Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot 10)

“Your faith touches me, my friend,” said Poirot emotionally. “As you say, this cannot be a difficult case. I myself, last night—but we will not speak of that now. In truth, this problem intrigues me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that many hours of boredom lay ahead whilst we are stuck here. And now—a problem lies ready to my hand.”

“You accept then?” said M. Bouc eagerly.

“C’est entendu. You place the matter in my hands.”

“Good—we are all at your service.”

“To begin with, I should like a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach, with a note of the people who occupied the several compartments, and I should also like to see their passports and their tickets.”

“Michel will get you those.”

The Wagon Lit conductor left the compartment.

“What other passengers are there on the train?” asked Poirot.

“In this coach Dr. Constantine and I are the only travellers. In the coach from Bucharest is an old gentleman with a lame leg. He is well known to the conductor. Beyond that are the ordinary carriages, but these do not concern us, since they were locked after dinner had been served last night. Forward of the Istanbul-Calais coach there is only the dining car.”

“Then it seems,” said Poirot slowly, “as though we must look for our murderer in the Istanbul-Calais coach.” He turned to the doctor. “That is what you were hinting, I think?”

The Greek nodded.

“At half an hour after midnight we ran into the snowdrift. No one can have left the train since then.”

M. Bouc said solemnly.

“The murderer is with us—on the train now….”

Six

A WOMAN?

First of all,” said Poirot, “I should like a word or two with young M. MacQueen. He may be able to give us valuable information.”

“Certainly,” said M. Bouc.

He turned to the chef de train.

“Get M. MacQueen to come here.”

The chef de train left the carriage.

The conductor returned with a bundle of passports and tickets. M. Bouc took them from him.

“Thank you, Michel. It would be best now, I think, if you were to go back to your post. We will take your evidence formally later.”

“Very good, Monsieur.”

Michel in his turn left the carriage.

“After we have seen young MacQueen,” said Poirot, “perhaps M. le docteur will come with me to the dead man’s carriage.”

“Certainly.”

“After we have finished there—”

But at this moment the chef de train returned with Hector MacQueen.

M. Bouc rose.

“We are a little cramped here,” he said pleasantly. “Take my seat, M. MacQueen. M. Poirot will sit opposite you—so.”

He turned to the chef de train.

“Clear all the people out of the restaurant car,” he said, “and let it be left free for M. Poirot. You will conduct your interviews there, mon cher?”

“It would be the most convenient, yes,” agreed Poirot.

MacQueen had stood looking from one to the other, not quite following the rapid flow of French.

“Qu’est ce qu’il y a?” he began laboriously. “Pourquoi—?”

With a vigorous gesture Poirot motioned him to the seat in the corner. He took it and began once more.

“Pourquoi—?” then, checking himself and relapsing into his own tongue, “What’s up on the train? Has anything happened?”

He looked from one man to another.

Poirot nodded.

“Exactly. Something has happened. Prepare yourself for a shock. Your employer, M. Ratchett, is dead!”

MacQueen’s mouth pursed itself in a whistle. Except that his eyes grew a shade brighter, he showed no signs of shock or distress.

“So they got him after all,” he said.

“What exactly do you mean by that phrase, M. MacQueen?” MacQueen hesitated.

“You are assuming,” said Poirot, “that M. Ratchett was murdered?”

“Wasn’t he?” This time MacQueen did show surprise. “Why, yes,” he said slowly. “That’s just what I did think. Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was as tough as—as tough—”

He stopped, at a loss for a simile.

“No, no,” said Poirot. “Your assumption was quite right. Mr. Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you were so sure it was murder, and not just—death.”

MacQueen hesitated.

“I must get this clear,” he said. “Who exactly are you? And where do you come in?”

“I represent the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits.” He paused, then added, “I am a detective. My name is Hercule Poirot.”

If he expected an effect he did not get one. MacQueen said merely, “Oh, yes?” and waited for him to go on.

“You know the name, perhaps.”

“Why, it does seem kind of familiar—only I always thought it was a woman’s dressmaker.”

Hercule Poirot looked at him with distaste.

“It is incredible!” he said.

“What’s incredible?”

“Nothing. Let us advance with the matter in hand. I w

ant you to tell me, M. MacQueen, all that you know about the dead man. You were not related to him?”

“No. I am—was—his secretary.”

“For how long have you held that post?”

“Just over a year.”

“Please give me all the information you can.”

“Well, I met Mr. Ratchett just over a year ago when I was in Persia—”

Poirot interrupted.

“What were you doing there?”

“I had come over from New York to look into an oil concession. I don’t suppose you want to hear all about that. My friends and I had been let in rather badly over it. Mr. Ratchett was in the same hotel. He had just had a row with his secretary. He offered me the job and I took it. I was at a loose end, and glad to find a well-paid job ready made, as it were.”

“And since then?”

“We’ve travelled about. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life.”

“Now tell me as much as you can about your employer.”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. A perplexed expression passed over his face.

“That’s not so easy.”

“What was his full name?”

“Samuel Edward Ratchett.”

“He was an American citizen?”

“Yes.”

“What part of America did he come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, tell me what you do know.”

“The actual truth is, Mr. Poirot, that I know nothing at all! Mr. Ratchett never spoke of himself, or of his life in America.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“I don’t know. I imagined that he might have been ashamed of his beginnings. Some men are.”

“Does that strike you as a satisfactory solution?”

“Frankly, it doesn’t.”

“Has he any relations?”

“He never mentioned any.”

Poirot pressed the point.

“You must have formed some theory, M. MacQueen.”

“Well, yes, I did. For one thing, I don’t believe Ratchett was his real name. I think he left America definitely in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful—until a few weeks ago.”

“And then?”