“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 2The 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 night 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?”