Murder on the Orient Express Page 8

  This seemed to Mrs. Hubbard to be a dramatic climax rather than an anticlimax.

  “And what happened next, Madame?”

  “Why, I told the man what had happened, and he didn’t seem to believe me. Seemed to imagine I’d dreamt the whole thing. I made him look under the seat, though he said there wasn’t room for a man to squeeze himself in there. It was plain enough the man had got away, but there had been a man there and it just made me mad the way the conductor tried to soothe me down! I’m not one to imagine things, Mr.—I don’t think I know your name?”

  “Poirot, Madame, and this is M. Bouc, a director of the company, and Dr. Constantine.”

  Mrs. Hubbard murmured:

  “Please to meet you, I’m sure,” to all three of them in an abstracted manner, and then plunged once more into her recital.

  “Now I’m just not going to pretend I was as bright as I might have been. I got it into my head that it was the man from next door—the poor fellow who’s been killed. I told the conductor to look at the door between the compartments, and sure enough it wasn’t bolted. Well, I soon saw to that, I told him to bolt it then and there, and after he’d gone out I got up and put a suitcase against it to make sure.”

  “What time was this, Mrs. Hubbard?”

  “Well, I’m sure I can’t tell you. I never looked to see. I was so upset.”

  “And what is your theory now?”

  “Why, I should say it was just as plain as plain could be. The man in my compartment was the murderer. Who else could he be?”

  “And you think he went back into the adjoining compartment?”

  “How do I know where he went? I had my eyes tight shut.”

  “He must have slipped out through the door into the corridor.”

  “Well, I couldn’t say. You see, I had my eyes tight shut.”

  Mrs. Hubbard sighed convulsively.

  “Mercy, I was scared! If my daughter only knew—”

  “You do not think, Madame, that what you heard was the noise of someone moving about next door—in the murdered man’s compartment?”

  “No, I do not, Mr.—what is it?—Poirot. The man was right there in the same compartment with me. And, what’s more, I’ve got proof of it.”

  Triumphantly she hauled a large handbag into view and proceeded to burrow in its interior.

  She took out in turn two large clean handkerchiefs, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a bottle of aspirin, a packet of Glauber’s salts, a celluloid tube of bright green peppermints, a bunch of keys, a pair of scissors, a book of American Express cheques, a snapshot of an extraordinarily plain-looking child, some letters, five strings of pseudo Oriental beads and a small metal object—a button.

  “You see this button? Well, it’s not one of my buttons. It’s not off anything I’ve got. I found it this morning when I got up.”

  As she placed it on the table, M. Bouc leaned forward and gave an exclamation.

  “But this is a button from the tunic of a Wagon Lit attendant!”

  “There may be a natural explanation for that,” said Poirot.

  He turned gently to the lady.

  “This button, Madame, may have dropped from the conductor’s uniform, either when he searched your cabin, or when he was making the bed up last night.”

  “I just don’t know what’s the matter with all you people. Seems as though you don’t do anything but make objections. Now listen here. I was reading a magazine last night before I went to sleep. Before I turned the light out I placed that magazine on a little case that was standing on the floor near the window. Have you got that?”

  They assured her that they had.

  “Very well, then. The conductor looked under the seat from near the door and then he came in and bolted the door between me and the next compartment, but he never went up near the window. Well, this morning that button was lying right on top of the magazine. What do you call that, I should like to know?”

  “That, Madame, I call evidence,” said Poirot.

  The answer seemed to appease the lady.

  “It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,” she explained.

  “You have given us most interesting and valuable evidence,” said Poirot soothingly. “Now, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “Why, willingly.”

  “How was it, since you were nervous of this man Ratchett, that you hadn’t already bolted the door between the compartments?”

  “I had,” returned Mrs. Hubbard promptly.

  “Oh, you had?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I asked that Swedish creature—a pleasant soul—if it was bolted, and she said it was.”

  “How was it you couldn’t see for yourself?”

  “Because I was in bed and my sponge bag was hanging on the door handle.”

  “What time was it when you asked her to do this for you?”

  “Now let me think. It must have been round about half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. She’d come along to see if I’d got an aspirin. I told her where to find it, and she got it out of my grip.”

  “You yourself were in bed?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly she laughed.

  “Poor soul—she was in quite a taking. You see, she’d opened the door of the next compartment by mistake.”

  “M. Ratchett’s?”

  “Yes. You know how difficult it is as you come along the train and all the doors are shut. She opened his by mistake. She was very distressed about it. He’d laughed, it seemed, and I fancy he may have said something not quite nice. Poor thing, she was all in a flutter. ‘Oh! I make mistake,’ she said. ‘I ashamed make mistake. Not nice man,’ she said. ‘He say, “You too old.’”

  Dr. Constantine sniggered and Mrs. Hubbard immediately froze him with a glance.

  “He wasn’t a nice kind of man,” she said, “to say a thing like that to a lady. It’s not right to laugh at such things.”

  Dr. Constantine hastily apologized.

  “Did you hear any noise from M. Ratchett’s compartment after that?” asked Poirot.

  “Well—not exactly.”

  “What do you mean by that, Madame?”

  “Well—” she paused. “He snored.”

  “Ah! he snored, did he?”

  “Terribly. The night before it quite kept me awake.”

  “You didn’t hear him snore after you had had the scare about a man being in your compartment?”

  “Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead.”

  “Ah, yes, truly,” said Poirot. He appeared confused.

  “Do you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnapping, Mrs. Hubbard?” he asked.

  “Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch that did it escaped scot free! My, I’d have liked to get my hands on him.”

  “He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night.”

  “You don’t mean—?” Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement.

  “But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man.”

  “Well! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn’t I tell you last night that that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: ‘When Momma’s got a hunch, you can bet your bottom dollar it’s O.K.’”

  “Were you acquainted with any of the Armstrong family, Mrs. Hubbard?”

  “No. They moved in a very exclusive circle. But I’ve always heard that Mrs. Armstrong was a perfectly lovely woman and that her husband worshipped her.”

  “Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much—very much indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?”

  “Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard.”

  “Will you write your address down here?”

  Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak.

  “I just can’t get over it. Cassetti—on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn’t I, Mr. Poirot?”

  “Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressing gown?”

  �
�Mercy, what an odd question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing gowns with me—a pink flannel one that’s kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present—a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gowns for?”

  “Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.”

  “Well, no one in a scarlet dressing gown came into my compartment.”

  “Then she must have gone into M. Ratchett’s.”

  Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly:

  “That wouldn’t surprise me any.”

  Poirot leaned forward.

  “So you heard a woman’s voice next door?”

  “I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But—well—as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.”

  “Well that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—” Mrs. Hubbard got rather pink. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”

  “What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”

  “I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well that’s the kind of man he is. Well, I’m not surprised,’ and then I went to sleep again, and I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

  “Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”

  “Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?”

  “Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”

  “I guess even you get kinder muddled now and then. I just can’t get over it being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say—”

  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?”