“Tell me, if you please, your exact movements last night from dinner onwards.”
“With pleasure. I stay here as long as I can. It is more amusing. I talk to the American gentleman at my table. He sells typewriter ribbons. Then I go back to my compartment. It is empty. The miserable John Bull who shares it with me is away attending to his master. At last he comes back—very long face as usual. He will not talk—says yes and no. A miserable race, the English—not sympathetic. He sits in the corner, very stiff, reading a book. Then the conductor comes and makes our beds.”
“Nos. 4 and 5,” murmured Poirot.
“Exactly—the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth. I get up there. I smoke and read. The little Englishman has, I think, the toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells very strong. He lies in bed and groans. Presently I sleep. Whenever I wake I hear him groaning.”
“Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?”
“I do not think so. That, I should hear. The light from the corridor—one wakes up automatically thinking it is the Customs examination at some frontier.”
“Did he ever speak of his master? Ever express any animus against him?”
“I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish.”
“You smoke, you say—a pipe, cigarettes, cigars?”
“Cigarettes only.”
Poirot proffered him one which he accepted.
“Have you ever been in Chicago?” inquired M. Bouc.
“Oh, yes—a fine city—but I know best New York, Washington, Detroit. You have been to the States? No? You should go, it—”
Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him.
“If you will sign this, and put your permanent address, please.”
The Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose—his smile was as engaging as ever.
“That is all? You do not require me further? Good day to you, Messieurs. I wish we could get out of the snow. I have an appointment in Milan—” He shook his head sadly. “I shall lose the business.”
He departed.
Poirot looked at his friend.
“He has been a long time in America,” said M. Bouc, “and he is an Italian, and Italians use the knife! And they are great liars! I do not like Italians.”
“Ça se voit,” said Poirot with a smile. “Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out to you, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man.”
“And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?”
“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this—this is a different kind of crime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not—how shall I express it?—a Latin crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain—I think an Anglo-Saxon brain.”
He picked up the last two passports.
“Let us now,” he said, “see Miss Mary Debenham.”
Eleven
THE EVIDENCE OF MISS DEBENHAM
When Mary Debenham entered the dining car she confirmed Poirot’s previous estimate of her.
Very neatly dressed in a little black suit with a French grey shirt, the smooth waves of her dark head were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as calm and unruffled as her hair.
She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.
“Your name is Mary Hermione Debenham, and you are twenty-six years of age?” began Poirot.
“Yes.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?”
She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.
“And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?”
“I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept.”
“Does it distress you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?”
The question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes widened a little.
“I don’t quite understand you.”
“It was a perfectly simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed that a crime should have been committed on this train?”
“I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed.”
“A crime—it is all in the day’s work to you, eh?”
“It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen,” said Mary Debenham quietly.
“You are very Anglo-Saxon. Mademoiselle. Vous n’éprouvez pas d’émotion.”
She smiled a little.
“I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day.”
“They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“You were not acquainted with the dead man?”
“I saw him for the first time when lunching here yesterday.”
“And how did he strike you?”
“I hardly noticed him.”
“He did not strike you as an evil personality.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“Really, I cannot say I thought about it.”
Poirot looked at her keenly.
“You are, I think, a little bit contemptuous of the way I prosecute my inquiries,” he said with a twinkle. “Not so, you think, would an English inquiry be conducted. There everything would be cut and dried—it would be all kept to the facts—a well-ordered business. But I, Mademoiselle, have my little originalities. I look first at my witness, I sum up his or her character, and I frame my questions accordingly. Just a little minute ago I am asking questions of a gentleman who wants to tell me all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I keep strictly to the point. I want him to answer yes or no, this or that. And then you come. I see at once that you will be orderly and methodical. You will confine yourself to the matter in hand. Your answers will be brief and to the point. And because, Mademoiselle, human nature is per
verse, I ask of you quite different questions. I ask what you feel, what you thought. It does not please you this method?”
“If you will forgive my saying so, it seems somewhat of a waste of time. Whether or not I liked Mr. Ratchett’s face does not seem likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him.”
“Do you know who the man Ratchett really was, Mademoiselle?”
She nodded.
“Mrs. Hubbard has been telling everyone.”
“And what do you think of the Armstrong affair?”
“It was quite abominable,” said the girl crisply.
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
“You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?”
“Yes.”
“To London?”
“Yes.”
“What have you been doing in Baghdad?”
“I have been acting as governess to two children.”
“Are you returning to your post after your holiday?”
“I am not sure.”
“Why is that?”
“Baghdad is rather out of things. I think I should prefer a post in London if I can hear of a suitable one.”
“I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married.”
Miss Debenham did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The glance said plainly, “You are impertinent.”
“What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment—Miss Ohlsson?”
“She seems a pleasant, simple creature.”
“What colour is her dressing gown?”
Mary Debenham stared.
“A kind of brownish colour—natural wool.”
“Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressing gown on the way from Aleppo to Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe.”
“Yes, that is right.”
“Have you any other dressing gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet dressing gown, for example?”
“No, that is not mine.”
Poirot leaned forward. He was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
“Whose, then?”
The girl drew back a little, startled.
“I don’t know. What do you mean?”