger boys and is willing to work for the good of their community. Moreover, because his motivation is rooted in his deep feeling of connectedness to nature, Simon is the only character whose sense of morality does not seem to have been imposed by society. Simon represents a kind of natural goodness, as opposed to the unbridled evil of Jack and the imposed morality of civilization represented by Ralph and Piggy.
Read an in-depth analysis of Simon.

Piggy - Ralph’s “lieutenant.” A whiny, intellectual boy, Piggy’s inventiveness frequently leads to innovation, such as the makeshift sundial that the boys use to tell time. Piggy represents the scientific, rational side of civilization.

Roger - Jack’s “lieutenant.” A sadistic, cruel older boy who brutalizes the littluns and eventually murders Piggy by rolling a boulder onto him.

Sam and Eric - A pair of twins closely allied with Ralph. Sam and Eric are always together, and the other boys often treat them as a single entity, calling them “Samneric.” The easily excitable Sam and Eric are part of the group known as the “bigguns.” At the end of the novel, they fall victim to Jack’s manipulation and coercion.

Wednesday April 28, 2010

We are beginnging the novel Lord of the Flies by William Golding

The following is a synoposis:



A group of English schoolboys are plane-wrecked on a deserted island. At first, the stranded boys cooperate, attempting to gather food, make shelters, and maintain signal fires.

Overseeing their efforts are Ralph, “the boy with fair hair,” and Piggy, Ralph’s chubby, wisdom-dispensing sidekick whose thick spectacles come in handy for lighting fires. Although Ralph tries to impose order and delegate responsibility, there are many in their number who would rather swim, play, or hunt the island’s wild pig population.

Soon Ralph’s rules are being ignored or challenged outright. His fiercest antagonist is Jack, the redheaded leader of the pig hunters, who manages to lure away many of the boys to join his band of painted savages.

The situation deteriorates as the trappings of civilization continue to fall away, until Ralph discovers that instead of being hunters, he and Piggy have become the hunted:

“He forgot his words, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear on flying feet.”

MONDAY - April 26, 2010

AGENDA FOR TODAY:

Watch end of film
Group work: What is true justice?

Homework - April 13, 2010 Read Part III Chapter 8

Chapter 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.”

WEDNESDAY - April 14, 2010

MATERIALS you will need for today:

Your book

Your manila folder

Pen or pencil

PROCEDURE for today:

Discuss: what happened in Chapter 8?

Work in your groups to answer questions on Part III: Chapter 9

TUESDAY - April 13, 2010

MATERIALS you will need for today:
Your book
Your manila folder
Pen or pencil

PROCEDURE for today:
Discuss: what happened in Chapter 4?
Work in your groups to answer questions on Part III: Chapters 5, 6, & 7

HOMEWORK:
Read Chapter 8...we will finish the book with chapter 9 tomorrow in class!!

Homework - April 12, 2010 Read Part III Chapter 4

Chapter 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.”

MONDAY - April 12, 2010

MATERIALS you need for today:

Manila folder
Book
Pen or Pencil


AGENDA for today:
(1) Sit in your same groups as last week.
(2) We will read the last few pages of Chapter 1 in part III together as a group.
(3) Readaround in your small groups: Part III Chapters 2&3 and complete worksheet together


HOMEWORK:
Read Part III - Chapter 4

Homework: April 9th - Read Part III, Chapter 1 TEXT

PART III: HERCULE POIROT SITS BACK AND THINKS

CHAPTER 1 - WHICH OF THEM?

M. Bouc. and Dr. Constantine were talking together when Poirot entered the dining-car. M. Bouc was looking depressed.

“Le voilà,” 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 trompé.’ ”

“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 précis 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.

Homework: April 8th - Read Part II, Chapter 14 TEXT

Part II: CHAPTER 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 à 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.

“Précisément. 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?”

Homework: April 7th - Read Part II, Chapter 10 TEXT

PART II: CHAPTER 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.”

“Ça 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.”

Homework: April 6th - Read Part II, Chapter 7 TEXT

PART II: CHAPTER 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.