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“But where does the hatbox come in?” asked the doctor, still puzzled.
“Ah! I’m coming to that. As I say, these clues, the watch stopped at a quarter past one, the handkerchief, the pipe cleaner, they may be genuine, or they may be fake. As to that I cannot yet tell. But there is one clue here which I believe—though again I may be wrong—has not been faked. I mean this flat match, M. le docteur. I believe that that match was used by the murderer, not by M. Ratchett. It was used to burn an incriminating paper of some kind. Possibly a note. If so, there was something in that note, some mistake, some error, that left a possible clue to the assailant. I am going to endeavour to resurrect what that something was.”
He went out of the compartment and returned a few moments later with a small spirit stove and a pair of curling tongs.
“I use them for the moustaches,” he said, referring to the latter.
The doctor watched him with great interest. He flattened out the two humps of wire, and with great care wriggled the charred scrap of paper on to one of them. He clapped the other on top of it and then, holding both pieces together with the tongs, held the whole thing over the flame of the spirit lamp.
“It is a very makeshift affair, this,” he said over his shoulder. “Let us hope that it will answer its purpose.”
The doctor watched the proceedings attentively. The metal began to glow. Suddenly he saw faint indications of letters. Words formed themselves slowly—words of fire.
It was a very tiny scrap. Only three words and a part of another showed.
“—member little Daisy Armstrong.”
“Ah!” Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.
“It tells you something?” asked the doctor.
Poirot’s eyes were shining. He laid down the tongs carefully.
“Yes,” he said. “I know the dead man’s real name. I know why he had to leave America.”
“What was his name?”
“Cassetti.”
“Cassetti.” Constantine knitted his brows. “It brings back to me something. Some years ago. I cannot remember…It was a case in America, was it not?”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “A case in America.”
Further than that Poirot was not disposed to be communicative. He looked round him as he went on:
“We will go into all that presently. Let us first make sure that we have seen all there is to be seen here.”
Quickly and deftly he went once more through the pockets of the dead man’s clothes but found nothing there of interest. He tried the communicating door which led through to the next compartment, but it was bolted on the other side.
“There is one thing that I do not understand,” said Dr. Constantine. “If the murderer did not escape through the window, and if this communicating door was bolted on the other side, and if the door into the corridor was not only locked on the inside but chained, how then did the murderer leave the compartment?”
“That is what the audience says when a person bound hand and foot is shut into a cabinet—and disappears.”
“You mean—”
“I mean,” explained Poirot, “that if the murderer intended us to believe that he had escaped by way of the window he would naturally make it appear that the other two exits were impossible. Like the ‘disappearing person’ in the cabinet—it is a trick. It is our business to find out how the trick is done.”
He locked the communicating door on their side.
“In case,” he said, “the excellent Mrs. Hubbard should take it into her head to acquire first-hand details of the crime to write to her daughter.”
He looked round once more.
“There is nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin M. Bouc.”
Eight
THE ARMSTRONG KIDNAPPING CASE
They found M. Bouc finishing an omelet.
“I thought it best to have lunch served immediately in the restaurant car,” he said. “Afterwards it will be cleared and M. Poirot can conduct his examination of the passengers there. In the meantime I have ordered them to bring us three some food here.”
“An excellent idea,” said Poirot.
Neither of the other two men was hungry, and the meal was soon eaten, but not till they were sipping their coffee did M. Bouc mention the subject that was occupying all their minds.
“Eh bien?” he asked.
“Eh bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know why it was imperative he should leave America.”
“Who was he?”
“Do you remember reading of the Armstrong baby? This is the man who murdered little Daisy Armstrong—Cassetti.”
“I recall it now. A shocking affair—though I cannot remember the details.”
“Colonel Armstrong was an Englishman—a V.C. He was half American, as his mother was a daughter of W. K. Van der Halt, the Wall Street millionaire. He married the daughter of Linda Arden, the most famous tragic American actress of her day. They lived in America and had one child—a girl—whom they idolized. When she was three years old she was kidnapped, and an impossibly high sum demanded as the price of her return. I will not weary you with all the intricacies that followed. I will come to the moment, when, after having paid over the enormous sum of two hundred thousand dollars, the child’s dead body was discovered, it having been dead at least a fortnight. Public indignation rose to fever point. And there was worse to follow. Mrs. Armstrong was expecting another child. Following the shock of the discovery, she gave birth to a dead child born prematurely, and herself died. Her broken-hearted husband shot himself.”
“Mon Dieu, what a tragedy. I remember now,” said M. Bouc. “There was also another death, if I remember rightly?”
“Yes—an unfortunate French or Swiss nursemaid. The police were convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her hysterical denials. Finally, in a fit of despair, the poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was proved afterwards that she was absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime.”
“It is not good to think of,” said M. Bouc.
“About six months later, this man Cassetti was arrested as the head of the gang who had kidnapped the child. They had used the same methods in the past. If the police seemed likely to get on their trail, they had killed their prisoner, hidden the body, and continued to extract as much money as possible before the crime was discovered.
“Now, I will make clear to you this, my friend. Cassetti was the man! But by means of the enormous wealth he had piled up and by the secret hold he had over various persons, he was acquitted on some technical inaccuracy. Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by the populace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip. It is now clear to me what happened. He changed his name and left America. Since then he has been a gentleman of leisure, travelling abroad and living on his rentes.”
“Ah! quel animal!” M. Bouc’s tone was redolent of heartfelt disgust. “I cannot regret that he is dead—not at all!”
“I agree with you.”
“Tout de même, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Orient Express. There are other places.”
Poirot smiled a little. He realized that M. Bouc was biased in the matter.
“The question we have now to ask ourselves is this,” he said. “Is this murder the work of some rival gang whom Cassetti had double-crossed in the past, or is it an act of private vengeance?”
He explained his discovery of the few words on the charred fragment of paper.
“If I am right in my assumption, then the letter was burnt by the murderer. Why? Because it mentioned the word ‘Armstrong,’ which is the clue to the mystery.”
“Are there any members of the Armstrong family living?”
“That, unfortunately, I do not know. I think I remember reading of a younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s.”
Poirot went on to relate the joint conclusions of himself and Dr. Constantine. M. Bouc brightened at the mention of the broken watch.
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“That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very convenient.”
There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both the other two look at him curiously.
“You say that you yourself heard Ratchett speak to the conductor at twenty minutes to one?”
Poirot related just what had occurred.
“Well,” said M. Bouc, “that proves at least that Cassetti—or Ratchett, as I shall continue to call him—was certainly alive at twenty minutes to one.”
“Twenty-three minutes to one, to be precise.”
“Then at twelve thirty-seven, to put it formally, M. Ratchett was alive. That is one fact, at least.”
Poirot did not reply. He sat looking thoughtfully in front of him.
There was a tap on the door, and the restaurant attendant entered.
“The restaurant car is free now, Monsieur,” he said.
“We will go there,” said M. Bouc, rising.
“I may accompany you?” asked Constantine.
“Certainly, my dear doctor. Unless M. Poirot has any objection?”
“Not at all. Not at all,” said Poirot.
After a little politeness in the matter of procedure, “Après vous, Monsieur.” “Mais non, après vous,” they left the compartment.
PART TWO
THE EVIDENCE
One
THE EVIDENCE OF THE WAGON LIT CONDUCTOR
In the restaurant car all was in readiness.
Poirot and M. Bouc sat together on one side of a table. The doctor sat across the aisle.
On the table in front of Poirot was a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach with the names of the passengers marked in in red ink.
The passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. There was writing paper, ink, pen and pencils.
“Excellent,” said Poirot. “We can open our Court of Inquiry without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence of the Wagon Lit conductor. You probably know something about the man. What character has he? Is he a man in whose word you would place reliance?”
“I should say so most assuredly. Pierre Michel has been employed by the company for over fifteen years. He is a Frenchman—lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable and honest. Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains.”
Poirot nodded comprehendingly.
“Good,” he said. “Let us see him.”
Pierre Michel had recovered some of his assurance, but he was still extremely nervous.
“I hope Monsieur will not think that there has been any negligence on my part,” he said anxiously, his eyes going from Poirot to M. Bouc. “It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?”
Having soothed the man’s fears, Poirot began his questions. He first elicited Michel’s name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to put the man at his ease.
“And now,” went on Poirot, “let us come to the events of last night. M. Ratchett retired to bed—when?”
“Almost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before we left Belgrade. So he did on the previous night. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so.”
“Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?”
