Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot 10)

“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.”

>

“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.”