Murder on the Orient Express

  Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.

  Two

  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 M. 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 M. Ratchett.”

  Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Ratchett, as you suspected, was merely an alias. Ratchett was Cassetti, the man 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, M. 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, M. MacQueen?”

  “I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the case, M. 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 flushed rather guiltily. “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.”

  “I should be more inclined to suspect you, M. 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 everyone 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, M. 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 the financial situation 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. Getting on for 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 until 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 just 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 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, M. 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 M. Ratchett. By the way, did both you and he always travel second-class?”

  “He did. But I usually went first—if possible in the adjoining compartment to Mr. Ratchett. 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 which he took.”

  “I comprehend. Thank you, M. MacQueen.”

  Three

  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?”

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sp; “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 asked what time M. Ratchett 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. He used to ring the bell for the conductor and then send him for me when he was ready to get up.”

  “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, M. 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 it, 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 said:

  “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 M. MacQueen?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Mr. MacQueen was a very pleasant gentleman.”

  “Where were you in service before you came to M. 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 M. 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.”

  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.”
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  “Send her to us, my friend,” said Poirot. “We will listen to her story now.”

  Four

  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 vurry important information, vurry important, indeed, and I just want to tell it to someone in authority as soon as may be. 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 just everything there is to tell. I’d gotten into bed and gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up—all in the dark, it was—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 so mighty comfortable, by the way, kinder bumpy, if you know what I mean. But that’s neither here nor there. Where was I?”

  “You realized, Madame, that there was a man in your compartment.”

  “Yes, well, I just lay there with my eyes closed, and I thought whatever should I 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 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.”