Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot 10)
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?”