. . . said Poirot. He appeared confused.

 

“Do you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnapping, Mrs. Hubbard?” he asked.

 

“Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch that did it escaped scot free! My, I’d have liked to get my hands on him.”

 

“He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night.”

 

“You don’t mean—?” Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement.

 

“But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man.”

 

“Well! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn’t I tell you last night that that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: ‘When Momma’s got a hunch, you can bet your bottom dollar it’s O.K.’”

 

“Were you acquainted with any of the Armstrong family, Mrs. Hubbard?”

 

“No. They moved in a very exclusive circle. But I’ve always heard that Mrs. Armstrong was a perfectly lovely woman and that her husband worshipped her.”

 

“Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much—very much indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?”

 

“Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard.”

 

“Will you write your address down here?”

 

Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak.

 

“I just can’t get over it. Cassetti—on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn’t I, Mr. Poirot?”

 

“Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressing gown?”

 

“Mercy, what an odd question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing gowns with me—a pink flannel one that’s kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present—a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gowns for?”

 

“Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.”

 

“Well, no one in a scarlet dressing gown came into my compartment.”

 

“Then she must have gone into M. Ratchett’s.”

 

Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly:

 

“That wouldn’t surprise me any.”

 

Poirot leaned forward.

 

“So you heard a woman’s voice next door?”

 

“I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But—well—as a matter of fact, I did.”

 

“But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.”

 

“Well that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—” Mrs. Hubbard got rather pink. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”

 

“What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”

 

“I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well that’s the kind of man he is. Well, I’m not surprised,’ and then I went to sleep again, and I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

 

“Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”

 

“Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?”

 

“Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”

 

“I guess even you get kinder muddled now and then. I just can’t get over it being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say—”

 

Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to restore the contents of her handbag and he then shepherded her towards the door.

 

At the last moment he said:

 

“You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.”

 

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her.

 

“That’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.”

 

“Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it—”

 

“Well, now, that’s curious, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’re sensible things—not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’s nose?”

 

Neither of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question, and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.

 

 

 

 

 

Five

 

 

THE EVIDENCE OF THE SWEDISH LADY

 

 

 

 

M. Bouc was handling the button Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her.

 

“This button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that, after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?” he said. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. “What have you to say, my friend?”

 

“That button, it suggests possibilities,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Let us interview next the Swedish lady before we discuss the evidence we have heard.”

 

He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him.

 

“Ah! here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine.” M. Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the yellowish-grey bun of hair and the long mild sheep-like face was ushered in. She peered shortsightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm.

 

It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so that the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her the questions to which he already knew the answers—her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation.

 

She was, she told him, matron in a missionary school near Stamboul. She was a trained nurse.

 

“You know, of course, of what took place last night, Mademoiselle?”

 

“Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me that the murderer was actually in her compartment.”

 

“I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?”

 

“I do not know. It may be so. I opened the door of his compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward mistake.”

 

“You actually saw him?”

 

“Yes. He was reading a book. I apologized quickly and withdrew.”

 

“Did he say anything to you?”

 

A slight flush showed on the worthy lady’s cheek.

 

“He laughed and said a few words. I—I did not quite catch them.”

 

“And what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot, passing from the subject tactfully.

 

“I went in to the American lady, Mrs. Hubbard. I asked her for some aspirin and she gave it to me.”

 

“Did she ask you whether the communicating door between her compartment and that of M. Ratchett was bolted?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And was it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And after that?”

 

“After that I go back to my own compartment, I take the aspirin and lie down.”

 

“What time was all this?”

 

“When I got into bed it was five minutes to eleven, because I look at my watch before I wind it up.”

 

“Did you go to sleep quickly?”

 

“Not very quickly. My head got better, but I lay awake some time.”

 

“Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?”

 

“I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station, just as I was getting drowsy.”

 

“That would be Vincovci. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is this one?” he indicated it on the plan.

 

“That is so, yes.”

 

“You had the upper or the lower berth?”

 

“The lower berth, No. 10.”

 

“And you had a companion?”

 

“Yes, a young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She had travelled from Baghdad.”

 

“After the train left Vincovci, did she leave the compartment?”

 

“No, I am sure she did not.”

 

“Why are you sure if you were asleep?”

 

“I sleep very lightly. I am used to waking at a sound. I am sure if she had come down from the berth above I would have awakened.”

 

“Did you yourself leave the compartment?”

 

“Not until this morning.”

 

“Have you a scarlet silk kimono, Mademoiselle?”

 

“No, indeed. I have a good comfortable dressing gown of Jaeger material.”

 

“A pale mauve abba such as you buy in the East.”

 

Poirot nodded. Then he said in a friendly tone:

 

“Why are you taking this journey? A holiday?”

 

“Yes, I am going home for a holiday. But first I go to Lausanne to stay with a sister for a week or so.”

 

“Perhaps you will be so amiable as to write me down the name and address of your sister?”

 

“With pleasure.”

 

She took the paper and pencil he gave her and wrote down the name and address as requested.

 

“Have you ever been in America, Mademoiselle?”

 

“No. Very nearly once. I was to go with an invalid lady, but it was cancelled at the last moment. I much regretted. They are very good, the Americans. They give much money to found schools and hospitals. They are very practical.”

 

“Do you remember hearing of the Armstrong kidnapping case?”

 

“No, what was that?”

 

Poirot explained.

 

Greta Ohlsson was indignant. Her yellow bun of hair quivered with her emotion.

 

“That there are in the world such evil men! It tries one’s faith. The poor mother. My heart aches for her.”

 

The amiable Swede departed, her kindly face flushed, her eyes suffused with tears.

 

Poirot was writing busily on a sheet of paper.

 

“What is it you write there, my friend?” asked M. Bouc.

 

“Mon cher, it is my habit to be neat and orderly. I make here a little table of chronological events.”

 

He finished writing and passed the paper to M. Bouc.

 

9:15 Train leaves Belgrade.

 

about 9:40 Valet leaves Ratchett with sleeping draught beside him.

 

about 10:00 MacQueen leaves Ratchett.

 

about 10:40 Greta Ohlsson sees Ratchett (last seen alive). N.B.—He was awake reading a book.

 

0:10 Train leaves Vincovci (late).

 

0:30 Train runs into a snowdrift.

 

0:37 Ratchett’s bell rings. Conductor answers it. Ratchett says, “Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.”

 

about 1:17 Mrs. Hubbard thinks man is in her carriage. Rings for conductor.

 

 

 

M. Bouc nodded approval.

 

“That is very clear,” he said.

 

“There is nothing there that strikes you as at all odd?”

 

“No, it seems all quite clear and above board. It seems quite plain that the crime was committed at 1:15. The evidence of the watch shows us that, and Mrs. Hubbard’s story fits in. For my mind, I will make a guess at the identity of the murderer. I say, my friend, that it is the big Italian. He comes from America—from Chicago—and remember an Italian’s weapon is the knife, and he stabs not once but several times.”

 

“That is true.”

 

“Without a doubt, that is the solution of the mystery. Doubtless he and this Ratchett were in this kidnapping business together. Cassetti is an Italian name. In some way Ratchett did on him what they call the double-cross. The Italian tracks him down, sends him warning letters first, and finally revenges himself upon him in a brutal way. It is all quite simple.”

 

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

 

“It is hardly as simple as that, I fear,” he murmured.

 

“Me, I am convinced it is the truth,” said M. Bouc, becoming more and more enamoured of his theory.

 

“And what about the valet with the toothache who swears that the Italian never left the compartment?”

 

“That is the difficulty.”

 

Poirot twinkled.

 

“Yes, it is annoying, that. Unlucky for your theory, and extremely lucky for our Italian friend that M. Ratchett’s valet should have had the toothache.”

 

“It will be explained,” said M. Bouc with magnificent certainty.

 

Poirot shook his head again.

 

“No, it is hardly so simple as that,” he murmured again.

 

 

 

 

 

Six

 

 

THE EVIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS

 

 

 

 

“Let us hear what Pierre Michel has to say about this button,” he said.

 

The Wagon Lit conductor was recalled. He looked at them inquiringly.

 

M. Bouc cleared his throat.

 

“Michel,” he said. “Here is a button from your tunic. It was found in the American lady’s compartment. What have you to say for yourself about it?”

 

The conductor’s hand went automatically to his tunic.

 

“I have lost no button, Monsieur,” he said. “There must be some mistake.”

 

“That is very odd.”

 

“I cannot account for it, Monsieur.”

 

The man seemed astonished, but not in any way guilty or confused.

 

M. Bouc said meaningly:

 

“Owing to the circumstances in which it was found, it seems fairly certain that this button was dropped by the man who was in Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment last night when she rang the bell.”

 

“But, Monsieur, there was no one there. The lady must have imagined it.”

 

“She did not imagine it, Michael. The assassin of M. Ratchett passed that way—and dropped that button.”

 

As the significance of M. Bouc’s word became plain to him, Pierre Michel flew into a violent state of agitation.

 

“It is not true, Monsieur, it is not true!” he cried. “You are accusing me of the crime. Me? I am innocent. I am absolutely innocent. Why should I want to kill a Monsieur whom I have never seen before?”

 

“Where were you when Mrs. Hubbard’s bell rang?”

 

“I told you, Monsieur, in the next coach, talking to my colleague.”

 

“We will send for him.”

 

“Do so, Monsieur, I implore you, do so.”

 

The conductor of the next coach was summoned. He immediately confirmed Pierre Michel’s statement. He added that the conductor from the Bucharest coach had also been there. The three of them had been discussing the situation caused by the snow. They had been talking some ten minutes when Michel fancied he heard a bell. As he opened the doors connecting the two coaches, they had all heard it plainly. A bell ringing repeatedly. Michel had run posthaste to answer it.

 

“So you see, Monsieur, I am not guilty,” cried Michel anxiously.

 

“And this button from a Wagon Lit tunic—how do you explain it?”

 

“I cannot, Monsieur. It is a mystery to me. All my buttons are intact.”

 

Both of the other conductors also declared that they had not lost a button. Also that they had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment at any time.

 

“Calm yourself, Michel,” said M. Bouc, “and cast your mind back to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s bell. Did you meet anyone at all in the corridor?”

 

“No, Monsieur.”

 

“Did you see anyone going away from you down the corridor in the other direction?”

 

“Again, no. Monsieur.”

 

“Odd,” said M. Bouc.

 

“Not so very,” said Poirot. “It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was ample time—”

 

“For what? For what, mon cher? Remember that there are thick drifts of snow all round the train.”

 

“There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreat into either of the toilets or he could disappear into one of the compartments.”

 

“But they were all occupied.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You mean that he could retreat into his own compartment?”

 

Poirot nodded.

 

“It fits, it fits,” murmured M. Bouc. “During that ten minutes’ absence of the conductor, the murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains the door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment and is back safely in his own compartment by the time the conductor arrives.”

 

Poirot murmured:

 

“It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will tell you so.”

 

With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart.

 

“We have still to see eight passengers,” said Poirot. “Five first-class passengers—Princess Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class passengers—Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli and the lady’s maid, Fräulein Schmidt.”

 

“Who will you see first—the Italian?”

 

“How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, Michel.”

 

“Oui, Monsieur,” said the conductor, who was just leaving the car.

 

“Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc.

 

But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining car, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot.

 

Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once.

 

Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it.

 

She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc.

 

“You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally, you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give all the assistance in my power.”

 

“You are most amiable, Madame,” said Poirot.

 

“Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?”

 

“Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?”

 

Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside.

 

“You can write it,” she said. “There is nothing difficult—Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Kleber, Paris.”

 

“You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?”

 

“Yes, I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid is with me.”

 

“Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?”

 

“Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I was in the dining car. I retired to bed immediately after dinner. I read until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light. I was unable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I suffer. At about a quarter to one I rang for my maid. She massaged me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot say exactly when she left me. It may have been half an hour, it may have been later.”

 

“The train had stopped then?”

 

“The train had stopped.”

 

“You heard nothing—nothing unusual during the time, Madame?”

 

“I heard nothing unusual.”