Murder on the Orient Express Page 5

  “He began to get letters—threatening letters.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Yes. It was my business to attend to his correspondence. The first letter came a fortnight ago.”

  “Were these letters destroyed?”

  “No, I think I’ve got a couple still in my files—one I know Ratchett tore up in a rage. Shall I get them for you?”

  “If you would be so good.”

  MacQueen left the compartment. He returned a few minutes later and laid down two sheets of rather dirty notepaper before Poirot.

  The first letter ran as follows:

  “Thought you’d doublecross us and get away with it, did you? Not on your life. We’re out to GET you, Ratchett, and we WILL get you!”

  There was no signature.

  With no comment beyond raised eyebrows, Poirot picked up the second letter.

  “We’re going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We’re going to GET you, see?”

  Poirot laid the letter down.

  “The style is monotonous!” he said. “More so than the handwriting.”

  MacQueen stared at him.

  “You would not observe,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It requires the eye of one used to such things. This letter was not written by one person, M. MacQueen. Two or more persons wrote it—each writing a letter of a word at a time. Also, the letters are printed. That makes the task of identifying the handwriting much more difficult.”

  He paused, then said:

  “Did you know that M. Ratchett had applied for help to me?”

  “To you?”

  MacQueen’s astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had not known of it. He nodded.

  “Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?”

  MacQueen hesitated.

  “It’s difficult to say. He—he—passed it off with a laugh in that quiet way of his. But somehow”—he gave a slight shiver—“I felt that there was a good deal going on underneath the quietness.”

  Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.

  “Mr. MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?”

  Hector MacQueen took a moment or two before replying.

  “No,” he said at last. “I did not.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t exactly say. He was always quite pleasant in his manner.” He paused, then said, “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Poirot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel and a dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion.”

  “Thank you, M. MacQueen. One further question—when did you last see M. Ratchett alive?”

  “Last evening about”—he thought for a minute—“ten o’clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him.”

  “On what subject?”

  “Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What was delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”

  “And that was the last time M. Ratchett was seen alive?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Do you know when M. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”

  “On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”

  “There is one more question I must ask you, M. MacQueen: were you on good terms with your employer?”

  The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly.

  “This is where I’m supposed to go all goosefleshy down the back. In the words of a best seller, ‘You’ve nothing on me.’ Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms.”

  “Perhaps, M. MacQueen, you will give me your full name and your address in America.”

  MacQueen gave his name—Hector Willard MacQueen, and an address in New York.

  Poirot leaned back against the cushions.

  “That is all for the present, M. MacQueen,” he said. “I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of M. Ratchett’s death to yourself for a little time.”

  “His valet, Masterman, will have to know.”

  “He probably knows already,” said Poirot dryly. “If so try to get him to hold his tongue.”

  “That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher, and does what he calls ‘Keeps himself to himself.’ He’s a low opinion of Americans and no opinion at all of any other nationality.”

  “Thank you, M. MacQueen.”

  The American left the carriage.

  “Well?” demanded M. Bouc. “You believe what he says, this young man?”

  “He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true M. Ratchett did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy M. Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion.”

  “So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime,” said M. Bouc jovially.

  Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.

  “Me, I suspect everybody till the last minute,” he said. “All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed MacQueen losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology—not at all.”

  “No,” said Mr. Bouc thoughtfully. “That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate—it suggests more the Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted, a woman.”

  Seven

  THE BODY

  Followed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key.

  The two men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly to his companion.

  “How much has been disarranged in this compartment?”

  “Nothing has been touched. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination.”

  Poirot nodded. He looked round him.

  The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The window was pushed down as far as it would go and the blind was drawn up.

  “Brrr,” observed Poirot.

  The other smiled appreciatively.

  “I did not like to close it,” he said.

  Poirot examined the window carefully.

  “You are right,” he announced. “Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open window was intended to suggest the fact, but, if so, the snow has defeated the murderer’s object.”

  He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew a little powder over it.

  “No fingerprints at all,” he said. “That means it has been wiped. Well, if there had been fingerprints it would have told us very little. They would have been those of M. Ratchett or his valet or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.

  “And that being so,” he added cheerfully, “we might as well shut the window. Positively it is the cold storage in here!”

  He suited the action to the word and then turned his attention for the first time to the motionless figure lying in the bunk.

  Ratchett lay on his back. His pyjama jacket, stained with rusty patches, had been unbuttoned and thrown back.

  “I had to see the nature of the wounds, you see,” explained the doctor.

  Poirot nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace.

  “It is not pretty,” he said. “Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?”

  “I make it twelve. One or two are so slight as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would be capable of causing death.”

  Something in the doctor’s tone caught Poirot’s attention. He looked at him sharply
. The little Greek was standing staring down at the body with a puzzled frown.

  “Something strikes you as odd, does it not?” he asked gently. “Speak, my friend. There is something here that puzzles you?”

  “You are right,” acknowledged the other.

  “What is it?”

  “You see, these two wounds—here and here,”—he pointed. “They are deep, each cut must have severed blood vessels—and yet—the edges do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected.”

  “Which suggests?”

  “That the man was already dead—some little time dead—when they were delivered. But that is surely absurd.”

  “It would seem so,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Unless our murderer figured to himself that he had not accomplished his job properly and came back to make quite sure; but that is manifestly absurd! Anything else?”

  “Well, just one thing.”

  “And that?”

  “You see this wound here—under the right arm—near the right shoulder. Take this pencil of mine. Could you deliver such a blow?”

  Poirot raised his hand.

  “Précisément,” he said. “I see. With the right hand it is exceedingly difficult—almost impossible. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck with the left hand—”

  “Exactly, M. Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”

  “So that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”

  “As you say, M. Poirot. Some of these other blows are just as obviously right-handed.”

  “Two people. We are back at two people again,” murmured the detective. He asked abruptly:

  “Was the electric light on?”

  “It is difficult to say. You see it is turned off by the conductor every morning about ten o’clock.”

  “The switches will tell us,” said Poirot.

  He examined the switch of the top light and also the roll back bed-head light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.

  “Eh bien,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and Second Murderer, as the great Shakespeare would put it. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer came in in the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez vous de ça?”

  “Magnificent,” said the little doctor with enthusiasm.

  The other’s eyes twinkled.

  “You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense.”

  “What other explanation can there be?”

  “That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence or what? Are there any other inconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?”

  “I think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already said, point to a weakness—a lack of strength or a lack of determination. They are feeble glancing blows. But this one here—and this one—” Again he pointed. “Great strength was needed for those blows. They have penetrated the muscle.”

  “They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “They could not have been delivered by a woman?”

  “A young, vigorous, athletic woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion, but it is in my opinion highly unlikely.”

  Poirot was silent a moment or two.

  The other said anxiously.

  “You understand my point?”

  “Perfectly,” said Poirot. “The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength, he was feeble, it was a woman, it was a right-handed person, it was a left-handed person—Ah! c’est rigolo, tout ça!”

  He spoke with sudden anger.

  “And the victim—what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?”

  He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett had shown him the day before.

  “Fully loaded, you see,” he said.

  They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. On the small table formed by the lid of the washing basin were various objects—false teeth in a glass of water; another glass, empty; a bottle of mineral water, a large flask and an ashtray containing the butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.

  The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.

  “Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly.

  “Drugged?”

  “Yes.”

  Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinized them carefully.

  “You have a clue then?” demanded the little doctor eagerly.

  “Those two matches are of a different shape,” said Poirot. “One is flatter than the other. You see?”

  “It is the kind you get on a train,” said the doctor, “in paper covers.”

  Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Ratchett’s clothing. Presently he pulled out a box of matches. He compared them carefully.

  “The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said. “Let us see if he had also the flatter kind.”

  But a further search showed no other matches.

  Poirot’s eyes were darting about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird’s. One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny.

  With a little exclamation he bent and picked up something from the floor.

  It was a small square of cambric, very dainty. “Our friend the chef de train was right. There is a woman concerned in this.”

  “And most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as it happens in the books and on the films—and to make things even easier for us it is marked with an initial.”

  “What a stroke of luck for us!” exclaimed the doctor.

  “Is it not?” said Poirot.

  Something in his tone surprised the doctor.

  But before he could ask for elucidation, Poirot had made another dive on to the floor.

  This time he held out on the palm of his hand—a pipe cleaner.

  “It is perhaps the property of M. Ratchett?” suggested the doctor.

  “There was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.”

  “Then it is a clue.”

  “Oh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue this time, you note! One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?”

  “There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”

  “I wonder why,” mused Poirot.

  “Ah!” The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man.

  “I overlooked this,” he said. “I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back.”

  From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented savagely, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.

  “You see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. Eh bien, here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.”

  “It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.”

  The doctor looked at him curiously.

  “You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you.”

  “I do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all, and, as you perceive, it worries me.”

  He sighed and bent over the little table, examining the charred fragment of paper. He murmured to himself.

  “What I need at this moment is an old-fashioned woman’s hatbox.”


  Dr. Constantine was at a loss to know what to make of this singular remark. In any case, Poirot gave him no time for questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for the conductor.

  The man arrived at a run.

  “How many women are there in this coach?”

  The conductor counted on his fingers.

  “One, two, three—six, Monsieur. The old American lady, a Swedish lady, the young English lady, the Countess Andrenyi and Madame la Princess Dragomiroff and her maid.”

  Poirot considered.

  “They all have hatboxes, yes?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Then bring me—let me see—yes, the Swedish lady’s and that of the lady’s maid. Those two are the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation—something—anything that occurs to you.”

  “That will be all right Monsieur. Neither lady is in her compartment at the moment.”

  “Then be quick.”

  The conductor departed. He returned with the two hatboxes. Poirot opened that of the lady’s maid and tossed it aside. Then he opened the Swedish lady’s and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Removing the hats carefully, he disclosed round humps of wire netting.

  “Ah, here is what we need. About fifteen years ago hatboxes were made like this. You skewered through the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire netting.”

  As he spoke he was skilfully removing two of the attachments. Then he repacked the hatbox and told the conductor to return them both where they belonged.

  When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion.

  “See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment is full of clues, but can I be sure that those clues are really what they seem to be?”

  “I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot.”

  “Well, to give you an example—we find a woman’s handkerchief. Did a woman drop it? Or did a man, committing the crime, say to himself ‘I will make this look like a woman’s crime. I will stab my enemy an unnecessary number of times, making some of the blows feeble and ineffective, and I will drop this handkerchief where no one can miss it.’ That is one possibility. Then there is another. Did a woman kill him and did she deliberately drop a pipe cleaner to make it look like a man’s work? Or are we seriously to suppose that two people—a man and a woman—were separately concerned, and that each was so careless as to drop a clue to their identity? It is a little too much of a coincidence, that!”