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“You can’t pin it down more definitely than that?”
“N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half hour.”
“It was after the train had stopped?”
The other nodded.
“Yes, I’m almost sure it was.”
“Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Arbuthnot?”
“Never. Don’t want to go.”
“Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?”
“Armstrong—Armstrong—I’ve known two or three Armstrongs. There was Tommy Armstrong in the 60th—you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong—he was killed on the Somme.”
“I mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and whose only child was kidnapped and killed.”
“Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came across the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C.”
“The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of Colonel Armstrong’s child.”
Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim.
“Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to have seen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there.”
“In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?”
“Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the Mafia,” said the Colonel. “Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two.
“Yes,” he said. “I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that in any way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now looking back—as suspicious?”
Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two.
“No,” he said. “Nothing at all. Unless—” he hesitated.
“But yes, continue, I pray of you.”
“Well, it’s nothing really,” said the Colonel slowly. “But you said anything.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door of the one beyond mine—the end one, you know—”
“Yes, No. 16.”
“Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course, I know there’s nothing in that—but it just struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want to see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention.”
“Ye-es,” said Poirot doubtfully.
“I told you there was nothing to it,” said Arbuthnot apologetically. “But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.”
He rose.
“Well, if you don’t want me any more—”
“Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.”
The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by “foreigners” had evaporated.
“About Miss Debenham,” he said rather awkwardly. “You can take it from me that she’s all right. She’s a pukka sahib.”
Flushing a little, he withdrew.
“What,” asked Dr. Constantine with interest, “does a pukka sahib mean?”
“It means,” said Poirot, “that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot.”
“Oh!” said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. “Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.”
“Exactly,” said Poirot.
He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the table. Then he looked up.
“Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,” he said. “In the compartment of Mr. Ratchett I found a pipe cleaner. M. Ratchett smoked only cigars.”
“You think—?”
“He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Armstrong—perhaps actually did know him though he won’t admit it.”
“So you think it possible—”
Poirot shook his head violently.
“That is just it—it is impossible—quite impossible—that an honourable, slightly stupid, upright Englishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how impossible it is?”
“That is the psychology,” said M. Bouc.
“And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature and it is certainly not the signature of Colonel Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview.”
This time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he thought of him.
Nine
THE EVIDENCE OF MR. HARDMAN
The last of the first-class passengers to be interviewed—Mr. Hardman—was the big flamboyant American who had shared a table with the Italian and the valet.
He wore a somewhat loud check suit, a pink shirt, a flashy tiepin, and was rolling something round his tongue as he entered the dining car. He had a big, fleshy, coarse-featured face, with a good humoured expression.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“You have heard of this murder, Mr.—er—Hardman?”
“Sure.”
He shifted the chewing gum deftly.
“We are of necessity interviewing all the passengers on the train.”
“That’s all right by me. Guess that’s the only way to tackle the job.”
Poirot consulted the passport lying in front of him.
“You are Cyrus Bethman Hardman, United States subject, forty-one years of age, travelling salesman for typewriting ribbons?”
“O.K., that’s me.”
“You are travelling from Stamboul to Paris?”
“That’s so.”
“Reason?”
“Business.”
“Do you always travel first-class, Mr. Hardman?”
“Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses.”
He winked.
“Now, Mr. Hardman, we come to the events of last night.”
Th
e American nodded.
“What can you tell us about the matter?”
“Exactly nothing at all.”
“Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps, Mr. Hardman, you will tell us exactly what you did last night, from dinner onwards?”
For the first time the American did not seem ready with his reply. At last he said:
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but just who are you? Put me wise.”
“This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body.”
“And you yourself?”
“I am Hercule Poirot. I am engaged by the company to investigate this matter.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said Mr. Hardman. He reflected a minute or two longer. “Guess I’d better come clean.”
“It will certainly be advisable for you to tell us all you know,” said Poirot dryly.
“You’d have said a mouthful if there was anything I did know. But I don’t. I know nothing at all—just as I said. But I ought to know something. That’s what makes me sore. I ought to.”
“Please explain, Mr. Hardman.”
Mr. Hardman sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into a pocket. At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo a change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real person. The resonant nasal tones of his voice became modified.
“That passport’s a bit of bluff,” he said. “That’s who I really am.”
Poirot scrutinized the card flipped across to him. M. Bouc peered over his shoulder.
Mr. CYRUS B. HARDMAN
McNeil’s Detective Agency,
NEW YORK.
Poirot knew the name. It was one of the best known and most reputable private detective agencies in New York.
“Now, Mr. Hardman,” he said. “Let us hear the meaning of this.”
“Sure. Things came about this way. I’d come over to Europe trailing a couple of crooks—nothing to do with this business. The chase ended in Stamboul. I wired the Chief and got his instructions to return, and I would have been making my tracks back to little old New York when I got this.”
He pushed across a letter.
The heading at the top was the Tokatlian Hotel.
Dear Sir,—You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil Detective Agency. Kindly report to my suite at four o’clock this afternoon.
