Murder on the Orient Express. Агата Кристи
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was able to understand him, that he was in danger of his life.’
‘“Bumped off”—that is the American expression, is it not?’ said M. Bouc. ‘Then it is not a woman. It is a “Gangster” or a “gunman.”’
The chef de train looked pained at his theory having come to naught.
‘If so,’ said Poirot, ‘it seems to have been done very amateurishly.’
His tone expressed professional disapproval.
‘There is a large American on the train,’ said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea—‘a common-looking man with terrible clothes. He chews the gum which I believe is not done in good circles. You know whom I mean?’
The Wagon Lit conductor to whom he had appealed nodded.
‘Oui, Monsieur, the No. 16. But it cannot have been he. I should have seen him enter or leave the compartment.’
‘You might not. You might not. But we will go into that presently. The question is, what to do?’ He looked at Poirot.
Poirot looked back at him.
‘Come, my friend,’ said M. Bouc. ‘You comprehend what I am about to ask of you. I know your powers. Take command of this investigation! No, no, do not refuse. See, to us it is serious—I speak for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits. By the time the Yugo-Slavian police arrive, how simple if we can present them with the solution! Otherwise delays, annoyances, a million and one inconveniences. Perhaps, who knows, serious annoyance to innocent persons. Instead—you solve the mystery! We say, “A murder has occurred—this is the criminal!”’
‘And suppose I do not solve it?’
‘Ah! mon cher.’ M. Bouc’s voice became positively caressing. ‘I know your reputation. I know something of your methods. This is the ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all these people, to discover their bona fides—all that takes time and endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Interview the passengers on the train, view the body, examine what clues there are and then—well, I have faith in you! I am assured that it is no idle boast of yours. Lie back and think—use (as I have heard you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind—and you will know!’
He leaned forward, looking affectionately at his friend.
‘Your faith touches me, my friend,’ said Poirot emotionally. ‘As you say, this cannot be a difficult case. I myself, last night—but we will not speak of that now. In truth, this problem intrigues me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that many hours of boredom lay ahead whilst we are stuck here. And now—a problem lies ready to my hand.’
‘You accept then?’ said M. Bouc eagerly.
‘C’est entendu. You place the matter in my hands.’
‘Good—we are all at your service.’
‘To begin with, I should like a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach, with a note of the people who occupied the several compartments, and I should also like to see their passports and their tickets.’
‘Michel will get you those.’
The Wagon Lit conductor left the compartment.
‘What other passengers are there on the train?’ asked Poirot.
‘In this coach Dr Constantine and I are the only travellers. In the coach from Bucharest is an old gentleman with a lame leg. He is well known to the conductor. Beyond that are the ordinary carriages, but these do not concern us, since they were locked after dinner had been served last night. Forward of the Istanbul-Calais coach there is only the dining-car.’
‘Then it seems,’ said Poirot slowly, ‘as though we must look for our murderer in the Istanbul-Calais coach.’ He turned to the doctor. ‘That is what you were hinting, I think?’
The Greek nodded.
‘At half an hour after midnight we ran into the snowdrift. No one can have left the train since then.’
M. Bouc said solemnly.
‘The murderer is with us—on the train now…’
‘First of all,’ said Poirot, ‘I should like a word or two with young M. MacQueen. He may be able to give us valuable information.’
‘Certainly,’ said M. Bouc.
He turned to the chef de train.
‘Get M. MacQueen to come here.’
The chef de train left the carriage.
The conductor returned with a bundle of passports and tickets. M. Bouc took them from him.
‘Thank you, Michel. It would be best now, I think, if you were to go back to your post. We will take your evidence formally later.’
‘Very good, Monsieur.’
Michel in his turn left the carriage.
‘After we have seen young MacQueen,’ said Poirot, ‘perhaps M. le docteur will come with me to the dead man’s carriage.’
‘Certainly.’
‘After we have finished there—’
But at this moment the chef de train returned with Hector MacQueen.
M. Bouc rose.
‘We are a little cramped here,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Take my seat, M. MacQueen. M. Poirot will sit opposite you—so.’
He turned to the chef de train.
‘Clear all the people out of the restaurant-car,’ he said, ‘and let it be left free for M. Poirot. You will conduct your interviews there, mon cher?’
‘It would be the most convenient, yes,’ agreed Poirot.
MacQueen had stood looking from one to the other, not quite following the rapid flow of French.
‘Qu’est ce qu’il y a?’ he began laboriously. ‘Pourquoi—?’
With a vigorous gesture Poirot motioned him to the seat in the corner. He took it and began once more.
‘Pourquoi—?’ then, checking himself and relapsing into his own tongue, ‘What’s up on the train? Has anything happened?’
He looked from one man to another.
Poirot nodded.
‘Exactly. Something has happened. Prepare yourself for a shock. Your employer, M. Ratchett, is dead!’
MacQueen’s mouth pursed itself in a whistle. Except that his eyes grew a shade brighter, he showed no signs of shock or distress.
‘So they got him after all,’ he said.
‘What exactly do you mean by that phrase, M. MacQueen?’ MacQueen hesitated.
‘You are assuming,’ said Poirot, ‘that M. Ratchett was murdered?’
‘Wasn’t he?’ This time MacQueen did show surprise. ‘Why, yes,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s just what I did think. Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was as tough as—as tough—’
He stopped, at a loss for a simile.
‘No, no,’ said Poirot. ‘Your assumption was quite right. Mr Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you were so sure it was murder, and not just—death.’
MacQueen hesitated.
‘I must