PART II - THE EVIDENCE
CHAPTER 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 trompé.”
“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.
CHAPTER 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.”
CHAPTER 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, là-là—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.”
